AS WENDY TIMMERMAN had suggested we should, we stopped at a convenience store on our way over to the Adams Morgan neighborhood. We sneaked a couple of tantalizing kisses in the store, then in the car, but now we were on our way again, back to business, damn it. Jeffery Antrim, who seemed closer to Damon’s age than my own, was friendly enough and let us right in when I showed him the beer. I had my doubts about the “boy genius” label until I saw his home setup. The small apartment-laboratory, “lair,” whatever-barely had room for furniture. I wondered if any of the expensive equipment, piled everywhere, had been pilfered from the Bureau.

We sat on mismatched kitchen chairs for a few hours, drinking the second six-pack we’d brought, while Jeffery worked in the other room. Sooner than I expected, he called us in to look at what he had found.

“Here’s the scoopy-doopy-doo. There wasn’t much more than shadow images on the underlying track. So I captured everything I could. Then digitized it. I’m assuming you won’t mind a composite of deinterlaced frames?”

“I guess it depends,” Bree said.

“On what?”

“On what the hell you just said, Jeffery. You speak English? Or maybe Spanish? My Spanish is serviceable.”

Jeffery smiled at Bree. “Well, here you go. Take a look for yourselves. I can always break it back down if you want.” He tapped out a few more commands. “It’s printing now, but you can see it here. Take a good look at this.”

We leaned close to watch one of the small monitors in a tower of gadgetry stacked on his desk.

The image was indeed shadowy, more dark than light, but still discernible. In fact, it was immediately familiar to both of us.

“Holy shit,” Bree said under her breath. “Suddenly, it all becomes clear as mud.”

“Isn’t that Abu Ghraib?” Jeffery asked from where he was stationed behind us. “It is… right?”

The Abu Ghraib prison scandal in Iraq was some years old now but was still a sore spot in a lot of Washington circles, and elsewhere, of course. Apparently with the Riverwalk killer as well.

The image was either a still photo or a news-video capture. It didn’t really matter which at this point. Whatever details were unclear, I could pretty much fill in from memory. A female American soldier stood in a wide cell-lined corridor. On the floor at her feet was a hooded, naked Iraqi prisoner.

The man was on all fours, just as Tess Olsen had been.

Around his neck was a dog collar attached to a leash, which the soldier held.

Bree’s eyes stayed locked on to the image, and she slowly shook her head back and forth. “So, Jeffery, you keep any coffee in that tiny kitchen or should I go pick some up?”

THE KILLER’S SECOND STORY was one of his favorite genres, science fiction.

Oh yes, this was delicious. The plan was working just right so far.

The killer wasn’t playing the Iraqi soldier anymore, but this was a better story and a much juicier role for him: Dr. Xander Swift. What actor wouldn’t kill for the part, so to speak, and to do this particular scene? In the theater, of all places. Delicioso!

The sidewalk in front of the august Kennedy Center was quickly filling with people that night. The crowd was mostly young, urban eclectic, confident, slightly obnoxious. Just about what you’d expect at a science-fiction stage adaptation of a short story, already once turned into a Hollywood movie. The difference was that the play had a big star actor in it. Thus the sizable crowd, though it wasn’t quite a sellout.

The killer-who wasn’t a star himself, not yet, anyway-assumed his role as Dr. Xander Swift as he approached the Kennedy Center. It was never too early to get into a part, was it?

A row of six swinging doors opened from the street onto a tiled ticketing area. Then four interior doors led farther into the theater’s carpeted lobby. He noticed everything and wouldn’t forget a single detail.

Almost believing that he was Dr. Xander Swift now, getting more deeply into the role, the killer moved no more quickly or slowly than the crowd surrounding him. Thick, tinted glasses, a gray-flecked beard, and an unassuming tweed jacket helped to keep him undetected. Just another theater lover, he was thinking.

Still, he couldn’t help having the slightest doubt about the rehearsal. What if he blew it? What if somehow he was captured tonight? What if he made a mistake at the Kennedy Center ?

His eyes loitered, taking in a metallic silver poster in a glass case as he passed.

MATTHEW JAY WALKER IN WE CAN REMEMBER IT FOR YOU WHOLESALE

The hot-shit Hollywood actor, with his name in black type above the title, was known for shoddily made but highly successful films. Absurd live-action comic books that cheated the customers out of ten bucks. He was the sole reason for the nearly sold-out performance tonight. Women especially loved Matthew Jay Walker, even though he’d recently married a beautiful actress with whom he’d adopted children from third world countries, the latest Follywood trend. They were living in Washington now so that they could “influence the government on matters important to the children of the world.” Did some people really talk-and worse, think-like that? Yes indeed, they did.

Inside the auditorium, synthesizer music set the tone for the evening. Dr. Xander Swift easily found his seat, 11A, on the far left aisle.

He was definitely getting into the part-good stuff, and very well played-if he did say so himself. He was positioned only steps from one of the four illuminated fire exits, but almost immediately, the location was irrelevant to him. He knew instantly that he would not be using the ticket he’d already bought for the same seat on Saturday night.

This was the wrong vantage point! All wrong! Dr. Swift had needed to see it firsthand to realize what was now so clear to him.

The symbolic murder had to take place not here but up on the stage itself.

That would be best-for the audience. And the audience was everything, wasn’t it?

At five minutes past eight, the theater went dim, then black. The synthesizer music swelled, and a heavily brocaded curtain rose slowly.

A wash of red light hit the stage, enough to send a collateral haze over the audience, where seat 11A was now empty.

Dr. Xander Swift had seen all that he needed to see for tonight-so he had left the theater. The murder was on-for tomorrow. Tonight was only a rehearsal, a walk-through. He wanted to play to a full house, after all. That was a requirement.

All in his honor, of course.