Author's Note: Well, it's been a while. :) Try nearly three years! I've been working on this one on and off, and I think I'm (finally) satisfied with it. It's a bit more involved than its predecessor. To the newcomers: you can probably get away with reading this story on its own, but Evenhand is still up if you want some bread to go with your soup. I hope you all enjoy, and thank you for your patience.

The file was kept in a manila envelope – one of the very few active files old enough to still be printed on paper. Everything past the year 2010 was carefully contained in confidential computer networks. Still, there was something to be said for the archaic. Despite the file being too delicate to handle intrusively, it was nice not having to enter a password at every turn.

Agent Harrison sat alone in a very crowded room. As far as he was concerned, nothing existed but himself and the file, at least until this so-called psychologist arrived. He’d been told that no one was better at the job. He’d also been told that the file’s main subject was dead. The times, they are a’changin’.

The case began seven years ago. He knew this because he’d owned a television at the time, and the press rather enjoyed their “exclusive” informational privileges. He hadn’t been assigned to the case himself until two years ago, when all activity had simply… stopped. The killings, which could be traced from London to Rome, had ended in Milan. And then nothing.

Until today.

There was a distinct surge of noise in the room, one that earned even his attention. Someone had let the press into the building. Glancing over his reading glasses, he saw a swarm of reporters, and in the midst of them, a very haggard-looking man. He was waving them off with one arm, a stack of paper files tucked under the other. What was left of his hair stuck out in all directions. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked as though he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in years.

Someone grabbed him and tugged him inside, shutting out the angry reporters with one slam of the glass door. The other agents milled around him, introducing themselves as though they were meeting the president. Harrison took his time. Celebrity or no, this psychologist was just a man. And his fame didn’t hold a candle to that of his patients.

“Dr. Burroughs,” he said calmly, approaching at a casual pace. “I’m Agent Harrison. I assume you know who I am?”

Hank Burroughs did not offer his hand. “Yeah, I know all about you.” He tossed a glance over his shoulder, as though wary of being watched. “Listen, I need to make a phone call as soon as possible, so let’s get the bull shit out of the way, okay?”

“Certainly. Come with me; I have a private office just around the corner.”

Ignoring the curious stares of his task force, he led the psychologist into his office and closed the door behind them. The noise faded into a blissfully quiet din. He dropped into his chair with a sigh. “Ah, that takes some of the weight off. May I offer you some coffee?” He did not add the obvious, You look as though you could use some.

Burroughs looked as though he might refuse out of principle, but he eventually shrugged and consented. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll have a cup or ten.” He laughed a bit, though without much humor. “I guess I look like I could use some, right?”

The FBI agent only smiled.

Burroughs poured himself a cup of the proffered coffee, and then laid out his files on the desk. One was identical to the file Harrison had been perusing earlier; another held a slightly less conspicuous (though no less interesting) subject.

“I brought exactly what you told me to bring. I’m assuming it all has something to do with—”

“Yes, yes it does. Your specialty was criminal profiling?”

“Yeah. It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Burroughs muttered. He massaged the bridge of his nose. “Not anymore, though. Look, I’m happy to help you out, but I need to know what’s going on here before I can do a damned thing.” He picked up the first file and held it out. “I can recite everything on this file from memory. Hell, I wrote most of it myself; the rest was written by feds like you. I’m willing to bet it’s nothing you haven’t looked at.”

Harrison leaned back in his chair, contemplated the man across from him. He folded his hands carefully atop the desk. “Dr. Burroughs, please tell me about your niece.”

“You have the file,” Burroughs said tersely, as though he’d heard the request hundreds of times before. He probably had. “You figure it out.”

“I need to know any psychological information you have about her. The file only goes so far, and she’s very important to this case.”

“We’ve already taken care of her involvement. She’s out of the way.”

“Dr. Burroughs, in this particular case, we need to look at all possible suspects.” He gave a cool smile. “Our friend has a lot of potential enemies, and last I heard, he and your niece did not get along.”

Burroughs looked ill. “He’s alive, isn’t he.”

“Alive, well, and in a holding cell not far from here. We’re going to need an updated profile on him. But we can save that for later. You need to know some things.”

“Is it secure?”

“We have only the best. But, you see, I don’t think we need the security. Not for the moment, anyway.”

“What the hell are you talking about? The man has slaughtered—”

“We know exactly what he’s done. Two days ago, we found him on top of some floating debris near the harbor. He was unconscious, dehydrated, and emaciated. After reviving him and giving him a thorough search, we realized that something awful had happened.”

“He’s not dead? That’s sure as hell pretty awful to me.”

“He has retrograde amnesia.”

“…What?”

“Surely you know that—”

“I know what it is, you idiot. You mean to tell me that he can’t remember anything?”

“Not even his own name.”

“So he can’t go to trial, then.” There was a very long pause. Burroughs’s hands clenched and slammed down on top of the desk, his eyes flashing wildly. “This is bull shit!”

“I wish it were, Dr. Jennings. Contrary to whatever you think of me, I want to see him put away just as much as you do.” He waited for a moment, letting his tone soften – something he rarely did, especially for people under his payroll. “And I’m quite sorry for what happened to your niece.”

“Trust me. So is she.”