Jack Crawford had been reluctant to consult anyone outside of the FBI, but with Will teetering on the brink of insanity and Alana threatening to resign, he had little choice. The email from London DI Greg Lestrade was hardly promising; though his recommended man was undoubtedly the best England had to offer, he had psychoses enough to rival the agent's top analyst.
Jack rubbed his eyes and began to pack up his briefcase. He was unconvinced that the detective's motives for coming all the way to America were entirely virtuous; Lestrade had mentioned in the email an interest in Will's condition. Though he supposed a second opinion couldn't hurt.
The detective had asked only one thing of him: that no one be informed of his arrival. It was an odd request, now that Jack came to think of it. The man's name certainly was not well known in parts other than London. But he was very explicit in this instruction, and Jack felt it was only polite to oblige.
He stood in the doorway and looked back at his desk once more, at the pinboard plastered with the lives of the dead and their residue. He clicked off the light and left.