“I didn’t,” I reply. “As I explained to Dr. Chisholm before I left, it was Damian who led me in the direction of the face-matching website. I think he knew which one the Warlock was using.”

Breyer’s voice has a touch of condescension. “And that didn’t set off any alarm bells?”

“Every single one. That’s why I disclosed that to Ailes and mentioned Damian in my notes to the case supervisor, Agent Knoll. After Damian bought the site, I made it clear that we needed to bring this to your attention.”

“Do I need to remind you that Dr. Ailes is not career FBI?” replies Breyer.

Ailes calmly interrupts. “Blackwood was assigned to me by your order. And like it or not, the director gave me a badge and a gun.” He pauses for a moment, “And all the authority that goes with it.”

Breyer waves off the comment. “Yes. Yes. It’s not the point.”

Ailes is trying to protect me. I respect him for that. Everyone in the room knows he’s the one with the most political power if he chooses to use it. I get the feeling Breyer doesn’t like being reminded that Ailes can call the shots when he wants to. But to his credit, Ailes is reluctant to do that.

I just wish it didn’t come down to him having to stand up for me. I’ve tried to dance this line as carefully as possible.

There’s an expression in the bureau about covering your ass with a blizzard of paperwork. If you’re worried that something might make you look bad, you don’t hide it. You just file a bunch of reports about anything and everything. When I was a cop there were guys on the force who’d complain about everything they were asked to do, so just in case something blew up on them, they could pull out an e-mail where they said it was a bad idea to begin with.

I never took that approach with Damian. I reported the facts as they happened. I just left out my suspicions and my off-the-book attempts to find out who he really is. Breyer knows I did everything right technically. In my write-up about Faceplaced.com, I mentioned Damian as a source. I didn’t red flag him. But he’s right there in the notes.

“Where does he get his money? What do you know about him?” asks Ailes.

It’s just as embarrassing as the intimate details. For as much time as we spent together, I can’t say I really know any more about who he was before there was an “us.” Damian never spoke about parents or family. He’d be on first-name basis with every bartender at a popular nightclub, but I don’t think he had friends. One night we might go out to eat with a handsome older couple with a yacht in Biscayne Bay, people we’d never meet again. Damian had met them earlier that day at a wine store. It was like that all the time. He knew lots of people, but nobody “knew” him.