James Patterson - Double Cross

“Never let ’em see you sweat,” I said to Bree.

“Too late for that.”

She stepped to the podium, introduced me, and began her statement without using notes. She’s smooth, good at this , I thought, very poised and confident . The press liked her too. I could tell that right away.

I stood to the side, just close enough to be in Bree’s peripheral vision when the questions came.

The first couple were softballs that she handled easily. No hits, no runs, no errors.

Tim Pullman from Channel Four got in the first toughie. “Detective, will you now confirm the existence of a copycat killer? Or is it just conjecture?”

The question made me wonder if he had even listened to her initial statement, but Bree patiently went over it all again.

“Tim, the evidence points that way-toward a copycat-but we’re not in a position to rule anything in or out conclusively, pending further investigation of the message that was sent. We’re on it. The FBI is involved too. Everybody is working overtime, believe me.”

“When you say message , do you mean the posting on SerialTimes?” someone yelled out from the back.

“That’s right, Carl. Like I said a minute ago. If you were listening?”

The same reporter continued, undeterred by Bree’s mild zinger. He was a short redheaded man whom I recognized from one of the cable channels. “Detective, can you explain how this Web site has remained online despite the strenuous objections of the victims’ families? What’s with that?”

We hadn’t actually been briefed on this-the families-so I watched Bree closely, ready to jump in if she wanted me to. That would be her call.

“We’re trying to leave open the possibility of dialogue with all suspects in these killings. We’d welcome their direct communication, and for the sake of resolving this as quickly as possible, we’ve decided not to close any established channels. Including the Web site.”

“Why the hell not? Why not close it down now?” An angry shout came from the back of the room. Heads and cameras swiveled around. I caught sight of a man, Alberto Ramirez. Oh, brother! It was his daughter Lydia who had been killed on the parkway overpass.

THE GRIEVING FATHER’S VOICE was tight but unwavering. “What about what’s best for my daughter Lydia? And for her poor mother? And her three sisters? Why do we have to be subjected to that kind of filth after everything else that’s happened to our family? What’s the matter with you people?”

No reporter jumped in with another question, not while the father had the floor. This was as good for them as it was bad for the MPD.

“Mr. Ramirez,” Bree said. I was glad that she recognized the slain girl’s father and used his name. “We’re all terribly sorry for your loss. I would like to meet with you about this matter immediately after the press conference -”

Some invisible barrier of restraint and protocol broke then, and a barrage of questions came firing at Bree from every direction.

“Is it the policy of the MPD to disregard community input?” asked some young wise guy from the Post .

“How do you plan to keep additional copycats from cropping up?”

“Is Washington safe for anyone right now? And if not, why not?”

I thought that I knew what we ought to do next. I leaned in toward Bree with a slightly exaggerated finger to my watch. “Time’s up,” I whispered by way of advice. “Feeding time at the zoo is over.”

She nodded in agreement, then held up her hands to be heard. “Ladies and Gentlemen, that’s all the questions we can take right now. We’ll work to keep you as informed as possible, as frequently as possible. Thank you for your patience.”

“My daughter is dead!” Alberto Ramirez was shouting from the rear. “My little girl died on your watch! My Lydia is dead!”

It was a terrible indictment, and I knew it rang true, at least for the press. Most of them knew that we were looking for a needle in a haystack, how impossible this kind of manhunt was, but they wouldn’t report it that way. They preferred their own bullshit act, sanctimonious and dumb.

KYLE CRAIG WAS ON THE ROAD AGAIN, and he was excited to be moving fast through time and space and fantasy. For a while during the car ride east, he let the sameness of the farms and fields rush past him and cool his overheated brain. Then-finally-he arrived in Iowa City, which was surrounded by rolling hills and woods and which he knew to be a picturesque and much-loved college town. Just what he needed for the next step in his plan, or his “recovery program,” as he liked to call it.

It took him another half hour to find the main library building at the University of Iowa, which was situated east of the Iowa River on Madison Street. He had to show one of several IDs and then locate a computer that he could use for a while. A nice, quiet reading room would be perfect for his needs.

At this moment, Kyle knew two ways to get a message to DCAK. The more complicated involved the use of steganography, which would mean sending a message hidden in a picture or audio file. He didn’t think he needed to go to that much trouble just yet. Nobody seemed to know about his relationship to the killer in DC. Or, as he knew, the killers .

Instead, he chose a faster, low-tech method. He knew how and where to locate DCAK from Mason Wainwright, his former lawyer and loyal fan. He typed in www.myspace.com, then clicked on a name from “Cool New People.” Easy as that, actually.

He typed a message to DCAK, wanting to strike just the right tone.

It’s good to be free again, free in the way that only you and I can understand. The possibilities are endless now, don’t you think? I marvel at your art and your exquisitely complex mind. I have followed every event closely-that is, as closely as I could under the circumstances. Now that I’m out and around, I would like to meet with you in person. Leave me a message if this is as desirable to you as it is to me. I believe we could do even greater things together.

What Kyle Craig kept to himself were his true feelings about DCAK. The word he wanted to type and send out to the killer was amateur .

Or perhaps imitation , if he wanted to be kind.

NO ONE WHO HADN’T spent time in a supermaximum-security prison could possibly understand his feelings now. That night in Iowa City -wearing another of his prosthetic masks-Kyle Craig roamed around, taking in the sights, savoring being there.

He checked out the campus, which was situated on both sides of the river. The school was nicely integrated into the downtown area, and there were lots of quaint clothing, jewelry, and bookstores, and an incredible number of places to eat and drink. He happened on something interesting called the Iowa Avenue Literary Walk, which featured the words of writers with “ Iowa ties”-Tennessee Williams, Kurt Vonnegut, even Flannery O’Connor, one of his favorites because she was so wonderfully wrong in the head.

Just past nine, he stopped into a bar called the Sanctuary. It looked like it might actually cater to some adults, not just college students, so he wouldn’t stand out too much. There were oodles of wainscoting inside and booths that looked like old church pews. And, yes indeed, an older crowd.

“Yes, sir. What can I get you?” he heard the very instant he sat at the bar.

The bartender looked as if he’d probably been a student at the university and then had decided to stay in town, which seemed like a reasonable choice. White-blond hair cut short, with a contemporary flip in the front. Probably midtwenties. Depressingly dull from the look of his eyes and his broad, welcoming smile.