Double Cross

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.
    She blew out a mouthful of air. This was difficult, but Beth Kitzmiller was making it a lot easier for us. “Try
Gummi Worm
, with an
i
. He used that one sometimes.”
    The three of us exchanged a kind of shy, painful smile.
    “It was his nickname for Emily,” she offered. “And occasionally for me.”
    Sampson tapped in
Gummi Worm
.

Chapter 92

    IT WAS KITZ’S PASSWORD—at least, on the computer at home—and while Sampson feverishly worked the keyboard, I started in on the desk drawers.
    I turned up a thick stack of pending case files, most of them serial-related, and all filled with Xeroxes of original material. I had to wonder if these were “unauthorized” copies he’d brought home from work.
Kitz had been a “fan” of this kind of stuff, right
? If he was a little obsessed, it was part of what made him good at his job. Of course, in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help thinking,
Kitz was FBI, and Kyle Craig had been too
. Unfortunately, that particular line of thinking also made me a suspect.
    The first case I looked at was one I’d heard about before. Someone was breaking into suburban Maryland homes at night and strangling women in their beds. No theft, no vandalism—just the vicious murders themselves. So far, there had been three in a span of five months, one every seven weeks.
    The next file was coded “Mapmaker,” and outlined a series of