with samples from the original autopsy. If it was just a regional medical examination, then possibly, but I’d like to think they would have caught it too.”
“Are we sure there are two girls?” asks the woman.
Danielle thinks the question over carefully. We all know it can’t be just one girl, but she’s rational enough to know we can’t always go by what we “know.” “The first girl’s body would likely have much more advanced necrosis. It’s possible the body could have been preserved. But a cellular analysis would confirm this. Because we stand a good chance of getting a skin sample from the portion of the body that was still in the ground and didn’t undergo complete combustion, I’m reasonably confident we will be able to know in a few hours.” She looks in my direction. “Thanks to Agent Blackwood, we can be thankful we have that much. If the techs had pulled the body all the way out of the ground, we might have a different story and be looking only at a pile of ash.”
I feel awkward about the praise. If I’d said something sooner last night, if I hadn’t been distracted, we might have had more to go on. Like everyone else, I was still too dazzled by the show to see where it was going. Danielle may be trying to pay me a compliment, but it’s just a reminder to me that I failed.
Knoll thanks Danielle and takes over the podium. “We have several areas we need to investigate. We need to identify who the second victim is. How was she chosen? Does she fit a type the Warlock has? Was she just a lucky find for him? Did he find her after murdering Chloe McDonald? The scars on her chest matched the original stab wounds. The question we have now, without the full body, is whether those were genuine or makeup effects? If they were genuine scars that healed over, that suggests a whole different level of premeditation. Based upon the evidence on hand, the assistant director has suggested we proceed to treat this as a serial killer investigation. To help us with that, we’ve brought in an expert to assist the analysis unit in giving us a profile.”
I turn to look at the head of behavioral sciences, but he’s looking at me. Everyone is facing my direction. All the FBI chiefs in the room are waiting.
Ailes leans in and whispers to me, “You’re on.”
Me?
11
M Y FIRST STEP onstage was by accident. I was three years old and my grandfather was performing a series of shows in London’s West End. My mother had run off a year before, leaving me in the care of my unprepared father and my equally unskilled grandfather—his solution was to use dancers in the troupe as nannies. I had more “aunts” and “uncles” than I can remember. I was watching from the wings as usual. I used to sit in the lap of the dancers before they would go on, and this time my designated sitter was filling in for a girl getting ready on the other side of the stage, so I was left unattended.
Grandfather was performing the Mischief Rabbit, a trick invented by his father. He’d pretend to attempt to make a rabbit appear out of a silk top hat, only to fail. Each time he turned to the audience with an exasperated look, the rabbit would poke his head out of the top of the hat.
The trick was accomplished by a pneumatic lift built into the table. Each time Grandfather stepped away, a stagehand would push a button and raise the rabbit on its little rabbit elevator, bringing him into view.
I loved the trick. The rabbit delighted me. I used to feed him carrots and look after him and his six brothers like they were my own pets. When Grandfather performed the trick, I paid no mind to the machinery and thought it was really the rabbit poking his head out of the hat, giving Grandfather a hard time.
On this occasion, with no one there to mind me, I ran onto the stage and pulled the rabbit from the hat when my grandfather looked away. The audience screamed in delight. When Grandfather turned around, the rabbit was gone and so was I. He
“Are we sure there are two girls?” asks the woman.
Danielle thinks the question over carefully. We all know it can’t be just one girl, but she’s rational enough to know we can’t always go by what we “know.” “The first girl’s body would likely have much more advanced necrosis. It’s possible the body could have been preserved. But a cellular analysis would confirm this. Because we stand a good chance of getting a skin sample from the portion of the body that was still in the ground and didn’t undergo complete combustion, I’m reasonably confident we will be able to know in a few hours.” She looks in my direction. “Thanks to Agent Blackwood, we can be thankful we have that much. If the techs had pulled the body all the way out of the ground, we might have a different story and be looking only at a pile of ash.”
I feel awkward about the praise. If I’d said something sooner last night, if I hadn’t been distracted, we might have had more to go on. Like everyone else, I was still too dazzled by the show to see where it was going. Danielle may be trying to pay me a compliment, but it’s just a reminder to me that I failed.
Knoll thanks Danielle and takes over the podium. “We have several areas we need to investigate. We need to identify who the second victim is. How was she chosen? Does she fit a type the Warlock has? Was she just a lucky find for him? Did he find her after murdering Chloe McDonald? The scars on her chest matched the original stab wounds. The question we have now, without the full body, is whether those were genuine or makeup effects? If they were genuine scars that healed over, that suggests a whole different level of premeditation. Based upon the evidence on hand, the assistant director has suggested we proceed to treat this as a serial killer investigation. To help us with that, we’ve brought in an expert to assist the analysis unit in giving us a profile.”
I turn to look at the head of behavioral sciences, but he’s looking at me. Everyone is facing my direction. All the FBI chiefs in the room are waiting.
Ailes leans in and whispers to me, “You’re on.”
Me?
11
M Y FIRST STEP onstage was by accident. I was three years old and my grandfather was performing a series of shows in London’s West End. My mother had run off a year before, leaving me in the care of my unprepared father and my equally unskilled grandfather—his solution was to use dancers in the troupe as nannies. I had more “aunts” and “uncles” than I can remember. I was watching from the wings as usual. I used to sit in the lap of the dancers before they would go on, and this time my designated sitter was filling in for a girl getting ready on the other side of the stage, so I was left unattended.
Grandfather was performing the Mischief Rabbit, a trick invented by his father. He’d pretend to attempt to make a rabbit appear out of a silk top hat, only to fail. Each time he turned to the audience with an exasperated look, the rabbit would poke his head out of the top of the hat.
The trick was accomplished by a pneumatic lift built into the table. Each time Grandfather stepped away, a stagehand would push a button and raise the rabbit on its little rabbit elevator, bringing him into view.
I loved the trick. The rabbit delighted me. I used to feed him carrots and look after him and his six brothers like they were my own pets. When Grandfather performed the trick, I paid no mind to the machinery and thought it was really the rabbit poking his head out of the hat, giving Grandfather a hard time.
On this occasion, with no one there to mind me, I ran onto the stage and pulled the rabbit from the hat when my grandfather looked away. The audience screamed in delight. When Grandfather turned around, the rabbit was gone and so was I. He
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