Once her fellow agent had exited and the door was shut behind her, Doctor Jante carefully perched herself on the corner of the desk. Looking down, she smoothed her skirt in a deliberate motion, picked off an imaginary piece of lint, and then focused her attention back onto me.
“She’s obviously very fond of you.”
“My wife and I are very fond of her as well,” I replied, a hard edge in my voice. “She’s a good friend to both of us. But you already knew that.”
“I didn’t mean to imply anything else.”
“It makes sense now though,” I mused aloud. “I mean, why you so easily agreed to her escorting me on this trip instead of some other random agent. I actually couldn’t figure out why I even needed an escort up until just now. You knew I’d request Constance, and you think having her here gives you leverage against me if you need it.”
“That sounds rather like paranoia.”
“Is that an official diagnosis or a friendly observation?”
She smirked. “For someone who appeared to be in a state of severe psychological distress during that interview, you seem to be holding your own now, Mister Gant.”
“Trust me, the distress was real.”
“But you’re fine now?”
“I still have a headache from hell,” I replied. “But yeah, I got a second wind.”
“Apparently.”
“Listen Doc, the crazy bitch in the prison khakis already put me in a seriously foul mood, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. And our little skirmish hasn’t exactly helped either, although no offense here, but dealing with you is a friggin’ cakewalk compared to her. But, you said it yourself; all this posturing is getting us nowhere. So, can we just stop circling each other like a couple of rabid dogs and get down to it? Otherwise we’re going to be here forever.”
She sighed heavily. “All right then. First, I need you to understand that what I am going to say to you is completely confidential.”
“I pretty much figured that part out when you started clearing the room,” I replied.
“Should you repeat any of what I tell you, rest assured, I will deny this conversation ever took place.”
“Who’s paranoid now?” I asked.
“Not paranoid, Mister Gant. Careful.”
“Like I said, someone’s covering her ass. Fine. I get it. Confidential. Top secret. Eyes only. This tape will self destruct. Just between you and me… Can we get on with it?”
“Good,” she acknowledged. “In answer to your earlier question, the focus of this case study has always been Annalise Devereaux. However, as of late, you have been under observation as well.”
“Okay. I think I pretty much had that one pegged. Although, the rhetoric sounds generically clinical,” I said.
“It is meant to.”
“I assume ‘as of late’ means this has been going on a little bit longer than just today?”
She nodded as she uttered, “More or less.” Neither her tone, nor her noncommittal words inspired confidence in the ambiguous answer.
“Okay, so the admission was a nice overture to start, but how about telling me something that I haven’t already figured out? Like maybe why I’m being observed? Am I under some kind of super secret criminal investigation or something?”
“No, nothing like that. Not since prior to our meeting in Saint Louis.”
“But before the meeting I was?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, a slightly confused expression on her face as she shook her head. “Given the circumstances of Devereaux’s crimes and your wife’s apparent connection to them, both of you were the subjects of an investigation. But you already knew that.”
I shook my head and quietly snorted. “Yes, I did. But, something told me that whole meeting with you was a ration of bullshit from the word go.”
“Not entirely. You’d both been cleared prior to that meeting.”
I repeated her words. “Not entirely… Which implies you weren’t completely truthful about its purpose then, which means I’m right about it being bullshit. So am I to assume that’s when the observing started?”
She remained silent, and her expression neither confirmed nor denied my question.
I pressed, “Okay, so if I’m not under some sort of criminal investigation, why don’t you tell me what all this observing is about?”
“It’s for the purpose of evaluation.”
“Of what?”
“Potential, for lack of a better explanation.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Potential what?”
She shifted slightly and began to explain. “As I’m sure you are aware, a good portion of your exploits are a matter of record.”
“By exploits I guess you mean my helping with murder investigations?”
“Exactly. And since there are some very detailed reports, as well as some obviously sanitized accountings, you have become a bit of a curiosity. In any event, the depths of your talents have not escaped the notice of the bureau, and in particular the BAU.”
“So what you’re saying is that the FBI is treating me like a lab rat because I’m a Witch?”
She gave me a shallow nod and said, “Actually, Mister Gant, in a very real sense, yes.”
CHAPTER 8
While my talents, as she put it, had not escaped the attention of the FBI, at this particular moment in time, they were most certainly escaping mine-at least as far as anything precognitive was concerned. I had to admit, I was fully expecting her to laugh in answer to my last question, and therefore, this turn in the conversation wasn’t one I had foreseen. Not entirely sure what to say next, I sat mutely staring back at the psychologist.
“Allow me to elaborate,” she said.
I nodded. “Please do.”
“You, Mister Gant, have an amazing capacity for connecting dots no one else can see in order to find a killer. That is something of a rare talent.”
“Not really.” I explained. “Dead people talk to me, Doctor Jante. That’s it. I know you think that’s crazy and that it sounds like a Hollywood cliche, but it’s the truth. And it’s also definitely not what I’d call a talent. In fact, I personally view it as a curse.”
“Whatever explanation you wish to believe is up to you. Still, it has captured the attention of the bureau.”
“Yeah… Well to be honest I don’t see what the big deal is here. I thought the whole criminal profiling thing was what the Behavioral Analysis Unit was all about?”
“It is.”
“Okay. So don’t you have all sorts of highly trained people, like you for instance, running around connecting the imaginary dots?”
“Yes, we do,” she agreed. “But not as many as you think.”
“How many could you possibly need?”
“More than you would imagine.”
“Why don’t either of those answers surprise me,” I sighed. “Well, what does any of this have to do with me?”
“Very few people have a natural talent for creating a profile from a crime scene. It can be learned, yes, but only the truly exceptional have an innate ability such as yours. Fewer still have your particular affinity for seeing beyond the visible scope of the scene and making the necessary leap wherever the science fails to provide a
