Jezzie Flanagan stayed behind. “I've heard about you, Detective Cross, now that I think of it. You're the psychologist. There was an article in the Washington Post.” She smiled nicely, a demi-smile.

I didn't smile back. “You know newspaper articles,”

I told her. “Usually a pack of half-truths. In that case, definitely some tall tales.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” she said. “Nice to meet you, anyway.” Then she walked into the office behind Secretary Goldberg, the mayor, and the star FBI agent. Nobody invited me-the psychologist-detective of magazine fame. Nobody invited Sampson.

Monroe did poke his head out. "Stick around, you two. Don't make any waves. Don't get pissy, either. We need you here. I need to talk with you, Alex. Stay put. Don't get pissy Sampson and I tried to be good cops. We stood around outside the headmaster's office for another ten minutes. Finally, we left our posts. We were feeling pissy. I kept seeing the face of little Mustaf Sanders. Who was going to go and find his killer? No one. Mustaf had already been forgotten - I knew that would never happen with the two private-school children.

A little later that morning, Sampson and I were lying across the natural pine floor of the Day School “playroom” with a few of the children. We were there with Luisa, Jonathan, Stuart, MaryBen-y, and her “big” sister Brigid. No one had been able to pick these kids up yet, and they were frightened. Some of the children at the school had wet their pants, and there was one case of severe vomiting. There was the possibility of crisis trauma, a condition I had some experience treating.

Also down on the polished wood floor with us was the teacher, Vivian Kim. We'd wanted to talk to her about Soneji's visit to her class, and Soneji, in general. “We're new kids in your school,” Sampson joked with the children. He had actually taken his sunglasses off, though I wasn't sure if he had to. Kids usually take to Sampson. He fits into their “friendly monster” grouping.