I tore open the white paper and got a handful of doughnut crumbs, along with a black Motorola. The doughnut was some kind of lame cop joke, I figured.
Instead of caller ID, the phone showed a picture. It was of Sampson, and he was blindfolded. There was a wide gash and dried blood on the side of his face. I took a deep breath to keep the anger from overwhelming me before I answered the call.
“Bell?”
“Cross?” He mocked my inflection.
“Where is he?”
“I talk. You listen. Now, I want both of you to take out your own phones and hold them in the air. Hold them between two fingers, if you would.”
“No, you listen to me. I want to talk to Sampson before I do anything.”
There was a pause and a shuffle, then I heard a muted “It’s for you.”
Then Sampson’s voice, clear and unmistakable. “Alex, don’t do it!”
“John—” I called out.
But Bell was already back on the line. “Your phones? In the air. Both of them.”
I swiveled around and scanned the garage. Someone was definitely watching us, relaying information, but I didn’t see anyone anywhere.
“Now or never, Dr. Cross. You don’t want me hanging up on you. Trust me. You don’t.”
“Bree, get out your phone. Hold it in the air.”
He had us put the cell phones behind the back wheels of my car and then get in.
“Now back up. Over the phones. Then leave the garage, and take a right turn.”
“Where are we going?”
“No questions. Just go. Hurry! Time’s running out.” I heard the crunch of our cells as I backed out over them.
“Fuck,” Bree muttered. She wasn’t angry about the phones, just that we were following his orders.
We had barely hit the street when Bree scribbled something and held it down low for me to see. Black Highlander, DC plates. Female. Two cars behind.
I saw the Highlander and the woman driver in my rearview mirror. Long, dark hair. Sunglasses. I couldn’t tell much of anything else.
“Who’s the tail, Bell? Is that my friend from Baltimore?”
There was a sickening thud on the line, and I heard Sampson moan loudly.
“That’s what questions get you from here on out. Got any more?”
I didn’t answer.
“Good thinking. Now take a left at the next light and keep your fucking mouths shut unless I ask for your opinion.”
Chapter 115
I WOULD HAVE PROBABLY suspended another officer for doing what we were doing, but with Sampson’s life in jeopardy, I didn’t see how there was any choice. For the next few minutes, Bree and I stuck to hand gestures and notes while DCAK barked out directions.
The black Highlander with the woman driver stayed right with us, never getting more than a couple of car lengths behind.
Bree scribbled, Idea where we’re going?
I shook my head. Just enough for her to see.
How do we turn this thing around?
Another subtle head shake.
Weapons in the car?
I sighed, then shook my head again.
We had traveled to Montana without them. Maybe Tyler Bell guessed as much; there had been no mention of them when we ditched our phones.
He navigated us back into Washington. Eventually onto Massachusetts Avenue and then Seventh Street, moving away from Capitol Hill.
My mind raced in a dozen different directions during the stretches of silence. Where the hell was he taking us? And what would happen when we got there?
Seventh turned into Georgia; then we passed the Howard University campus and kept going. Why this part of town? Why was any of this happening?
Somewhere between Columbia Heights and Petworth, we came into a low-grade retail stretch with half a dozen fast-food and car-repair joints. Bell told me to slow down now and pay close attention.
“Trust me, I’m paying attention.”
I watched the numbers as we passed a Jamaican patty stand, a nail salon, a gas station, a pawnshop, and then one of several empty storefronts.
“Number three three three seven,” Bell said. “See it?” I sure did. An orange RENTED banner was pasted over the original FOR RENT sign in the window.
“Take the next alleyway, and come into the building from the side,” Bell told me. “No cheap tricks. I can’t promise the same.”
Chapter 116
I PULLED DOWN a narrow single lane to a small parking area in back, with room for maybe three vehicles. When we got out, I saw the black Highlander blocking the alley entrance—or exit, depending on how you looked at it.
