Still, interviewing is a complex art and can reveal more than just deception. With most witnesses or suspects, the best information is gathered by observations of, first, body language, then, second, verbal quality—pitch of voice and how fast one talks, for instance.

The third way in which humans communicate can sometimes be helpful: verbal content—what we say, the words themselves. (Ironically, this is generally the least useful because it is the most easily manipulated and prone to misunderstanding.)

Yet with a troubled individual like Edwin, where kinesics weren’t readily available, looking at his verbal content might be the only tool Dance had.

But what had he offered that could be helpful?

He shook his head as if answering her silent question, and the smile deepened. It was unprofessional but she wished he’d lose the grin. The expression was more unnerving to her than the worst glare from a murderer.

“You think I’m smart, Edwin. But do you think I’m straightforward?”

He considered this. “As much as you can be.”

“You know, with everything that’s been happening, don’t you think it might make sense for you to get back to Seattle, forget about the concert. You could see Kayleigh some other time.”

She said this to prime the pump, see if he’d offer facts about his life and plans—facts that she might use for content-based analysis.

She certainly didn’t expect the laugh of disbelief and what he then said: “I can hardly do that, now, can I?”

“No?”

“You know that song of hers, ‘Your Shadow’?”

There wasn’t a single clue in his face that this song was a calling card for murder. She said casually, “Sure. Her big hit. You thought it was the best song she ever wrote.”

Edwin’s grin for once took on a patina of the genuine. “She told you that, did she?” He glowed; his lover had remembered something about him. “Well, it’s about her, you know.”

“About her, Kayleigh?”

“That’s right. The first verse is about how people take advantage of her as a musician. And then there’s a verse about that car crash—when her mother died. Kayleigh was fifteen. You know Bishop was driving, drunk.”

No, Dance had not been aware of that.

“He spent eight months in jail. Never drove a car after that. Then that other verse, about the riverside?” At last the smile faded. “I think, I don’t know, but I think something pretty bad happened to her when she was about sixteen. She disappeared for a while. I think she had a breakdown, tried to kill herself. Drowning, you know. That’s the lyrics in the song.”

Was that true? Dance had never heard of this either.

Now the uncomfortable smile faded. “How sad is that? Writing a song to comfort yourself, because nobody else is there for you? Awful….” Eyes focused intently on his interviewer. “Kayleigh sent me a dozen emails and a few real letters, and you know what I read between the lines in every single one? She needs me, Agent Dance. She needs me bad. If I left, who else would look out for her?”