Chapter Three: Days were rough

"Well?"

In the midst of swallowing a yawn, Andy Flynn focused on the woman leaning against the wall outside Interview Two, pushing against the plaster as if her lower back ached. It probably did; his was sure as hell twinging after over two hours in the interview room's uncomfortable chairs. Naturally you didn't want anyone you were questioning to get too comfortable, and evidently the LAPD brass didn't want any of their officers getting comfortable either. Flynn briefly thought they should institute a special dispensation for anyone over fifty, and then envisioned Provenza navigating the corridors in a rolling Barcalounger.

"Are you asking for my opinion on this dirtbag?"

The captain tipped her chin up as she arched her neck, and her lips twitched toward the slight smile that the lieutenant never knew whether to interpret as amusement or annoyance until it was too late. "Yep," she responded concisely, surprising Flynn.

"Campbell's a complete low-life, but he's not smart enough to have attacked these women."

Raydor stepped away from the wall, her mouth tightening momentarily with impatience. "No, of course he didn't do it. But is he useful?"

Flynn blinked. "I don't know," he admitted.

The captain emitted a small sigh. "No, neither do I. Send him back to a cell, Andy, and tell Buzz and Amy they can go home." Raydor had made the decision not to call the rest of the squad back in; and after watching forty-five minutes of the interview, Taylor had departed, leaving behind strict instructions that he be called immediately if anything of interest transpired. "I want everyone back at eight a.m. sharp."

"That won't be a problem. - Hey, captain?" From halfway down the corridor, she turned back and looked at him expectantly. "Stroh could be playing puppet-master again. Campbell could be the new George Harris. A docile, less intelligent partner - fits his M.O."

Raydor nodded, her face expressionless. "I know," she replied simply. "But Campbell was obsessed with Kerry - what about the other victims?" The two of them looked at one another for a heavy moment as the question hung in the air until she spoke again. "Good night, lieutenant. I'll see you in the morning."

It was after midnight when Sharon got home, and she was exhausted, her body weighed down with fatigue; and yet she lay in bed, fidgeting restlessly and listening to the faint ticking of the clock, until she resolutely forced herself to close her eyes and keep them closed. She slept unevenly, luridly colored, jarring dreams assaulting her in fits and starts, and woke with the kind of anxious knot in her belly that she hadn't experienced since her days of searching for Peter Goldman's 'little birdie.' The practiced hand with which she applied her makeup concealed the outward signs of her trepidation, but did little to calm her nerves.

You're being ridiculous, she told herself as she dropped Rusty off and watched him tromp toward the school, his backpack bouncing negligently against one shoulder; and then again as she parked her car and waited for the elevator, You're being ridiculous. All signs pointed to this being a difficult case; but she was no stranger to difficult cases. Surely her instinctive response was disproportionate to the stimulus.

She looked into the murder room only long enough to ascertain that everyone but Sykes was present. "Conference room," she announced, preferring for the time being to proceed away from the ears of the support staff, and her detectives followed with alacrity. No one had been happy about being sent home early the day door had barely closed behind them when it hastily opened again and Sykes appeared, carrying two trays of coffees. Wordlessly she handed one to the captain before the guys pounced on what they had ordered. Provenza opened his mouth to complain that he'd specified no foam, but shut it again almost immediately. Today was not the day.

"Detective Sanchez, did you turn anything up last night?"

He met the captain's gaze as he shook his head. "No ma'am, nothing. But I'll go back tonight now that the weather's better."

"It can't hurt," Sharon agreed, nodding.

"I talked to Jackie Small, the girl that reported Kerry missing," Provenza piped up, leaning back in his chair. "She said she and Kerry were working together on a lab project for their theses -"

"Dissertations," Tao corrected politely, and Provenza shot him a dark look before continuing.

"Dissertations, whatever. They worked on it every night, without fail, even when Kerry had the flu. Jackie said when Kerry didn't turn up, she knew something was wrong, so she called Kerry's roommate, couldn't reach him, and then called the police."

Raydor nodded again. "Let's corroborate that. Lieutenant Tao, where are we with the roommate, Peter, ah -"

"Gravier," Tao supplied. "He's coming in this afternoon."

