Double Cross

The familiar look of the site wasn’t what definitely answered Bree’s question, though. It was the two images pasted in at the top of the screen: a small Iraqi flag and a bright-green X-Files X-symbols from the first two homicides.

Yeah, they seemed to say, it’s me.

“Those two items aren’t public knowledge yet, are they?” Kitzmiller asked. “Am I right?”

Bree shook her head as if he could see her, then mumbled, “No, they aren’t, Kitz. We’ve kept them to ourselves.” She was already reading the message below. The latest mindblower.

“Imitation is the sincerest of flattery.”-Charles Caleb Colton

I’m setting the record straight for everybody who cares, or ought to care, about these things. That piece of shit work out at the George Washington Memorial Parkway? Someone else did that, not me. I’ll take the flattery, but don’t try to pin that one here, ’cause I don’t want it. I mean, “Nixon” just copycatted what I did at the Riverwalk! Didn’t even have the nerve to show his face. Plus, the work itself was amateurish. Not worthy of me or those I model myself on.

FedExField-that one was yours truly. Took some balls to get in and out of there. Imagine making a kill in a closed-in public area like that.

Make no mistake. There is only one DCAK. When it’s me, you’ll know it. You’ll know because I’ll tell you.

And the work will be done with some imagination and flair. Give me a little respect. I think I’ve earned that much.

At least now the police have someone they can catch-this imitator! Isn’t that right, Detective Bree Stone? ’Cause you’re not even close to catching me, are you?

Keep on living, fuckers.

– DCAK

For the next few seconds, Bree stood there, shaking her head back and forth. Alex had been right about the parkway murders… and probably everything else.

Chapter 50

PLUS, DCAK HAD USED HER NAME.

Bree finally sat back in her chair and tried to process that little nugget. She couldn’t believe how brazen and arrogant this prick was, and how completely messed up. And scary.

“Bree? You still there?” Brian Kitzmiller asked over the phone.

“Yeah. I’m here. Just having a depressed-cop moment. That was pretty neat, all right.”

“You okay? Other than the obvious?”

She focused on her hands, which were shaking only a little bit. “Yeah, Kitz. Thanks for asking. It’s creepy, but it makes sense to me. He’s probably a total junkie for his own coverage. Of course he knows who I am. And of course he knows about Alex. He’s watching us, Kitz.”

“In one way, that’s good news, isn’t it? We wanted to make sure we were in the same communication stream as the killer. I think we’re there.”

“Ya think?” Bree’s mind was racing with all kinds of questions. “When was this posted?”

“Eleven twenty last night. It’s already burning up the chat rooms. It’s everywhere, and I mean everywhere.”

“That might explain these calls.” She picked up the stack of pink message slips already in her in-box. The top one was from Cha

“Still working on that. I’ve got an IP address, and I’m checking all the major registries. With any luck, I’ll have a name for you soon. Operative word-luck.”

“I hear you. Soon is good, though. Thanks, Kitz. We need you on this one.”

“Yeah, I agree. You definitely do. I wonder who he ‘models’ himself after? You got any ideas?”

“No, but I bet Alex will.”

Bree hung up, then tried Alex and Sampson. She reached voice mail for both of them and left the same message: “Hey, it’s me. Something just came up. Another posted message from our Audience Killer, now signing off with the shortened form ‘DCAK.’ I’m moving on it as soon as I have an address. I hope one of you will get this before then, but I’m lining up a backup unit in the meantime. Call me ASAP.”

Bree knew she’d work better with her partners than with a couple of uniformed cops, but the second she had a name and address, it would be go time.

DCAK wanted to know her better-well, he just might get his wish soon.

Chapter 51

I SAW THE LIGHT on my phone flashing, but I didn’t answer calls during therapy sessions. So I let it go for the moment, and then I worried about it.

“Who was that I saw on my way in here?” Anthony Demao was asking. I had to juggle my clients’ schedules around some to accommodate my new lifestyle. “Another cuckoo clock like me?”

I smiled at Anthony’s usual irreverence. “Neither of you is cuckoo. Well, maybe a little.”

“Well, she may be crazy, a little crazy, but she sure is good-looking. She gave me a smile. I think it was a smile. She’s shy, right? I can tell.”

He was talking about Sandy Quinlan, my schoolteacher patient. Sandy was attractive, a good lady, maybe a little cuckoo, but who wasn’t these days?

I changed the subject. Anthony certainly wasn’t here to talk about my other patients. “Last time, you started to tell me about your army unit’s push toward Basra,” I said. “Can we talk about that today?”

“Sure.” He shrugged. “That’s what I’m here for, right? You fix cuckoo clocks.”

After Anthony Demao left, I checked my voice mail. Bree. I caught up with her on her cell.

“Good timing,” she said. “I’m in the car with Sampson. We’ll come get you. Guess what? It looks like you were right again. Must get boring.”

“What was I right about?”

“Copycat. On the G.W. Parkway with those kids. That’s what DCAK says, anyway. Says he did FedExField but not the two murders on the overpass.”

“Well, he would probably know.”

I met Bree and Sampson on Seventh Street and climbed into the back of her Highlander. “Where are we going?” I asked as she pulled out in a hurry.

Bree explained as she drove, but I had to interrupt her halfway through. “Hold on, Bree. He used your name? He knows about you too? What are we doing with that?”

“Nothing, for now,” she said. “I’m feeling pretty special, though. How ’bout you? You feeling honored?”

Sampson shrugged at me in a way that said he’d already had the same conversation with her and obviously with the same result. Bree showed no fears, at least I’d never seen any.

“By the way,” Bree said, “he claims he models himself after people. Any ideas on that?”

“Kyle Craig,” I said. It just came out. “Let me think about it some.”

Kitzmiller had provided Bree with the name Braden Thompson, a systems analyst with a firm called Captech Engineering. We double-parked outside Captech’s dull, modern-looking building, then took the elevator up to the fourth floor.

“Braden Thompson?” Bree asked the receptionist, and held up her MPD badge and card.

The woman picked up her phone, her eyes still on Bree’s creds. “I’ll see if he’s available.”

“No, no. He’s available, trust me. Just point the way. We’ll find him. We’re detectives.”

We walked calmly and quietly through the bustling office but didn’t make any less of a scene for it. Secretaries’ heads turned, office doors opened, and workers checked us out as if we were here with the take-out food.

A white plastic plaque etched with Thompson’s name marked a windowed office on the north side of the building. Bree opened the door without knocking.

“Can I help you?” Braden Thompson was about what you’d expect for somebody working here: paunchy, fortysomething white guy in a short-sleeved shirt and tie, possibly a clip-on.

“Mr. Thompson, we’d like to talk with you,” Bree said. “We’re Metro Police.”

He looked past her at me and Sampson. “All three of you?”