Nathan thought the fort had a college campus feel to it, lots of green open spaces, mature trees, and historic buildings. At the dining facility’s curb, Henning asked—told, really—the driver to wait for them. Army service members filtered in and out of the DFAC. Most of them wore Army combat uniforms. A man in civilian clothes stepped out and approached them, Fitzgerald, no doubt. The man looked nothing like the stereotype of a shrink. No Freudian glasses, bald pate, or goatee. No white coat. He looked more like an aging California surfer than a prison psychiatrist. Dressed in tan slacks and an aloha shirt, he was in his mid-fifties, with sandy-colored hair, broad shoulders, and pleasant smile.

Nathan offered his hand. “Dr. Fitzgerald, I presume?”

“The one and only.”

“Nathan McBride. Thank you for meeting with us. This is Special Agent Bruce Henning from the Sacramento field office.”

“I’m very sorry for the loss of your colleagues.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Henning said. “I appreciate it.”

“I’d prefer if we talk out here,” Fitzgerald said. “The less we’re seen together, the better. I know a nice spot under some trees. I eat lunch there all the time.”

The cabdriver looked over with a questioning expression. Nathan asked him to keep the meter running and wait. The three men began walking down the sidewalk. After several hundred yards, they veered over to a group of oaks. There wasn’t any place to sit except on the grass, so that’s what they did. The meeting instantly became cordial as though they were there for a picnic, not a discussion of national security.

“This okay?” Fitzgerald asked.

“Perfect,” Nathan answered. “You know why we’re here.”

“I do.”

“I appreciate you meeting with us on such short notice.”

“You realize I’m hanging my tail out on a limb talking to you.”

“You have my word as a Marine Corps officer, it doesn’t go any further than us. We need to find Ernie Bridgestone and his brother. Find them fast.”

“I’m not sure what I can do to help.”

“There are a couple of things. First, I’m looking for any insight into his head, how he thinks.”

“I’ve counseled hundreds of troubled souls, but he possesses a pathology we don’t see very often.”

Nathan waited while the doctor gathered his thoughts.

“He’s what I’d consider a borderline devoid.”

“Devoid?” Henning asked.