Raydor unthinkingly took a large swallow of what turned out to be scalding hot black coffee, and narrowly refrained from spitting it back out. After swallowing with difficulty and clearing her throat, she resumed, "Until then, our only lead is Kerry Shapiro's stalker, Jeff Campbell. Lieutenant Flynn?"

Flynn summed up what they had extracted from Campbell, which was, in a word, nothing.

"So he's not talking?" Tao asked, and Flynn and Raydor exchanged a glance.

"He's talking," Raydor put in. "Oh, he's talking. He's just not saying anything."

"Campbell has a serious case of verbal diarrhea," Flynn elaborated. "But it took us an hour and a half even to get him to admit he knew who Kerry Shapiro was, never mind the fact that he spent all of his time following her around, even when we confronted him with the proof. He was scared shitless."

Raydor nodded. "Which is why I had him held overnight. He ought to be petrified - although not literally, I hope. I'm going to talk to him again in a few minutes. Detective Sykes, you'll be with me."

Amy looked up from the rim of her mocha, her eyes briefly lighting up with eager surprise before she tried to play it cool. "Me? Of course, captain. I'm ready."

"I want all the rest of you observing from the media room." Her expression more than usually serious, the captain met their eyes in turn. "We can't afford to miss the slightest detail. I know I don't need to remind you that other than Campbell we have nothing to go on, and Chief Pope is already demanding swift closure for this case." She darted a glance at the wall clock. "Someone from the D.A.'s office will be here at 9:00. I asked for D.D.A. Hobbs, but that's no guarantee that it won't be someone else, or that Hobbs will cooperate with us. There is significant pressure to charge Campbell."

"That's crazy!" Provenza blustered, half rising from his chair, and Raydor held up a hand.

"The point is that time is of the essence. - All right. Detective Sykes?"

After the two women had swept out of the room, the men followed in their wake before turning as a body and veering toward the media room. "I couldn't get Campbell to talk at all," Flynn elaborated as they began the process of situating chairs so that all five of them could see the video feed. "My bad cop was a complete failure. Then the captain came over all maternal. It was terrifying, but he opened right up, and then we couldn't get him shut again."

Sanchez snickered, and then up-ended Flynn's coffee with a wayward swipe of his elbow. "No food or drink!" Buzz exclaimed stridently, pointing adamantly at the sign; so they were all distracted when Raydor and Sykes entered the interview room together, their collective attention drawn back to the monitor only by the sound of chairs scraping across the floor.

"Good morning, Jeff," Raydor began in her gentlest, most solicitous tone, accompanied by a bland smile. "How are you today?"

Campbell, a pale, fleshy mass of a man, turned a wounded, red-eyed glare on the captain. "I'm terrible!" he exclaimed. "You told me if I cooperated I could go home, and then you locked me up in a cell. I couldn't sleep in there. How could you expect me to sleep in there?"

Raydor met his beseeching gaze with a sympathetic tilt of her head. "It will all be over soon, Jeff, if you'll just tell us the truth."

"I didn't kill Kerry!" Campbell's exclamation was wild, uncontrolled. Provenza shot Flynn a look filled with meaning, and Flynn answered with raised eyebrows and a shrug. "I loved Kerry. All I wanted was for her to love me back!"

"But she didn't." This was Sykes, cool as a cucumber. Sanchez sat up a little straighter and grinned.

Campbell fixed Sykes with his pale, tearful blue eyes, his expression filled with distrust, before turning back to Raydor. "She just needed to get to know me," he reasoned in a coaxing, pleading tone, one they all recognized, as he attempted to justify his obsession to the captain. "All I needed was a little more time - just a little longer,until the time was right." The tears overflowed. "Now there's no more time. What am I supposed to do? What'll I do?"

He began to rock in the hard plastic chair, his attention focusing inward, until Raydor's hand covered his cuffed wrists where they rested awkwardly on the table. His gaze snapped back to her face. "You have a son," he said. "You said you have a son."

"I do, Jeff." ("Nice consistent use of his name," Tao commented.) Raydor's free hand joined her right, and Campbell's fingers twitched toward hers. Sanchez would've bet anything they were clammy. "He's just a little younger than you, and I would be very worried about him if he were in your position."

"Exactly!" Campbell sat up a little straighter. "That is exactly my point. My mom, she must be really worried about me. I've gotta get out of here. Please, Sharon."

"Then you need to talk to us."

Campbell sniffled. "I don't know anything."

