Double Cross

Chapter 21

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?”