Matt was a buddy of his I’d heard about. They had worked on the same munitions truck, but I didn’t know too much more than that.
“He was ruined, man. Both his legs like hamburger, shredded to shit. I had to drag him by his arms. It was all I could do.” He stared at me for help.
“Anthony, are you talking about your dream or what really happened that night?”
Now his voice went down to a whisper. “That’s the thing, Doc. I think I’m talking about both. Matt was screaming like he was some kind of wild, hurt animal. And when I heard the screaming, in the dream, it was like I knew I’d heard it before.”
“Were you able to help him?” I asked.
“Not really, no. I couldn’t help, couldn’t do anything at all. A medic couldn’t have helped Matt, the condition he was in.”
“Okay. So what happened next?”
“Matt starts saying, ‘I’m not gonna make it. Not gonna make it.’ Over and over like that. And this whole time, there’s fire coming from every direction. I don’t know if it’s our guys or the ragheads. There’s nowhere the two of us can go—not with him on those shot-up legs and losing his insides like he was. And then he starts saying, ‘Kill me. Do it. Please.’ ”
I could see that Anthony was into it now, the dream, the horror of what had happened that night in the war. I let him keep going.
“He takes out his own gun. He can barely even hold it. He’s crying ’cause he can’t do it, and I’m crying ’cause I don’t want him to. And mortars are going off everywhere. The sky is lit up like the Fourth of July.”
Anthony shook his head, stopped talking. His eyes were welling up with tears. I thought I understood: there were no words he could use to describe this.
“Anthony?” I asked. “Did you help Matt kill himself?”
A tear rolled all the way down his cheek.
“I put my hand over Matthew’s, and I shut my eyes . . . then we fired. Together.” Anthony stared at me. “You believe me, don’t you, Dr. Cross?”
“I should, shouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and there was anger in his eyes. “You’re the doctor. You should know the difference between bad dreams and reality. You do, don’t you?”
Chapter 91
IN OUR VERY STRANGE and strangely powerful session together, Anthony Demao had asked me if I was a cop, and it struck me now that I hadn’t answered him. I wasn’t quite sure myself these days. I was still settling back in with Metro, and my situation was a special one. I knew one thing for sure: I hadn’t ever worked any harder on a case—one that seemed more complex and difficult every day.
Frustrating to all of us, but not that unusual under the circumstances, our hands were tied in the investigation of Brian Kitzmiller’s death. The Cyber Unit at the Bureau had promised a new contact soon and a full report on everything Kitz had been doing before he died, but in the meantime, it was basically “We’ll get back to you.”
Which is why Sampson and I showed up on Beth Kitzmiller’s doorstep in Silver Spring, Maryland, a day later. We didn’t want to bother the family, to intrude on their grief, but we didn’t have much choice.
“Thanks for letting us come over,” I said as Beth let the two of us into the foyer of the house.
Her face was drawn, and she looked deeply tired—but there was strength and resolve in her voice. “Brian died looking for this terrible, terrible man. You do whatever you need to do. Stay here as long as you have to. We need closure, Alex. I need it. So do my kids.”
Six-year-old Emily hovered at the top of the stairs, wide-eyed and silent, watching us. I gave her a wink and a quick smile, and finally she smiled back. Brave little girl, but just seeing her put a pain in my heart. I needed closure too.
“We were hoping to take a look in his office,” I told Beth. “I know he did a lot of work at home.” And if anyone had crossed paths with our killer online, it would have been Kitz, I thought, though I didn’t say that part out loud.
“Of course. Let me show you the Lair.”
Beth led us through a pair of sliding pocket doors at the rear of the homey Colonial that Kitz would never see again. His office looked out onto a backyard with a swing set and a sunflower garden. Life goes on. For some of us, anyway. Not for Kitz, though.
Beth lingered in the doorway. “I don’t know if you’ll find anything worthwhile or not, but please, look anywhere you like. Nothing in our house is off-limits.”
“Is this the only computer he used at home?” Sampson asked from where he sat at a large, cluttered desk. I noted that the system was surprisingly low-tech, just a Dell CPU and monitor.
“He had a laptop from the Bureau,” Beth said. “I don’t think it’s here, though. I haven’t come across it anywhere.”
I looked over at Sampson. We hadn’t found a laptop in Kitz’s office or his car. “How about passwords? Any idea?” I asked Beth.