Other officers streamed inside, accompanying two emergency medical technicians. They bent to the fallen man. But a fast check of vitals confirmed what was obvious.

“He’s gone. I’ll tell the ME.”

Another man, in a body armor vest, walked inside and looked down at his prey. He recognized him from outside the movie theater the other day and from the Bay View Center. Kathryn Dance’s colleague.

“Detective O’Neil,” one of the deputies called. “We’re clear of threat.” The officer handed O’Neil March’s wallet. Jenkins’s too. O’Neil flipped through them.

He walked to the door and said, “It’s clear, Kathryn.”

She walked inside, glancing at the corpse matter-of-factly. Then her green eyes fixed on March’s. He felt an odd sensation, looking at her. Was it a comfort? He believed so. Outrageous under the circumstances. But there it was. He nearly smiled. She was even more beautiful than he’d believed. And how much she resembled Jessica!

O’Neil handed her the men’s IDs. “The deceased’s Chris Jenkins.” Then a nod. “And, you got it right, Kathryn. He’s Antioch March.”

Got it right?

He shook his head, not in the least surprised she’d outthought him.

His beautiful Kathryn said, “Read him his rights and then let’s get him to CBI.”

Chapter 82

It was the lights, Antioch.”

“Andy, please. Lights?”

“The lights in the security cameras of the venues where you staged the attacks.”

Dance scooted her chair closer, here in the larger of the interview rooms, the one, in fact, where the Serrano incident had begun. She was already wearing her dark-framed predator specs. Examining March carefully. A trim-fitting light blue dress shirt, dark slacks. Both seemed expensive. She couldn’t see his shoes from where she sat; were they the five-grand pair?

He still seemed a bit mystified at the officers’ sudden appearance at TJ’s, though the explanation was rather simple.

Just after the Neil Hartman concert had started Dance found herself thinking once more of her observation a few moments earlier: about the security lights at the hospital, and at the venues that the unsub had attacked. They’d all been equipped with lights, while most security cameras—like the ones she’d just noted at the Performing Arts Center—were not. She recalled the witnesses telling her that bright lights had come on around the time of the panic at the roadhouse and the author’s signing; she herself had seem them blaring from the camera in the elevator.

She’d ducked into the lobby of the concert hall and, from her phone, checked the police photos of the three scenes. The cameras were all the same.

She told March this and added, “All the venues had just been inspected by an insurance or fire inspector, I remembered. Except it wasn’t an official. It was you, mounting the cameras when the manager wasn’t looking. Fire Inspector Dunn.”

Dance continued, “You moved lamps over two of your other victims: Calista Sommers and Stan Prescott. Oh, I see your expression. Yes, we know about Calista. She’s not Jane Doe anymore. We finally got her ID. Missing person memo from Washington State.