“It’s okay, Bob.”

The man swallowed. “And I did what he wanted. I grabbed the microphone and said what I was supposed to.”

Dance shook her head, looking over the milling crowd, now easily three thousand people. As at Solitude Creek, in the snap of a finger they’d calmed, once they were out of the park and police on loudspeakers had reassured them there were no terrorists.

Their unsub had walked right out in the midst of escaping attendees. He didn’t even need a disguise. He could’ve had a black hood on and been carrying a machine gun and nobody would’ve spotted him.

O’Neil took a call. “That’s right… Yes… They’re set up?” He thanked the caller and disconnected. He looked at the others. “CHP. All the roadblocks’re up. They worked fast. Not every exit route, but the main ones. And random stops, traffic headed away from the park.”

Officers were checking out the bus lines too. And taxis.

No sign of a six-foot-plus man with a solid build, blond hair, holding a white gym bag (or Global Adventure World shopping bag holding a gym bag).

Finally the staff who’d been manning the security video reported that there was nothing on any of the many minutes of tape that might help them. The crowds had been too thick.

Dance looked over the masses and didn’t even bother canvassing.

O’Neil said, “Back to Prescott’s?”

“Sure.”

In a half hour they were there—the traffic was, of course, thick as honey; even the lights and siren in Deputy Martinez’s cruiser didn’t speed them along very much. They arrived just as the crime scene crew was finishing up.

A tech said, “Your man knew what he was doing. Cloth gloves.”

“I know.”

“Didn’t find much.”

Looking down at Prescott’s body, on his back, suffocated with duct tape. The image was stark and clear; he was under a bright floor lamp.

O’Neil asked, “Why was he killed?”

Dance speculated, “Something in that picture of Solitude Creek he included in the post? Clue to our unsub maybe. He had to kill Prescott and take down the site?”

The rant was gone, yes, but O’Neil had made a copy earlier. They looked it over again, carefully. The Vidster post was a video but the image from Solitude Creek was a still. It was a news photo, taken of the aftermath of the tragedy, after the bodies had been removed from the floor, which was covered with litter, purses, scraps of clothing, overturned furniture.

Neither of the officers could see anything revealing.

O’Neil offered, “Maybe our unsub had to take Prescott out, to prove there was no terrorist angle. He wouldn’t want federal scrutiny.”

And true, that’s how it turned out; after Prescott’s death, both the CBI and the MCSO had received calls from Homeland Security since the incident was linked to potential terrorism, though agents reviewed the matter and decided it wasn’t terrorist related—wasn’t even a federal crime.

“That could be.” She examined the body again, seeing the face, clear under the bright lamp. The look of horror, eyes wide. She supposed it would have taken him four or five minutes to die. The unsub’d used this means for the quiet, she guessed.