“Yeah, that’s what I want. Okay, I’m nervous,” Bree said next, surprising me with the admission.
“You’ll do great,” I told her, because I believed it to be true. “Introduce me at the beginning, and then you’ll have a seamless pass-off if there’s anything you want me to take. I’ll just be there for backup.”
Bree finally grinned. “Thanks. You’re the best.”
Right, and isn’t that what got me involved in this mess?
But then she gave me a big hug and whispered, “I love you. And I look forward to paying the debt. I really look forward to that.”
We got to our improvised pressroom at four thirty, plenty of time to make the six o’clock news, which was the whole idea. Every seat was already taken, plus there were reporters and cameras gathered in a U around the perimeter. “Dr. Cross! Detective Stone!” the photographers called out our names, trying to get a good shot.
“Never let ’em see you sweat,” I said to Bree.
“Too late for that.”
She stepped to the podium, introduced me, and began her statement without using notes. She’s smooth, good at this, I thought, very poised and confident. The press liked her too. I could tell that right away.
I stood to the side, just close enough to be in Bree’s peripheral vision when the questions came.
The first couple were softballs that she handled easily. No hits, no runs, no errors.
Tim Pullman from Channel Four got in the first toughie. “Detective, will you now confirm the existence of a copycat killer? Or is it just conjecture?”
The question made me wonder if he had even listened to her initial statement, but Bree patiently went over it all again.
“Tim, the evidence points that way—toward a copycat—but we’re not in a position to rule anything in or out conclusively, pending further investigation of the message that was sent. We’re on it. The FBI is involved too. Everybody is working overtime, believe me.”
“When you say message, do you mean the posting on SerialTimes?” someone yelled out from the back.
“That’s right, Carl. Like I said a minute ago. If you were listening?”
The same reporter continued, undeterred by Bree’s mild zinger. He was a short redheaded man whom I recognized from one of the cable channels. “Detective, can you explain how this Web site has remained online despite the strenuo
us objections of the victims’ families? What’s with that?”
We hadn’t actually been briefed on this—the families—so I watched Bree closely, ready to jump in if she wanted me to. That would be her call.
“We’re trying to leave open the possibility of dialogue with all suspects in these killings. We’d welcome their direct communication, and for the sake of resolving this as quickly as possible, we’ve decided not to close any established channels. Including the Web site.”
“Why the hell not? Why not close it down now?” An angry shout came from the back of the room. Heads and cameras swiveled around. I caught sight of a man, Alberto Ramirez. Oh, brother! It was his daughter Lydia who had been killed on the parkway overpass.
Chapter 56
THE GRIEVING FATHER’S VOICE was tight but 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.”