He turns to the still cop car but he can’t see inside the tinted windows. From a few feet away he stares at it for a while, his face scrunched up in the brightness, the car a dense machine radiating heat—he’s expecting it to jump into motion as well, or at least for a window to roll down. Finally, he walks up and knocks with one knuckle on the black driver’s-side window. When there’s no response he leans over and peers in, cupping his hands around his face, to only a dim and empty interior and the outline of a secured shotgun. The lights continue to blink in silence.

The CNS appears calm enough on the inside, although the security guard isn’t there to swipe Kierk’s card as usual. When he gets to the lab, he immediately heads over to Carmen’s sitting form. Coming up behind her, Kierk realizes that Carmen’s monitor is filled with information about how to create a psychological profile of a serial killer. FBI profiles, articles, and Wikipedia pages proliferate. In the mirror of the screen he sees her notice his reflection. Her face morphs to a smile, her eyes dancing to his.

He points. “Why?”

“Did you know that male serial killers generally kill for sex, but female serial killers kill for money?”

“I did not.”

“So a tenure-track position is basically a lot of money, and health insurance, and job security, and social standing—”

“Except Jessica is not a serial killer, and also accounted for because Mike took her home,” Kierk says sharply.

“I know!” Carmen says defensively. “It’s not like I was accusing her. Besides, that’s not why I’ve been reading about this, exactly. Listen, we need to go somewhere private.”

“What was that ambulance doing outside? Who got—”

Carmen nods excitedly. “I’ll tell you but I need somewhere private.”

He eyes her. “Actually, Carmen, I’m sorry I asked. I don’t have time for this right now.”

“What’s the matter with you? What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’m just busy.”

“This is important.”

“Fine. Alright? Fine.”

Carmen, confused, leads him out of the lab and into the side room down the corridor. It’s the same room where Atif, Carmen, and he had first talked about their joint project weeks ago.

“What’s going on with you?”

“What is it that you wanted to tell me?” he says brusquely.

Hurt, Carmen lowers her voice. “Okay, whatever, I don’t know what’s wrong with you but this morning outside the CNS this homeless guy was yelling—”

“What was he saying?”

“Listen! He was shouting at everyone entering the CNS. Screaming about how we had taken his friends, that we were kidnapping people. So I asked him. And it took a little while to get it coherent, but the gist of it was that, last night, a friend of his was taken into this building, in here.”