Nia comes out limping, grimacing from pain, helped along by a sturdy police cadet. Bree grabs a first aid kit from her go bag. “Over here, Nia. Sit down.”
“Twisted ankle,” says the cadet. “Nothing broken.” He eases Nia down onto the lip of the Camry’s open trunk.
Bree shakes an instant ice pack. She applies the plastic bag gently as tears run down Nia’s cheeks.
“I wanted to find Damon. I didn’t want to give up. I know he wouldn’t quit. Not ever.”
Other searchers move past Alex, overheated and exhausted. A few of them reach for fresh bottles of water and pour them directly over their heads. The water spills onto the dirt in small dark puddles.
Melissa is in the last team to emerge. She walks up to Alex, her hair matted across her forehead, and collapses against him, sobbing. “Dr. Cross, I’m so sorry. We didn’t find him. We didn’t find a damn thing!”
Alex hugs her. “Don’t get discouraged, Melissa, you did your best. You came through with a solid bunch of volunteers. That’s a big deal. We’ve only just started.”
As he comforts Melissa, Alex realizes that he’s giving himself the same pep talk. It’s not the first time he’s supervised a field search. Nor is it the first time he’s had to search for members of his own family. It’s too soon to admit defeat.
Alex turns around as Gail Bailey’s black Ford Interceptor powers up the dirt road and stops in front of the bus from the academy. Two of the police cadets walk over when Bailey steps out. She stands straight, hands on her hips, as she listens to their report. Then she walks over to Alex, glancing around at the exhausted searchers. “Sorry it didn’t pan out,” she says.
Bree grimaces. “Yeah. So are we.”
“We’ll search again,” says Alex. “And we’ll come up with something else.”
Bailey nods. “I put a rush on Damon’s bike. We had his fingerprints on file.”
“From where?” asks Bree.
“YMCA,” says Bailey. “They do a background check on volunteers who work with minors.”
Bree takes a deep breath. “And?”
“Damon’s prints are all over the bike,” says Bailey. “But nobody else’s.”
CHAPTER 42
Sampson
ANNA RIZZO AND I are once again with Dennis Chan in the basement of the DC Metro Police headquarters, hovering over his shoulder as his fingers fly over the keyboard.
As Chan works, his eyes never move from the two large monitors on his desk. “When John asked me to go back to the old style of catching arsonists, I have to say, I was skeptical,” he says. His voice sounds weary.
Rizzo turns to me. “Why arsonists?”
“Something I remembered from working with Alex Cross,” I tell her. “It has to do with their psychology. Some arsonists get off on seeing the results of their work and watching the emergency response. That’s why when police photographers show up at the scene of a suspected arson, they take pictures of the spectators in addition to the fire damage.”
“But arsonists and terrorists are two different animals. Seems like a stretch to me,” says Rizzo.
“I thought so too,” says Chan. “But John asked me to give it a shot.”
“What did you do, exactly?” Rizzo asks. I can tell she’s intrigued.
“What I did,” says Chan, “was load every frame of surveillance footage, raw media footage, and personal photos we could find from anywhere near the bombing sites. Then I processed them all through a facial-recognition program that doesn’t officially exist and that I’m not supposed to have access to.”
On Chan’s side-by-side monitors, still images are whizzing by in a blur.
“The program is called Flash Talbot. It uses AI and a borrowed quantum computer system from Fort Meade.”
“What’s going on in here? Movie night?”
It’s Ned Mahoney. He steps into the cubicle next to me. He reeks of McDonald’s, and he could use a shower.
