Sawyer also stood by the desk, staring at his meager pile of printed photos. Dr. Beck, next to him, had a smaller stack than his.

The overcast skies outside competed with the fluorescent lights inside the precinct. The afternoon stretched, threatening evening soon enough. Sawyer could feel a crick in his back and his eyes ached from staring at the screen so long. Exhaustion pulsed through him, but he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, white pill—caffeine—and popped it into his mouth, swallowing without water. He glanced over to Dr. Beck, who looked like a ghost. Her face pale, her eyes drooping. Sleep was in short supply all around, it seemed.

“Well,” Faber said, stacking the printed pictures and handing them to Sawyer. “There we have it. Anything else I can do for you, your highness?”

The three other officers were moving, heading back to their desks. Before they’d gotten far, though, Sawyer cleared his throat. “Not so fast,” he muttered. “Need feet on the pavement.”

One of the officers shot an irritated look at the lanky agent. “FBI has its own people, doesn’t it?” the man snapped.

But Faber clucked her tongue and held up a hand. “Hang on, Vick,” she murmured. “We’re supposed to help our dear friend from the Bureau in any way we can. Right? Or was the captain unclear?”

The man named Vick muttered darkly and crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe I should punch my boss. Get special treatment that way myself,” he muttered.

Sawyer ignored the jibe, but he could feel Dr. Beck’s eyes flick toward him, searching and curious.

He tapped a finger on the printed aerial photos from the GPS maps they’d combed. He looked at Ilse. “Well,” he said. “Which ones?”

Ilse hesitated, but then nodded to herself as if summoning courage, stepped forward, and delicately took the stack of photos from Sergeant Faber. Slowly, the doc sifted through the photos. She studied one at a time before placing them in two separate piles.

“No weather vane,” she murmured, placing one of the photos to one side. “Barn wouldn’t be visible from the shack,” she continued, softly, placing another one in the same discard pile. “This one though… maybe. Maybe…”

Everyone waited, watching the civilian sort through the pictures. Sawyer frowned as she did, wondering if perhaps he was putting too much time and energy behind the instincts of a therapist of all things. He’d never call her a duck to her face, but eventually, in his estimation, everyone in her field went quack.

Still, she’d managed to peg him on a thing or two. A broken clock was right at least a couple times a day.

So he waited quietly, watching as she sorted the photos. At last, she tapped them. “Those,” she said, pointing to the pile on the right. “Those are our best bets.”

Faber glanced at Sawyer, waiting for his confirmation.

“Mhmm,” he said.

“Right,” Faber said, grabbing the newly indicated pile. Before she could, though, Dr. Beck snatched the top photo. “This one is ours,” she said, quickly.