"Tell us how you killed Kerry." Sykes again, of course.

The detective couldn't have expected the response she provoked. Campbell began wailing, screaming really, insisting that he hadn't harmed the object of his deranged affections. Tao whistled. If a young woman Campbell didn't even know could inspire such a violent response, what might have happened if Kerry Shapiro had confronted him?

"Jeff." Raydor spoke commandingly, now from a standing position. "Enough. If you didn't kill Kerry, and if you really loved her, then you need to prove it. Help us find the person who did. You watched over Kerry; you protected her. No one knew her as well as you did. So tell us everything you saw. Don't leave anything out, and I promise you can go home and see your mother."

Calmer, Campbell looked up and met Raydor's eyes with a glimmer of hope. "And I can go to Kerry's funeral and tell her goodbye? I can show everybody how much I love her?"

"Yes," Raydor lied instantly, completely unfazed, and Provenza chuckled.

"Chief Johnson'd be proud," he muttered.

"She might at that." Hobbs sidled into the media room and looked over Provenza's shoulder. "I need to speak to Captain Raydor."

"Oh, she was expecting you," Provenza drawled, twisting around to look up at her. "We all were. I'm sure it'll keep."

"I really need to speak to her now," Hobbs reiterated firmly.

"She's kind of in the middle of something," Sanchez deadpanned.

The D.A. hesitated, looking from the stone-faced detective to the equally adamant countenances of the other members of the division. Finally she shrugged and leaned back against the wall, folding her arms. "Have it your way," she conceded pleasantly. "But don't say I didn't try to warn you."

Like the others watching the interview, Hobbs remained quiet and still for the next forty minutes, until Raydor stood and exited the interview room, leaving Campbell with Sykes, going over every detail of his story for the third time.

Moving quickly, Flynn and Sanchez intercepted the captain in the hallway, Hobbs at their heels. "I don't think we're going to get anything out of him," Sharon said flatly, struggling to reign her frustration in. "Julio, please take my place. We'll hold him the full time allowable." Sanchez immediately moved off, and she transferred her attention to Flynn. "Did someone from the - oh, D.D.A. Hobbs. Thank you for joining us. Lieutenant Flynn can brief you on the -"

"I've already been briefed by Chief Pope."

Sharon pursed her lips and waited a second before speaking. "Chief Pope. I see."

"No, you don't." Looking over Sharon's shoulder, Hobbs grabbed the captain's forearm and spoke rapidly. "Sharon, I wanted to let you know in advance that the chief investigator -"

"Is here." The voice was unmistakable and Sharon froze, unwilling to turn. "Good mornin', Captain. Lieutenant Flynn."

"Well." Sharon spun, hands jammed deeply into her pockets, and confronted Brenda with the stiff, mocking smile the blonde hadn't seen her wear since a certain memorable day more than four years earlier in a hospital lobby. "Brenda. Or I should say Chief Investigator Johnson, since you're obviously here in your official capacity."

"That's an awful mouthful. I think Brenda'll do just fine."

"Absolutely," boomed a voice behind the blonde, a voice that was not naturally booming, and Pope stepped forward, smiling at everyone with false heartiness. "We're all friends here."

Raydor cut her eyes at Pope. "Is the district attorney's office taking over this investigation?"

"No, no, no." Pope stepped up between the two women, still smiling and conciliatory. "The D.A.'s office is just here to provide us with their assistance. Time is obviously of the essence in a high-profile, sensitive case like this one, and I'm sure we could all use an extra pair of eyes." The chief took a literal step backwards in his eagerness to escape. "So. I'll let you get on with it." He caught Brenda's eye and nodded. "Brenda."

She positively beamed back, her eyes nearly disappearing in the process. "Chief Pope," she all but cooed.

Hands still in her jacket pockets, Raydor rested them on her hips and calmly addressed Hobbs. "I would have appreciated it if someone had informed me," she murmured. Hobbs only looked back at her.

"Let's not waste any time," Brenda proposed sharply. "I want to question Jeff Campbell."

Regaining some of her composure, Sharon tilted her head. "Detectives Sykes and Sanchez are questioning him again now. You're welcome to observe in the media room."

"Captain." Brenda huffed out a small breath, still half-smiling. "Sharon. I need to question him myself. I know this case better than anybody else."