The driver watched us from behind the wheel, looking both mysterious and threatening. I was almost certain it was a woman, but so far not everything had been as it seemed.
Bree and I moved toward the building. We found a battered green steel door, propped open with half of a brick. Inside, there was an enclosed cement stairwell. It felt a little like a Saw movie set.
“Go down the stairs,” said Tyler Bell. “Go ahead. Bite the bullet.”
An oddly brilliant strip of light showed under another door at the bottom of the stairs.
“Bell, what’s down there?” I asked him. “Where are we going?”
He answered, “Close the door behind you when you come in. And do come in. Or else there will be a terrible accident momentarily—involving your friend.”
Bree and I looked at each other. This was the time to turn around, if any. And that wasn’t going to happen, at least not for me.
“We don’t have any choice,” Bree said. “Let’s go. We get any chance, we take it.”
I went down first.
The walls were rough cinder block, with no rail. There was a vague sulfuric smell that I could taste on the tip of my tongue. When we got to the door at the bottom of the stairs, I grabbed a rusted knob that wouldn’t turn. So I pushed instead—and it swung open.
And then—
A spotlight hit my eyes! I focused as best I could and saw it was one of several on tripod stands, illuminating every corner of an otherwise dank basement.
“There’s your boy!” said Bell.
Sampson sat tied to a chair with his hands behind his back. A band of silver tape was stretched over his eyes. When he turned toward the sound of the door, I saw the terrible gash on his face, still wet. What was worse, his blood had been used to smear the letters DCAK on the wall behind him. Lots of blood.
Two empty chairs stood to Sampson’s right, each with a coil of rope on the floor next to it.
Somebody, presumably Tyler Bell, stood off to one side. He had a video camera in one hand and a gun in the other, both pointed our way. His face was still in shadows, always the mystery man to this point. But that was going to end now, wasn’t it?
A cable snaked out of the camera, over to a sawhorse and a plank table full of equipment. I spotted a laptop, open to Bell’s familiar home page, but with a difference. Where he’d once had an image of a static-filled television, now there was a live shot of Bree and me standing there, looking at ourselves.
Bell’s head slowly moved from the camera viewfinder up to our faces. When he saw me watching him, he said, “Welcome to my studio.”
Chapter 117
“SAMPSON, YOU OKAY?” I asked. “John? John?”
Finally he gave a weak nod. “Couldn’t be better.” He didn’t look it. He was hunched over severely, with dark stains down his gray T-shirt and sweats.
“Well said, Detective Sampson,” Bell cracked. “It would appear that I’m not the only skilled thespian in the room.”
“Is that my Glock?” Bree was staring at the gun clenched in Bell’s hand.
“Yes, it is. Very good. Don’t you remember when Neil Stephens took it from you? Yes, yes, that was me. What can I say, I can act.”
“I remember everything, asshole. You’re not as good as you think you are.”
“Perhaps. But apparently that still makes me good enough, does
n’t it?”
“What is all this?” I asked, trying to slow things down, trying to slow Bell down, anyway, and maybe even get a few answers from him.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve figured most of it out, Dr. Cross. You’re smart enough for that, aren’t you?”
“So if I said thirty-three thirty-seven Georgia Avenue—” I tried.
“You’d be wasting your breath, of course. No one is watching—yet.”
Bell dipped his eyes toward the camera and back. “Live audio would have been nice, but then again, I’m not an idiot. Detective Stone, I want you facedown, hands out at your side. Cross”—he motioned toward the center chair—“have a seat. Take a load off.”
“What about—”
He fired once into the wall just over Sampson’s shoulder. “I said sit down.”
I did as I was told, and then footsteps sounded overhead. They steadily crossed the floor and thumped down some nearby stairs. Not the ones Bree and I had used, though—another entrance.
Tyler Bell kept the camera aimed at me without actually looking around. I guessed that he wanted my reaction to this on film. A door at the far end of the room opened. I couldn’t see who was there—not yet.
“What took you so long?” Bell said.
