“The count?”

O’Neil: “Four dead, thirty-two injured. Twelve critical. Two are in comas from the fall and hypothermia. Three’ll probably lose limbs from the fall to the rocks. No one missing. All accounted for.”

“No security?”

“No,” Dance said. “The manager was in the front line, trying to help. The author? He hid in the bathroom. Women’s room actually. Then the shooter vanished—about three minutes before the police showed up. No sign whatsoever.”

“How did that happen?”

“We think he was wearing throwaways,” O’Neil said.

“The camo?”

Dance told her boss, “There were plenty of places along the shore where he could have gotten out of sight, stripped, thrown everything into a shopping bag and strolled into the crowd, vanished.”

“There were reports he was headed toward Fisherman’s Wharf.”

“We’re sure he was behind that,” Dance explained. “Called dispatch, a TV station and another restaurant. Prepaid mobile. Bought in Chicago with cash about a month ago. And when I heard that, I ran the call records the night of the Solitude Creek incident. Somebody called Sam Cohen from the parking lot and told him the fire was in the kitchen and backstage areas of the club. That sent more people into the crush.”

“The number the same?”

“No. But it was from Chicago too. Bought at the same time. I’ve sent a request to Chicago PD to see what they can find. I’m not holding my breath. Now, at the Bay View the manager said there was no security video. I saw cameras, in the hall and outside, but apparently they weren’t hooked up.”

“And the unsub,” Overby said slowly. “Never went inside. Never actually hit anybody. Why?”

“The first question Michael and I asked about Solitude Creek. Why not just burn it down? Why not shoot his victims? He prefers them to kill themselves. He plays with perceptions, sensations, panic. It doesn’t matter what people see. It’s what they believe. That’s his weapon, fear. And he knows what he’s doing. I talked to one of the survivors. A woman named Ardel Hopkins. She was crushed in the mob and shattered her shoulder. She was about to drown but the Coast Guard fished her out. From what she said, it sounded just like Solitude Creek—people went insane. Nobody listened to reason. Security lights came on, bright ones. That added to the panic. Somebody must’ve broken a window and jumped. And the rest followed. Lemmings. Nobody looked to see if the shooter was actually inside. They just heard one person say ‘Jump!’ and they did. The manager said they’d just had a fire department inspection—the venue could either cancel the event or submit to the inspection, which required them to make sure no vehicles could park in front of the exit doors and to tape the latches open.”

“At least the MCFD’s being proactive. I didn’t hear that. But it’s ironic, hmm? The manager took all the right precautions—only that contributed to the frenzy.”

O’Neil said, “Forensics is going over the site now. Oh, we did get the shoe print analysis back from CSU—of the prints Kathryn and I found at Solitude Creek. Turns out, the unsub’s shoes’re pretty rare.”