Double Cross

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.

Chapter 57

    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.

Chapter 58

    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