“Sorry. Had to lock up. Not the best of neighborhoods.”
Then I realized who it was. The woman I knew as Sandy Quinlan was just walking into the room. She’d taken off the dark wig and glasses she’d worn while she was driving the Highlander; now she looked the way I was used to seeing her. Except for her eyes. They played over me as though we’d never met.
And with the shock of seeing “Sandy Quinlan” here came another rush of clarity, and of grudging respect for DCAK.
“Anthony,” I said. Not a question, a statement of fact.
I didn’t fool myself into thinking that was his real name, but it was how I knew him. As I stared at DCAK, I could see the resemblance now. He was pretty good with makeup, and he was a talented actor. I had to give him that much.
He took a little bow. “I am good, aren’t I? Stage acting, for the most part. New York, San Francisco, New Haven, London. In many ways, I’m proudest of the way I played Anthony, and played you as well, Dr. Cross. As they say—in your face!”
“So, are you Tyler Bell?” I asked next.
He seemed a little surprised by the question. Or was he acting again? “Didn’t you hear? The poor bastard went crazy. Came to DC and murdered a shitload of people. Including the detective who killed his brother. Then he just disappeared off the face of the earth. No one ever saw him again.”
Bree asked, “Did you kill Bell in Montana?”
“Tell you what.” He wagged the Glock in little circles. “Let’s get you ready for the broadcast first. Then I’ll show you what happened to Tyler Bell. How’s that for cooperating fully with the police?”
“Sandy” was standing next to him now. He kissed her, making a show of it, and gave her the gun. Then he transferred the camera to her as well. Now what?
“Smile,” she said, “or whatever. Just be natural. Be yourselves.”
She bent her knees for a steadier shot and zoomed out until the image on the laptop included Sampson, Bree, and me.
“Okay, I’m set here. Whenever you’re ready, we can begin. We’re going live now. We’re rolling,” she said. “And . . . action.”
Chapter 118
ANTHONY DEMAO—that was the only name I had for him—slowly walked around behind me, which was not exactly where I wanted him to be.
“Out of sight, out of mind?” he asked, and laughed. “Or maybe not, Doc.”
Suddenly, the rope dug into my wrists as he tightened it, then knotted it off. Next he anchored it to an eye hook or grommet, something in the floor that I couldn’t see. The contraption kept me from standing, though, or even sitting up straight. That’s why Sampson’s frame was so hunched over, I realized.
And it was all playing out in real time on the laptop across from me. I wondered how many people were watching this right now, and I hoped Nana and the kids weren’t among them.
When he’d finished with me and then Bree, he retrieved his gun from Sandy and took his place at the center of the floor. He tucked the Glock in the rear of his waistband, then went into a half squat, hands clasped behind him like they were tied the same as ours. What the hell was he doing now?
His face screwed into a terrible grimace. Then he sobbed loudly. He continued to sob. He was acting, I realized with a start. Playing another part. Who was he this time?
He was definitely playing someone other than himself. Pretending to sob, to be sad. “Why are you doing this to me? I don’t understand. Please, just let me get up. I won’t run away, I promise. Please, man, I’m begging you. I’m begging you!”
Suddenly the gun came out from behind Anthony’s back, and he pointed it at his own head. Now he spoke as DCAK: “You want to stay alive, Mr. Bell, you just keep on talking for me. Let me hear you say ‘A, E, I, O, U.’ ”
“A, E, I, O, U,” he blubbered, in what I assumed was a pretty good imitation of Tyler Bell.
“You closed Bell’s bank account yourself, right?” Bree asked before I got the chance.
“And played Tyler Bell at the grocery store before that,” I added. That explained the milk and other duplicate food we’d found in the refrigerator back at the cabin.
Anthony stood up straight again and turned side to side, showing off the beard, the nose, the heavy brow. “Pretty good makeup job, right? Took the molds right off Tyler Bell’s face.”
“Jesus Christ.” Bree sounded more disgusted than anything. “You almost make me ashamed to be human.”