"How is that, Brenda?" Still behind the lenses of her glasses, Raydor's eyes narrowed slightly. "Because Major Crimes caught this case less than twenty-four hours ago."

"No." Curly blonde head shaking emphatically, Brenda repeated the monosyllable. "No. Major Crimes caught this case four years ago." Her accent coming on full force, the D.A.'s chief investigator shifted her attention to Lieutenant Flynn. "Natalie Gilbert. Gwyneth Adler. Do you remember them, lieutenant? Because I do."

Meeting her gaze, Flynn refrained from comment. The blonde's adamant expression and the brunette's tense posture foretold no good for anybody, and the last place he wanted to be was in the middle of whatever was about to go down.

"The man who raped and murdered Natalie Gilbert and Gwyneth Adler is behind bars," Raydor returned with the steady equanimity that was so difficult to shake - but, as the detectives of Major Crimes had learned, when you did shake it, watch out. "You were instrumental in putting him there. This is a different investigation."

"This," Brenda countered in two distinct syllables, voice rising in pitch and volume, "has Phillip Stroh written all over it, which is why I need to be the one in that interview room." She gestured fiercely with the folder she held clutched at her side, unintentionally drawing the captain's attention to it. Raydor squinted. If such a thing weren't highly illegal, the captain would have sworn Brenda had made a personal copy of the LAPD's file on Phillip Stroh. "George Harris, captain - I know you weren't there so you won't remember, but surely you've read about him."

Flynn winced, wishing for a toothpick.

"You know that Stroh has historically worked with a weaker, less intelligent partner, someone he could get to do his heavy liftin' for him. What I don't understand is why you're refusin' to consider that possibility now."

"Stroh is in jail."

"I don't care if he's on the moon!" Brenda exclaimed, instinctively leaning into the other woman's personal space. "That doesn't mean he's not callin' the shots. Have you even checked to see if this Jeff Campbell has any known association with Stroh?"

"He doesn't," Flynn put in quietly, subdued. "Not that we could find."

"That doesn't mean there's not one." Brenda set off at a fast clip down the hall. "I'm questioning him."

Her hand was on the doorknob of Interview Two when another hand appeared at eye-level, slender fingers pressing against the door, and then Raydor seamlessly slipped between Brenda and her access to the suspect. "No," she said calmly, her startlingly green eyes meeting Brenda's from only inches away. "Absolutely not. I am in charge of this investigation, and you are not going in this interview room."

"I'll speak to Chief Pope about -"

"Fine. Tattle to Pope." Brenda felt herself flinch, no doubt exactly as Sharon had intended. "But before you do, stop and think for one moment. Suppose that you're right, and Phillip Stroh is somehow involved in this string of assaults. What happens if you are the person to approach Jeff Campbell and mention Stroh's name?"

The effect of Sharon's words was, presumably, not the one she had hoped they would have. Brenda's eyes flashed. "Then maybe I'll get some actual information from Campbell, instead of just lettin' him sit there and deny everything," she snapped.

The elevator dinged as its doors slid open, and both women instinctively turned toward it. David Gabriel stepped out, taking in the scene, and paused in consternation.

Sharon turned back to Brenda. "You have got to be kidding," she hissed, and then unceremoniously brushed past the younger woman and stalked down the hall.

Brenda flitted after her, vaguely gesturing at Gabriel to go - somewhere, anywhere. She caught the other woman just outside the Murder Room. "Chief Pope," she began, and pretended not to see the captain actually roll her eyes. "Chief Pope," she repeated doggedly, "has approved my involvement with this case - not that I need his approval, as a member of the District Attorney's staff. Like it or not, you're stuck with me for the duration. All I'm askin' is that you let me do my job and help you."

"Help," Raydor repeated mincingly, sounding more like a pedantic school marm than ever. "I see. So, then, in your expert opinion, Chief Investigator, these ingredients do not have 'recipe for disaster' stamped all over them? You, the name Phillip Stroh, the reintroduction of David Gabriel into this division -"

Brenda had to interrupt the older woman's stern little speech. "I believe that everyone here is capable of behaving professionally, captain. Why can't we just work together and share?"

Sharon's eyes widened at Brenda's use of the nasty s-word. The reading glasses she still wore made the green orbs behind the lenses appear enormous. "We are not working together. We are working at cross purposes. Major Crimes is perfectly capable of carrying out a routine investi-"

"This isn't a routine investigation!" Brenda exclaimed, frustrated beyond belief and all but stomping her foot.

