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the first one, but you definitely got two here,” Thorne said. “And neither of them is black.”
    “I don’t believe this! Are you deliberately trying to fuck me up on this?” Forsythe was incredulous. “Was that why you were sent here, to deliberately fuck up this investigation like the other guy did? I don’t have time to fuck around with you, the Frederickson girl might still be alive and you’re here dicking me around! You! Stay out of my way, understand? Let’s go, Norm, I want to be there when they slap the bracelets on Mitchell. Goddamn fucking feds!”
    Forsythe put on his jacket and stormed off, Hairston close on his heels. Scroggins, Gilday and Kane looked at Thorne. Simms turned a darker shade of purple and snuck off with his reports. Everyone else in the large room suddenly found something better to do elsewhere, away from Thorne.
    “Well, I have to say,” Gilday said, “you sure are making friends fast here.”
    “I’m not here to whisper sweet nothings and hand out hand-jobs, fellas. I’m here to tell you what I know, whether you like it or not.”
    “I think you’re right about there being two killers,” Scroggins said, “but are you sure neither of them is black?”
    “I wouldn’t say so if I wasn’t; both of these killers are white.”
    “The DC snipers were black,” Gilday pointed out.
    “I wouldn’t classify them as serial killers,” Thorne said.
    “What the hell else would you call them?” Scroggins exclaimed.
    “Technically, I would call them spree killers. They just happened to be a little more careful than most. Careful spree killers, it’s a new category. They were spree killers, the Iceman is a serial killer.”
    “What’s the difference?” Scroggins asked.
    “Kane?” Thorne put her on the spot.
    “In spree killing, the identity of the victims is secondary and oftentimes incidental to the act,” Kane recited. “Once they decide to go, spree killers kill who’s available, which we have seen at post offices and schools, acting in response to their anger at something beyond the individual victims in their path. For serial killers, the victims and what they represent to the killer is primary to the act, almost as if they have a relationship that’s personal.”
    Kane caught another glimmer of approval from Thorne.
    “Yeah, but Thorne,” Gilday said, “what difference does all that make now? We got evidence now, we got to follow the evidence to where it leads us and if it leads us to a black man, then that’s all she wrote.”
    Johnson popped up again, holding a phone to his ear.
    “Hey, Jeff, is the captain gone?” Johnson asked. “I got another priority.”
    “He’s probably already on his way to Kearney, Bill, what’s up?”
    “He’s already in the transit, Rich, call Norm on his phone,” Johnson said into the phone. “Did you post it? He’s online on the mobile in the truck.”
    “What’s up, Bill?” Scroggins asked after Johnson hung up.
    “There’s just been another abduction, three miles outside of Brainard,” Johnson said, hesitant. “Reilly’s posting it on the hotline right now and we’re putting her out as an Amber Alert. She was snatched not even ten minutes ago.”
    “Bingo, there’s our copycat again, what’d I tell you?” Thorne said.
    Kane immediately refreshed the hotline on her desktop computer and hit print.
    “Shit, that was quick too,” Scroggins said. “It’s not far away, Jeff, let’s follow CSU over to the abduction site, get a look at it ourselves, what do you say?”
    “Affirmative on that, buddy.”
    “Kane,” Thorne said, “do you remember what I said about timing?”
    “Of course. Timing is everything.”
    “Guess what, time is here and now,” Thorne pointed his finger at Johnson. “You, what’s your name?”
    “Sergeant Johnson.”
    “Johnson, I need a car,” Thorne grabbed his coat.
    “We’re going?” Kane asked.
    “You’re going?” Scroggins asked.
    “Hell yes, this scene is red hot