The simple truth was that this meeting held far more importance for me than it did for the case investigators from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit who had called me in. I’m certain they were well aware of that fact, but I doubted they knew exactly why. Only a small handful of individuals were privy to that answer, and even some of them didn’t actually understand the explanation; they merely accepted it because they’d known me for so long.

“It’s not like I have anything to give her anyway,” I commented purely out of nervousness. “They had me put everything I own in a locker when they searched me out front.”

“Then that should make this relatively easy. Raise your arms and hold them out to the side, sir,” the officer instructed.

“I just told you they searched me out front,” I said, somewhat confused.

“Yes, and I’m going to search you again, Mister Grant. It’s procedure when dealing with this type of inmate visit.”

“Gant.”

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Gant. G-A-N-T. No R.”

“Sorry. Raise your arms and hold them out to your sides, Mister Gant,” he replied, stressing the pronunciation of my name this time.

Without further objection, I did as I was told, and he began to pat me down. This second search was no less thorough than the one to which I’d been subjected upon my arrival. In fact, it may have been even more comprehensive, which took some doing since I was literally walking in with nothing more than the clothes on my back and the shoes on my feet. Still, given the intense level of scrutiny, I couldn’t have felt more naked even if it had been a full-out strip search.