The murders of the two actors exploded media awareness of the case.
Suddenly, we had hundreds of tips to check and way too many bogus leads to follow. According to the tips, Dara Grey and Andrew Cotton had been spotted in nearly every club and hotel in Vegas. It was just what we didn’t need to deal with. We had decided not to release the information that there might be more than one set of killers. California and Nevada weren’t ready for it.  Kyle Craig had decided to stay out west for the next couple of days.  So did I, of course. I didn’t have much of a choice. The case was too hot, and seemed to be revving up even more. Over a thousand local police and FBI agents were involved on some level.  Then the killings simply stopped.
The pattern that had seemed to be escalating and building ended/the killers, who had seemed to be getting bolder, just vanished. Or maybe we weren’t finding the bodies anymore.
I was talking daily to profilers in Quantico, but none of them could discern a pattern that made sense to any of us. Jamilla Hughes couldn’t come up with interesting leads and theories either.  Everyone was completely stumped.
The killers just stopped killing.
Why? What was going on? Had the publicity scared them off? Or was it something else? What? Where had the killers disappeared to?  How many were there?
It was time for me to go home. That was the good news, and I took it for what it was. Kyle agreed, and I headed back to Washington with the uncomfortable feeling that I had failed, and that maybe the murderers would get away with what they had done.
I got to the house on Fifth Street at four on a Friday afternoon. The home front looked a little worn, but also comfortable. I made a mental note to paint the outside this coming spring. The gutters needed work. Actually, I looked forward to it.  Nobody was home. Nobody was there. I’d been away for twelve days.  I had wanted to surprise the kids, but I guess that was another bad idea. They seemed to be coming in clusters lately.  I wandered around the house, taking it all in, noting little things that were different. The kids’all-the-rage Razor scooter had a broken back wheel. Damon’s white choral robe, sheathed in a plastic dry-cleaning bag, hung over the banister.
I was feeling guilty as it was, and the quiet, empty house didn’t help. I looked at a few framed photos on the walls. My wedding photo with Maria. School portraits of Damon and Jannie. Snapshots of little Al............