“What was I right about?”
“Copycat. On the G.W. Parkway with those kids. That’s what DCAK says, anyway. Says he did FedExField but not the two murders on the overpass.”
“Well, he would probably know.”
I met Bree and Sampson on Seventh Street and climbed into the back of her Highlander. “Where are we going?” I asked as she pulled out in a hurry.
Bree explained as she drove, but I had to interrupt her halfway through. “Hold on, Bree. He used your name? He knows about you too? What are we doing with that?”
“Nothing, for now,” she said. “I’m feeling pretty special, though. How ’bout you? You feeling honored?”
Sampson shrugged at me in a way that said he’d already had the same conversation with her and obviously with the same result. Bree showed no fears, at least I’d never seen any.
“By the way,” Bree said, “he claims he models himself after people. Any ideas on that?”
“Kyle Craig,” I said. It just came out. “Let me think about it some.”
Kitzmiller had provided Bree with the name Braden Thompson, a systems analyst with a firm called Captech Engineering. We double-parked outside Captech’s dull, modern-looking building, then took the elevator up to the fourth floor.
“Braden Thompson?” Bree asked the receptionist, and held up her MPD badge and card.
The woman picked up her phone, her eyes still on Bree’s creds. “I’ll see if he’s available.”
“No, no. He’s available, trust me. Just point the way. We’ll find him. We’re detectives.”
We walked calmly and quietly through the bustling office but didn’t make any less of a scene for it. Secretaries’ heads turned, office doors opened, and workers checked us out as if we were here with the take-out food.
A white plastic plaque etched with Thompson’s name marked a windowed office on the north side of the building. Bree opened the door without knocking.
“Can I help you?” Braden Thompson was about what you’d expect for somebody working here: paunchy, fortysomething white guy in a short-sleeved shirt and tie, possibly a clip-on.
“Mr. Thompson, we’d like to talk with you,” Bree said. “We’re Metro Police.”
He looked past her at me and Sampson. “All three of you?”
“That’s right.” Bree was inscrutable. And the truth was, none of us wanted to miss this interview. “You’re an important guy.”
Chapter 52
“BRADY, IS EVERYTHING OKAY?” a high-pitched female voice asked Thompson from behind us.
“It’s fine, Ms. Blanco. I don’t need any help. Thank you, Barbara.” He motioned for us to come inside. “Close the door, please.”
As soon as we were alone with him, his voice went up a step too. “What are you people doing? This is my place of business.”
“Do you know why we’re here?” Bree asked.
“I know exactly why you’re here. Because I exercised my First Amendment rights. I didn’t break any laws, and I’d like you to leave. Now. You all remember the way to the door?”
Sampson stepped forward. “Brady, is it?” He looked over the things on Thompson’s desk as he continued. “I was just wondering how your bosses here might feel about that creepy little Web site of yours. You think they’ll be cool with it?”
Thompson pointed an index finger at him. “I haven’t done anything illegal. I’m well within my rights.”
“Yeah,” Sampson said. “That really wasn’t my question, though. I just wondered how your employer might feel about SerialTimes.net.”
“You have no right to use that information if I haven’t broken the law.”
“In fact, we do,” I put in. “But we’re assuming we won’t have to, because we’re assuming you’re going to tell us where that message came from.”