"No, because a routine investigation is not run b the D.A.'s office!" Raydor bit out, her tone finally becoming strident to compete with the blonde's. "You do not have the authority to come in here and interfere with my investigation -"

"Oh, it's your investigation, is it?"

" - And I cannot conduct it properly with you looking over my shoulder and second-guessing every decision!" the captain continued, undeterred, her jaw jutting with determination.

"Now, comin' from you, that is rich. I am well within my rights, as an employee of the district attorney's office, to intervene when I have cause to determine that an investigation is not being handled with the necessary rigorous -"

"That you would actually have the gall to come prancing in here," Raydor shouted back, her arm arcing in a wide, sweeping gesture, "like you own the -"

"Ladies!"

The utter absorption of the two women in their heated confrontation was illustrated by the way they both jumped at the intervention of Chief Taylor, who was less than stealthy at the best of times - and this was not the best of times. His sunshine-yellow tie offered not the slightest suggestion of covert activities.

"And under the circumstances," he continued, "I use that term loosely. Let's take this discussion to a more suitable venue. I suggest either my office or the WWE."

Brenda knew chagrin and annoyance were mingling across her countenance, and couldn't help looking rather admiringly at Sharon, whose expression gave absolutely nothing away. How did she do that? Did she practice in the bathroom mirror?

During the awkwardly silent elevator ride, Brenda tried to distract herself by inventorying Sharon's outfit, which consisted of a black blazer and a rather figure-hugging royal blue dress with what could only be described as a flowy skirt. The blonde bit her lip in some consternation. Who was this woman standing in such close proximity to her that Brenda could smell her shampoo? Where was her Captain Raydor, the one who had first annoyed the piss out of her and then done her best to save her ass (while still annoying the piss out of her)? Where were her matchy-matchy little pantsuits and stilettos?

For her part, Raydor was staring so fixedly at the closed elevator doors that Brenda half expected her to bore a hole through them. Just for that moment, her anger at the other woman evaporated, and she couldn't help but be the tiniest bit amused by their resemblance to naughty schoolgirls being carted ignominiously off to the principal's office. Brenda smirked. She'd been a straight-A student, and she would've bet the contents of her candy drawer that Sharon had too. The captain had probably never even seen the inside of a principal's office.

Taylor barely waited for them to be seated before he began. "Let's not mince words."

In her leather chair, Sharon perked up slightly. A novelty, she thought, feeling a spark of optimism. Maybe the chief wasn't going to cut her off at the knees after all. Just maybe.

Meanwhile, Brenda also felt reasonably confident. Taylor couldn't try to obstruct her access to the investigation without directly countermanding an order given by his superior. She sat back and waited, not content, but not quite vibrating with impatience.

"Your personal problems don't matter to me," the assistant chief said bluntly, looking between the two women. "This investigation matters. Chief Investigator, this is an LAPD investigation. That makes it Captain Raydor's investigation. She's in charge. Captain Raydor, you will cooperate fully with all representatives of the D.A.'s office. That means giving Ms. Johnson here full access to all aspects of the investigation. And if either of you should be so foolish as to violate that agreement, let me explain to you, as the former media liaison of the LAPD, exactly what's going to happen." Taylor settled back in his captain's chair, propped his elbows on his desk, and paused for effect. "The media gets wind of bad blood between the two main branches of Los Angeles law enforcement, tears us to shreds, and not only do we most likely lose whoever is out there perpetrating these heinous assaults on young women - especially if there's a connection to Phillip Stroh - but we lose the confidence of the public. Confidence that we've been working to regain for twenty-one years in the wake of the 1992 riots. Now, I trust I've impressed you with the severity of this situation."

He waited for them to nod, which they did in concert, rather shame-facedly, and then concluded, "You've got work to do. Get us a result."

Sharon had uncrossed her legs and half risen when Brenda's voice stopped her.

"Chief Taylor, if I may. For every investigation, there's a right result and a wrong result. And if Captain Raydor keeps runnin' this investigation into the ground, the result we get is certainly goin' to be the wrong one."

Without waiting for Taylor's reply, Raydor turned and faced Brenda directly. "Would you care to elaborate? Proper procedure has been followed to the letter. Everything is documented and logged. All relevant avenues of investigation are being pursued. So, please, in what respect has Major Crimes been negligent?"

