It startled her that she would notice the handedness of the victim - but recalling the photo, and how clean it was, she thought more about the lack of blood on Mr. Sherwood. It was pooled neatly on the carpet under his left hand, but the right hand had only rivulets of blood and no smearing from using the knife. And since Goren was a southpaw, he had to switch the swing of the bat to his right hand during a demonstration, which she remembered seeing on TV, along with his wearing the ridiculously small shirt to prove the point about the blood spatter being odd and therefore staged, albeit quiet well.

As she held the pen over the napkin again, Leinney wasn't sure if she should test out her theories on which identities of hers Lecter may have chosen. As cops, Goren and Eames had better access to tracking down names and identities. But how to get them to do it without lying to them? Names and birth dates might work, along with birth cities, but what if by doing so, she gave Lecter her real information? Could he bring her family into it? Would he be able to insert it into the story? Was he that powerful? Would he already know the real information? It would be a gamble.

She just wasn't sure about it, yet, shaking her head mentally. Then she remembered part of the ringleader's name from the episode. She just couldn't remember the whole name. Still, if it would help them catch the conspirators, it would be worth a try.


"Something more for us?" Goren prompted. "How 'bout your name, hm? We don't need to put it on any reports. We get it—you're afraid of whoever killed those people—heck, I'm afraid of someone who could do that, and I'm a cop." He raised his eyebrows and put his face near the table to catch her eyes; she obligingly raised her gaze allowing him to pick his head up.

She shook her head, but seemed to wince a little at his disappointment in her lack of full candor. "If, as I suspect, this corruption goes deeper than you can imagine, what's to say someone doesn't overhear you talking about me with each other? What if someone you trust in the department is overheard? Or is inadvertently part of it, even? Better paranoid then sorry..." she sighed apologetically, shrugging her shoulders as if there were nothing she could do.

After a moment she turned her attention back to the napkin, talking it through, "There's another name, but I don't remember it as clearly. Maybe it might help, though." On the napkin, she wrote: ?–RAND–? "I'm not sure about this one. Rand-something or something-Rand? Rand McNally?" she kept shaking her head. "No…Randall McMurphy? Ayn Rand? McKenna? Mac? Tully Mac? No, not even close. All random associations that don't fit…I dunno. I'm sorry, not much help. But somehow it's important, even though I can't remember clearly enough."

"You know Tully Mac?" Goren asked sharply. The man's reputation as a free-lance mob hit man was known at least as far as New York City, although he lived in New Jersey, but he had not been active for several years. Rumor had it that he had fled jurisdiction after a botched job—another rumor had it that he had chased a rival out to Vegas for botching that job and framing him with the crime bosses.

She stared at him in surprise. "He's not as fictional as Johnny Tarr?" she stared into space. "I know of him, I guess. He's…an Irishman—with a thick accent. Irish-Catholic. Rides a Harley Davidson and frequents bars where there are Harleys outside. But I'm pretty certain he has nothing to do with this murder—has a strict if strange code of honor—won't harm women and children, especially mothers—Mother Mary cult, and all—but he has no compunction about killing people who cross him even slightly. Maybe even feels obligated to keep his reputation by killing them. That's why he just does business with men. Not someone I'd want to meet in person." Her eyebrows furrowed.

Since what he knew about Tully Mac agreed with her assessment, Goren let the matter drop; instead he asked casually, "Where are you staying?" She shifted uncomfortably. "So we can contact you if necessary…" As she thought about how to respond, Goren concluded compassionately, "You need a place to stay, don't you? You've been wearing those clothes since at least yesterday, and your hair smells like smoke—like from one of those barrels the homeless use for warmth."

Her slight wariness told him he was right. "I know somewhere safe you could stay—no police, so you don't have to worry about any corrupt cops—it'll be safer than our safe houses—what do you say? Hm?" As he saw hope glimmer in her eyes, even as she hesitated, he pressed on with more details. "He's retired—I'm the only cop he knows." Seeing her stiffen, he reassured, "He just a pussycat, though. Not that anyone knows this, but he's gay if that's what you're worried about."

That wasn't what worried her. "What does He look like?" she breathed, terror creeping in her eyes.

"What? Um, salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, about my height." She relaxed slightly at the brown eyes, but then sighed out the breath she had been holding when he mentioned height. "Why does it matter so much?" he asked softly.

She shook her head, grunting nervously. "Sorry, I was reminded about…it doesn't really matter."

"What exactly are you afraid of?" Goren pushed, but with a gentle voice.

It took a moment before she shrugged, answering, "Like everyone, lots of things. Little things. You know. You're probably afraid of things, too." She kept talking while her eyes searched the air for something to say. "You're a cop. You probably wake up in the morning afraid you won't be able to figure out who killed someone—that they'll kill again before you catch 'em—yeah? But you brush those doubts and fears away and just keep working. No big deal. Nothing to fear but fear itself. Just stupid fear."

Goren smiled at the amateur attempt to turn the conversation back on him. She wasn't ready yet to open up completely, so he'd have to skirt the issue a little to draw her out. "Yeah, I suppose so. But here's the thing. I've been a cop for a long time, and I've arrested many types of people. The innocent ones are scared when they're arrested; they usually just tell us the truth to get out of jail. Criminals might be afraid, but they usually cover it up with defiance and bravado—or else their ego gets in the way of their fear. But you?" He shook a finger in her general direction while looking away briefly. "You're neither egotistical nor defiant. And while you were afraid, as you said, not of us. How do you know we're not in league with whoever killed the Sherwoods?"

"You're decent people not dirty cops," she replied easily, as if it were obvious.

Goren and Eames exchanged glances before Goren asked, "As true as that may be, how is it you're so sure?"

She thought a moment. "Because if you were that kind of cop, you wouldn't have bothered bringing me in to the police station—that alley gave you enough privacy for a beat-down if you were so inclined. But you don't abuse your authority for power's sake; rather you use it serving the public interest—you're more concerned about finding out what happened than pinning it on the most convenient person. And given the demographics of your office, you're not likely to be part of the good-old-boys' club but rather got your jobs on merit than favor," she said to the air between them, before focusing on Goren.

"Because your mother brought you up to be a gentleman—and since you keep those old-fashioned manners you probably still eat Sunday dinner with her every week… That, and the disgust in your voice when you talked about corrupt cops."

She turned to Eames, "And the emotions in your voice when you talked about W-William and S-Sarah, tell me you're the kind of woman that would do anything for your own child's wellbeing, and by extension anyone else's child…—and that's why you can't stand what happened to those kids." Her eyes hardened when she spoke of the Sherwood children, although Goren saw the profound sadness flit across them as she stuttered ever so slightly. She was containing her emotions with a partial poker face, but she couldn't hide the expressions in her eyes.

"I don't have any children," Eames remarked wryly. She thought about Goren's mother, whom he called daily and visited weekly.

"Still, you'd be that kind of mother." She said confidently. "Am I wrong?"

Shaking his head a little, Goren continued, covering his discomfort about bringing his mother into the conversation, "OK. You also said you're scared of lying to us, but I think you're more scared of telling us something—something you still haven't told us. And I think you're torn because you really want to tell us, right?"

Having listened intently to his analysis, she thought a moment before responding, "Mm. I, uh, I really have to go use the ladies' room. Excuse me."