“Which turned out to have a name scrawled in black Sharpie on the inside label. Steven Wrobleski. We ran the name through the system, got an address, then Phil and I went for a ride.

“Wrobleski lived out in the burbs, Lexington to be exact. For those of you who don’t know Boston, Lexington is a nice town. Kind of place with grand old colonials, white picket fences, a historical town green. Basically, the address fit the suit, which was our first hint we were on the right track.

“Next up was the fact that when we pulled up at four thirty in the morning, the lights were on. We didn’t even have to knock before the door opened and a woman appeared. Fifty years of age, expensive hair, even more expensive loungewear. The kind of well-kept woman who spends her days doing a lot of yoga and not much else. She took one look at us and said, ‘Are you here about my husband? Is Steven okay? Because I’ve been calling his cell phone for hours now and he won’t answer. He always answers. Oh my God, what happened?’

“This is the hard part of the job. Dealing with distraught loved ones. You think it will get easier. It doesn’t. And while it’s understandable that this woman has questions, that they all have questions, the bottom line is, you’re not there to answer their queries. You’re there to answer your own.

“We requested to come inside. I escorted the woman into her own kitchen, had her take a seat at the table. Phil, who’s a pro at this, went to work making coffee. You don’t ask, you just do. Take charge. Which, most of the time, starts to calm people down.

“The woman’s name was Eve, and yes, she was Steven wife. She produced a picture, which resembled our DG. Best she knew, her husband, a partner at a Boston consulting firm, had been staying late to work. But when he still hadn’t returned home by midnight, she’d grown concerned. She’d called his cell phone numerous times without receiving an answer. According to her, that was extremely unusual. Steven was responsible and, even when working late, checked in. She’d got an increasingly bad feeling about things. For the past few hours, she’d simply been waiting for either the phone to finally ring or the cops to show up at her door. Then, she looked right at me. ‘It was his leg, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘He finally went and did something awful to that damn leg.’

“Who in this room has heard about BIID?” D.D. looked around.

Older gentleman to the left. “Body integrity identity disorder. Basically, it’s people who want to amputate their own limbs.”

The room stirred.

“No way!”

“Crazy.”

“That’s gotta be the lie.”

“No lie,” D.D. assured them.

“It’s real,” the man seconded. “I used it in a book.”

“Of course you did. The syndrome is rare, but it’s genuine. For whatever reason, a person feels part of them isn’t real. Maybe a hand, or a foot, or a leg, or even both legs. Some experts consider it a psychological disorder, maybe brought on by trauma. Others are moving more toward a neurological disorder. Kind of the reverse of phantom limb pain. Except, instead of feeling sensation in a limb that’s no longer there, sufferers of BIID can’t relate to a limb that is present.