"In respect of ignorin' the blatant connection to Phillip Stroh," Brenda returned, disgusted. "The M.O. is the same. The victim profile is the same. Right this very minute you've got a man sittin' down in Interview Two who would be a perfect submissive partner for Stroh. And you haven't even mentioned his name! I bet you haven't even shown his picture to the survivin' victims."

"No," the captain agreed evenly, "we haven't."

"There!" Brenda exclaimed, turning to Taylor as her impatience bubbled over, making it impossible for her to sit still. She rocked forward, hugging her elbows. "Do you hear?!"

Sharon sat a little straighter, pressing her lips together, and refused to spare the younger woman a look.

"Investigator," Taylor drawled in that uniquely maddening way of his, "perhaps the District Attorney's office could offer the LAPD a workshop in listening skills. Because I've been listening to everything Captain Raydor has said, and I didn't hear the part where she explained that Major Crimes has definitively ruled out any connection to Stroh." He paused, shuffling a few papers for effect, and looked pointedly at Sharon.

"I'm quite certain I didn't say that, chief, because my division has not reached that conclusion. It's far too early in the investigation." Her body still angled to face her superior, Sharon swivelled only her head to regard the other woman. "We are simply pursuing other avenues of investigation."

A vein in Brenda's forehead throbbed. "Has it not occurred to you that while you're off pursuin' these other avenues, Stroh has got whoever else is out there doin' his dirty work for him eradicatin' every trace of his involvement with these crimes? You can call them 'avenues,' but they're blind alleys, and you know it!" Her ponytail whipped as she tried to split her ire between the assistant chief and the captain, striving to give each an equal dose.

Finally, Sharon reached up and removed her glasses, snatching them from the bridge of her nose with alacrity. "May I speak frankly?" she asked Taylor with the utmost politeness. Green-lighted by his expansive gesture, she turned to Brenda.

"As soon as you walked back into this building this morning, everyone knew it. Somehow, some way, Phillip Stroh will know it too. You know he still has friends in the legal community - powerful, influential friends. Again - assume you are correct. Assume there is a connection to Stroh. He has mentored Harris, or someone else, or is somehow exerting influence over him, or selecting victims for him. Stroh is currently awaiting trial, Brenda, for attempting to murder you and Rusty."

"He should be on trial for all the women he did murder," Brenda interrupted hotly.

"He should be," the captain smoothly continued, "but he isn't. He has already threatened to file suit against the LAPD for pursuing a vendetta against him. If he chooses to bring that lawsuit, you will certainly be cited front and center. Unless we exercise extreme caution, so will I, along with every other member of Major Crimes. Does this scenario sound familiar?" She paused, finally. "The only reason someone from Professional Standards isn't sitting here right now is because I am sitting here. In your capacity with the District Attorney's office, you aren't officially accountable to the LAPD's code of conduct, but no doubt you are sensible to the delicacy of your position."

Sharon spoke in the steady, relentless monotone Brenda had so come to dread during the Peter Goldman mess; and now as then she heard the same remorseless ring of truth in the older woman's words.

"We cannot be seen to go charging after Phillip Stroh. You cannot be anywhere near the scent of Phillip Stroh. We are not ignoring a possible connection. Your former detectives and I, Brenda, have not gone blind or developed catastrophic amnesia; but no one is splashing Stroh's name across the murder board. Not on my watch."

Raydor fell silent and awaited a response, her gaze trained steadily on Brenda's dark, glittering eyes. No verbal response came, but the blonde continued to return her scrutiny, and after a moment the captain nodded, satisfied.

"Good. On that note -" Taylor made a shooing motion toward the door.

In the corridor, Raydor risked a sidelong glance at Brenda and found the younger woman smirking up at her from beneath her bangs. "I don't envy you that," Brenda drawled, jerking her head back toward the assistant chief's closed door, and Raydor smirked back. "What now, capt'n?"

"What do you think?" Raydor returned in a tone that suggested it wasn't really a question.

Brenda emphatically pressed the elevator call button. "Now," she announced, "I'm goin' to question Jeff Campbell."

Stepping into the car behind her, Sharon felt a prickly chill despite the warmer air of the enclosed space. She could only assume that her premonitions of doom were coming to fruition.