“Alex, I wasn’t alone at the house. I went there with another officer. He’s dead now.”
I nodded. “Okay. I understand. I’m sorry to sound condescending. There’s something else I need to say. I want you to come stay with us—”
“No. Thank you, but no, Alex. I’m not moving because of him. I’ve seen the sonofabitch now. We’re going to nail him. He’s going down, I promise you that. In flames, if I have anything to say or do about it.”
This was all kind of ironic. How many times had I been on the other side of the same sort of conversation? I hadn’t really expected Bree to go for my idea, and I respected her too much to even suggest she back off the investigation. Besides, she wouldn’t do it anyway.
“I’m fine, Alex. I’m okay. Thanks for being nice. Let’s just get out of here. People die in hospitals.”
We were on our way to my car when Sampson called. He sounded excited on the phone.
“Alex, we cracked the IP address. I think it just went live. Anyway, he’s got a new Web site up.”
“Jesus, you’re kidding. Let me get Bree settled, and I’ll be right there.”
“Excuse me?” She was already giving me a look. “Whatever this is, I’m coming with you. Period. End of discussion.”
“Sampson, we’ll be right there.”
Chapter 96
HOMICIDE WAS STRANGELY QUIET when we got there; the office was virtually deserted, actually. I knew that most everybody was out on the street, looking for DCAK, or leads on him, anyway.
“How you doing, Bree?” Sampson stood to let her sit, but she stayed standing where she was, stayed stubborn and strong, the Rock.
“I’m good. Couldn’t be better, Big Man. What have you got?”
Sampson laughed at Bree’s bravado, then the three of us cracked up.
“More of his greatest hits,” Sampson said. “Let me show you the latest.”
We looked at the screen, where the new site had been called up. It had the same headline as the original: MY REALITY, in bold white letters on a black background.
“Give me a break,” Bree muttered. “I am so going to mess this guy up. Next time I see him.”
“Bree, Bree, Bree,” I muttered, and left it at that.
I took the mouse and started scrolling down. Instead of a blog, or any text at all, it was just images this time. They were stacked in two columns, pictures of his self-created killers on the left, his “roles”—and the respective victims on the right. The top two were screen captures from the fake Iraqi video. Next came a shot of Tess Olsen on all fours, with a red leash around her neck.
Another row of pictures showed the X-Files professor-type from the Kennedy Center and a publicity still of Matthew Jay Walker, but with a green X over his face.
Then came the “fake” copycat with the Richard Nixon mask—and two pictures of the young kids he’d slaughtered on the parkway overpass.
Abby Courlevais’s picture was a family snapshot that had run all over the news, her husband and little boy smiling next to her. The whole world had been exposed to the image.
The last two photos were grainy and blurred but clear enough for us to make out details. Bree recognized the reporter “Neil Stephens,” even with a White Sox cap pulled down low over his eyes.
Then came Kitz.
His eyes and mouth were open, and there was a spatter of blood across his chin. This shot was obviously taken after he’d been cut but before the rubber mask had been applied to his face. We were looking at a picture of Kitz dying.
Bree banged her fist against the desk. “What the hell does he want? Is this his idea of fame and goddamn glory?”
She turned and walked out of the office. Better she let the steam out here than somewhere else. I heard her pacing and then the glug of a watercooler.
“Just . . . give me a second,” she called from the hall. “I’m fine, Alex. Just a little nuts.”
Sampson nudged my shoulder. “Keep going.”