She sipped a little from her cup, stared at the foam. Then: “I got surrounded by this one bunch of people and my mother by another one. She was screaming for me and I was screaming for her but we were going in different directions. There was no way to stop.” Her voice went low. “I’ve never seen anything like that. It was like I was totally… I don’t know, not even me. I was part of this thing. Nobody was listening to anybody else. We were just out of control.”

“And your mother?”

“She was going toward the fire doors. I could see her fight, trying to get back to me. I was going the opposite way—toward the kitchen, the group I was in. There wasn’t an exit sign there but somebody said there was a door we could get out of.”

“And you escaped that way?”

“Eventually. But not at first. That’s why it was so bad.” She teared, then wiped her eyes.

“What, Trish?”

“Somebody on the P.A. system said ‘The fire’s in the kitchen.’ Or something like that.”

Dance remembered Cohen had made the announcement.

“But somebody nearby saw that the kitchen was okay. No fire at all. We went in that direction. We tried to tell everybody else but nobody could hear us. You couldn’t hear anything.”

Dance jotted down the girl’s recollections.

“What’s most important for us to find out is anything about him, this man. We have some description but it’s not very much. We don’t think he was in the club. He was outside. When did you and your mother get there?”

“I don’t know, maybe seven fifteen.”

“I want you to think back. Now this guy—”

“The perp.”

Dance gave her a grin. “We say ‘unsub.’ Unknown subject.”

“I say asshole.”

“Now, this asshole drove a truck from the warehouse to the club around eight. He had to’ve been there before, I’m guessing. Did you see anybody hanging around, maybe near the warehouse? Checking out the club? Near the oil drum where he set the fire?”

Trish seemed to find more comfort cupping the beverage in her fingers, the nails tipped in chipped black polish, than drinking it.

A sigh. “No. I can’t remember anyone. You know, you go to a place, there’s going to be a show, and you’re just talking and thinking about what you’re going to see and have for dinner, and you don’t pay much attention.”

Much of Kathryn Dance’s job had nothing to do with spotting deception on the part of unsubs; it was about helping witnesses unearth useful recollections.

Teenagers were among the worst when it came to remembering details. Their minds danced around so much, they were so distracted, that they observed little and recalled less—unless the topic interested them. Still, the images were often there. One task of an interviewer was to guide witnesses back to the time and place when they might have noted a tiny kernel that was nonetheless vital in nailing a suspect. As she considered how she might do this, she noted the girl’s keyless fob sitting on the table beside her purse.