Double Cross

time of the two murders. To ascertain this, I needed the best witnesses I could find, and I needed them in a big hurry. With a scene as sprawling as this one, I had no guarantee that the traffic wouldn’t start moving again. For the moment, at least, the killer had stopped the world, and nobody was getting off unless he wanted them to.

Chapter 45

    I DID A QUICK ASSESSMENT of the cars nearest the bridge, looking for solo white males. Make no mistake about it, I believe in profiling during emergency situations like this one.
The more a witness has in common with the criminal they’ve seen, the more reliable their testimony will be
—at least statistically speaking. That had also been my experience at homicide scenes again and again. So I was looking for white males, preferably alone in their vehicles.
    I settled on a black Honda Accord about five car lengths back from the overpass. The man inside was sitting sideways to avoid looking ahead, and he had a cell phone pressed to his ear. His car was running, with the windows rolled up.
    I rapped hard on the glass. “Metro Police. Excuse me, sir? Sir? Excuse me!”
    He finally held up his index finger without actually looking around at me.
One minute
?
    At that point, I opened the car door for him and showed my creds. “
Now
, sir? Please hang up the phone.”
    “I gotta go,” he said to whoever, and stepped outside, full of piss and vinegar, I could tell. “Officer, can you, or somebody, tell me how long we’ll be stuck here?”
    “Not long,” I said, rather than lecture him about the two kids who had just died. “But I need you to tell me exactly what you saw happen on the overpass.”
    He talked fast, with an irritating nonchalance, but his story corroborated what we’d gathered so far. The driver of the Honda had come to a halt seconds after the young male had been thrown down into traffic.
    “At first, I didn’t realize what the accident, or whatever, was all about. I just saw cars suddenly stopping in front of me. But then I saw the dead kid.” He pointed to the bridge. “And the one up there. The girl who got her throat cut. Terrible shit. Tragic, right?” He asked the question as if he couldn’t figure it out for himself.
    “Right. Can you describe the man who was on the overpass? The killer?”
    “Not really. He had on one of those Halloween masks. The rubber kind you put over your whole head? I think it was supposed to be Richard Nixon. I’m pretty sure. Does that make any sense?”
    “It does. Thank you for your help,” I told the man. “Another officer will come by to take down a few more particulars.”
    The next eyewitness I spoke to was a limo driver, who told me the killer looked taller and much heavier than the female victim. Also that he wore a dark Windbreaker with no insignia that the driver could make out. And then a few vaguely recollected bits of what had been said over the bullhorn. “That sonofabitch bastard yelled, ‘
I’m back
!’ Those were his first words.”
    “Did you notice if he had any kind of camera or recording device up there?” I asked.
    The limo driver shook his head. “I’m sorry, I honestly don’t know. Not that I saw, anyway. There was a lot of confusion.”
    “Still is,” I said, and patted the guy on the shoulder. “Anything else you remember?”
    The limo driver shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
    I managed to squeeze in four more witnesses before the G.W. was opened to traffic again. Any further accounting would have to come later; I’d gotten as much during the critical first hours as I could get. I hoped it would help, but I didn’t think so. For someone who was putting on live shows, the killer was covering his tracks very well.
    A few minutes later, Bree, Sampson, and I reconvened at the west end of the pedestrian bridge, where the killer had apparently fled, at least according to several of the witnesses.
    “The bushes over there are all trampled down,” Sampson said, pointing to a stand of high grass out of sight from the road. “For all we know, he had a motorcycle or something stashed away. So far, we’ve got nothing more on him.”
    Bree added, “No calling card, by the way.”
    “That’s a little weird,” I said. “He forgot about his signature this time? Since when does that happen?”
    “Or he changed his pattern,” said Sampson. “Again, since when does that happen?”
    “Or”—I finally said what had been bothering me for a while—“this wasn’t the same