She wasn’t sure how to answer. She was reluctant to volunteer anything; in fact, she had been told by the lawyer not to discuss the case with anyone. But this question…so specific…

“I saw a kind of ripple, like fumes, coming off him.”

“Any odor? Oily?”

Again, how did he know? “Yes, like burnt solder.” She regretted the words as soon as she uttered them. “It was a traumatic moment, I’m not sure of anything…”

Solomon wasn’t judging. He was thinking. “Did you find a makeshift altar anywhere in the house?”

What kind of question was that? “There was no…”

“Altar. A shrine. Maybe in the garage or an outbuilding. An iron pot or an urn—”

She cut him off. “I didn’t participate in the investigation because I was part of what they were investigating,” she said. “Because of the bad shoot. And it wasn’t his house anymore, or at least he wasn’t living there.”

“A cauldron—black—cast iron sometimes,” he continued. “Might look like a big vase or a trash can if you don’t know what you’re looking for. And in it you might find hair, human hair, and bones…”

“Bones?” said Odessa.

“And blood, yes…Hard to miss that,” said the old man.

“Agent Solomon—” This was too weird. “I shouldn’t even be talking about this. I’m here about you.”

“Me? Don’t worry about me. I can’t taste and I can’t smell, and I got a fungus growing in my brain, so who knows what’s next. I’ll take that drink now.”

He was motioning to a mauve-colored pitcher on a wheeled tray. Odessa splashed some lukewarm water into a plastic cup for him. He sipped at it with a hand that trembled with age.

“You’re gonna need assistance with this investigation,” he told her.

“I have a Bureau-appointed lawyer,” she assured him.

“Not with your defense. With this investigation.”

She didn’t understand at first. “Into what happened? I can’t go near that.”

“You have to. If you want to know what really happened. I know someone who can help you.”

“Thank you, Agent Solomon,” she said, trying to strike a balance between politeness and purpose, “but I’m going to let the Bureau do their work, and I’m going to do mine. Speaking of which…”

She made a halfhearted gesture toward the door, anxious to leave.

“What you do,” Solomon said, “is write a letter briefly outlining what happened and requesting assistance. You write it on paper. Unadorned prose. State your case. Simply. Truly. Ask for help. You fold it once—exactly once, right in the middle—then seal it in a buff-colored manila envelope. You know the type, six inches by nine inches? They call it booklet size. Address it to—you write this down now—Hugo Blackwood, Esquire. Thirteen and a Half Stone Street. Wall Street area. Know it?”