Caldwell had suffered a break from reality. He was diagnosed with Sarkov’s syndrome, a disorder Ben knew was formerly treatable by pharmaceuticals but was now curable by gene therapy. He found it strange that Caldwell had not had thorough genetic testing done on himself. A routine test would have revealed the marker predisposing him to Sarkov’s. The disease’s onset could have easily been prevented.

Caldwell was placed on a pharmaceutical regimen to control his paranoid ranting. He was scheduled for gene therapy, to begin two weeks after his admittance. The day before the gene therapy commenced, he suffered a brain aneurysm and was found dead in his room.

Ben pushed back from the table, stood, and walked to the refreshment bar. He poured himself a cup of coffee and ordered a sausage-and-cheese biscuit. He turned back toward the table and stared at the image of Ray Caldwell still projected onto the visiscreen. He had no reason to doubt the file’s accuracy. There was something about the case, however, that raised a red flag.

A movement to his left diverted Ben’s attention. The door swung open. In walked one of the orderlies he had passed in the hallway. She was young, no more than twenty, and anxiously looking over her shoulder. She closed the door behind her and started toward the refreshment bar. She noticed Ben there and froze.

“Hi. I…uh…” She brushed her blond hair back over an ear covered with piercings. “May I help you?”

Ben smiled. “No, I’m fine, thank you. Just getting a bite to eat.” He motioned toward the bar. “Is this also an employee break room?”

Her shoulders slumped. “Well…not really. I just—” She glanced at the visiscreen. “You must be the FBI agent.”

Ben looked down at himself. “Is it that obvious?”

The girl smiled. “No, it’s not that. I just heard. We don’t get FBI agents in here every day.”

She walked to the bar and took a danish. She turned toward the visiscreen. Ben sidestepped to shield it from her view.

“The records you’re looking at about that guy are wrong.”

“What makes you say that?”

She took a bite of her pastry and shrugged.

Ben glanced back at the screen. “How do you even know what they say?”

“I just know they’re wrong.”

Ben stared at her, unsure how to respond.

She grabbed another danish and stuffed it in a front pocket. “I’ll show you.”

He followed her into the hallway. They walked down the remainder of the corridor and took a left down another one. The young woman kept looking over her shoulder.

“Is this going to get you into trouble?” Ben asked.

“Yeah. This’ll be my last day here, probably. That’s okay. Crap job. I just like the pastries.”

They came to a security door. She opened it with a retinal scan, and they walked down another hallway.