“Wait, I’ve got another one for you. This is good shit. Check it out, Detectives.”
He grew still for a moment. His face morphed into anguish, but someone else’s, not Bell’s.
The posture turned crooked, the energy was less frenetic, and the voice—the one he’d used in our sessions—was deeper, southern, with a different timbre than the others.
“Oh, Jesus, I killed my best friend. Matthew, man, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. What am I gonna do now?” His speech slowed as he went on, and the accent broadened until it had become a caricature of itself. “I ain’t nothin’ but a poor sumbitch of a vet with a shrink that don’t know Gulf War syndrome from German fuckin’ measles.”
His eyes fell coldly on me.
“I got it all on tape, Dr. Cross. Every one of our sessions on audio, with me right there under your nose. I took some pictures too.” He looked over at Sandy. “You and her. When Sandy tongue kissed you in front of your office and said she wished you’d met under different circumstances.”
“I’ll tell you a secret.” Sandy replayed the moment between her and me from outside my office. “I wish I’d met you somewhere else.”
I remembered the kiss and how Sandy had motioned me over to the curb, apparently setting up a photo op for Anthony.
“Okay,” I said. “Now how about why?”
“How about because no one else can do what we can do? No one! Or how about because we worked almost ten years in the theater and barely made enough money to pay the rent. Or ’cause we saw the shine you have, or used to have, and wanted some for ourselves.”
He stopped and stared at me for several beats. “Is that what you want to hear, Dr. Cross? Does that help you put us into some little box that you can understand a little better?”
I stared back. “It all depends. Is any of it the truth?”
He laughed, and so did Sandy. “Nah. Not a word. How could someone like me not do well in life? I have money, and now I have fame. Even Kyle Craig is a fan, and we’re fans of Kyle’s. Talk about a small world.
“Kyle Craig is a hero of ours, just like Bundy and Gacy. And Gary Soneji. When Kyle got slammed into ADX Florence, we figured out how to make contact. He wanted to hear all about what we were up to; we felt the same way about him. There are a lot of us out there, Doctor. The ones who
kill, and the ones who only wish they could. Kyle’s lawyer was a fan too. A devoted fan, you’d have to say. And now Kyle Craig is following our story the way we used to follow his. He’s right here in Washington. That’s exciting, don’t you think?”
Chapter 119
I WATCHED DCAK’S LIVE PERFORMANCE, because that’s what it was—a calculated act—but something else was happening here, something much more interesting to me right now. It all went back to that camping trip at Catoctin Mountain Park.
Bree’s hands worked steadily behind her back, mostly indiscernibly, from what I could tell. She was trying to undo the ropes around her wrists—my view of the laptop let me know that much. It also told me I needed to keep Anthony and Sandy face-to-face—focused on me, not on what Bree was trying to do.
“But Tyler Bell gets the credit for all this? Not the two of you? Especially not Sandy?” I asked, as if I cared.
“You’re not paying attention. All this”—he swept his arm around the room—“is just today’s mindfuck. Once we’re gone, once everyone sees the story, then it happens all over again. Maybe with a new cop stooge. Or maybe a news reporter. A news anchor? A big shot at the Washington Post or USA Today.”
“You know you’re not the first to run something like this, right? Colin Johns? Miami, 1995?”
And here, Anthony’s veneer cracked just a little bit. “Never heard of him.”
“That’s my point exactly. Colin Johns was famous for about, oh, five minutes. And he was a lot better at this than you are—either of you.”
Anthony stood there with his arms folded, shaking his head back and forth. I could tell he was angry at me now. “You’re really pretty bad as a shrink, you know that? This is supposed to—what? Make me not kill you?”
“No, but it might take some of the enjoyment out of it.” Confidence was the game here, not facts, not the techniques of therapy. I was making it up as fast as I could.
I asked, “How about Ronny Jessup? Three homicides, all of them on live TV. He even used his real name. You ever hear of Ronny Jessup? You, Sandy?”