The cork board was full of faces, all connected with red string to one picture in the very center. The picture was of a small, friendly-looking girl; blonde hair, big green eyes, a plump-lipped smile, and a litter of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Seeing the picture in any other context, anyone in the Baltimore FBI office would peg Ophelia Ford as an all-around good girl. Maybe the type who enjoyed sushi, kittens, and ABC Family original television shows. The same went for the other smiling female faces on the board; all twenty one of them looked undeniably normal.
Three of Baltimore's finest stood around the cork board, their eyebrows furrowed and hands busily tracing red string and flipping through reports and files.
Head of Behavioral Sciences, Jack Crawford, stared at the twenty one faces on the board, reading the names aloud. His hands clenched and unclenched in the pockets of his jacket.
Special Agent Beverly Katz stood beside him, reading a police report filed just hours before by the Tempe, Arizona police department. She pursed her lips, tutting and sighing at the sloppiness of the report. Beverly was used to a higher caliber of work, but she could not blame these Arizona men. They had, after all, written this report at four in the morning.
And Alana Bloom, her brown hair pulled studiously away from her face, sat in Jack's enormous swiveling chair, flipping through the files of the twenty one girls on the board. Ophelia Ford's folder lay open on the desk, a picture identical to the one Jack was studying also laid to the side.
"So Ophelia Ford," Jack turned to his partners for the morning, "Twenty one years old. Born and raised in Phoenix, studying dance at Arizona State. The president of three clubs, on the honor roll, and golden child. Spotless record, am I right?" He looked to Alana.
She nodded, "Not so much as a speeding ticket. She wrote in her application essays about her favorite charity to volunteer with. I don't get it."
"Neither do I," Beverly leaned against the wall, her eyes still focused on Ophelia's picture, "The report says that she was terrified when they took her in. Not the kind of 'feigned innocence' terrified, but the really, truly scared kind of terrified. Like she didn't know where she was."
"Read the medical report from last night again," Jack rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin.
"It says, 'Ford in an almost seizure-like state: dilated pupils, shaking, and shortness of breath. She is confused and scared, and continues to pound her head with her hands. Won't stop screaming. Three nosebleeds in ten minutes.' And then it goes into the crime scene," Beverly frowned and scanned the report again, for what felt like the millionth time.
"She's been quiet since she's gotten here though, right?" Jack started out of the room and motioned for Beverly and Alana to follow.
"She hasn't said a word," Alana sped up to walk side-by-side with Jack, "They brought her some food and water and let her get cleaned up. Maybe she'll be ready to talk now."
The trio wound through the long halls of the Baltimore FBI, remaining silent as the rest of the department buzzed about, eager for some action since the Chesapeake Ripper and the Copycat Killer had gone dormant. The incidents surrounding that case were still a touchy subject with all of them though it had been nearly a year, and they were surely all ready to get their minds off of it.
The first holding cell at the bottom of the seemingly endless flight of stairs down to what served as the department's "dungeon" was sealed shut, with two police guards flanking the heavy metal door. Through the slit that barely passed for a window, Jack could see Ophelia sitting at the far-too familiar chrome table, her cuffed hands folded politely before her. She stared at the wall blankly, almost as if she was sleeping with her eyes wide open.
Jack entered first, leaving Beverly and Alana to watch from the glass room on the opposite end of the chamber. His footsteps echoed around the room, and the sound of his chair scraping the concrete floor was a grating, uncomfortable noise. But still, Ophelia did not break her stare. She kept her focus on the air beyond him.
It was eerie, Jack had to admit. The difference between the sunny girl in the picture and the sunken face of the girl before him. He stared at her for a moment, waiting to see who would have to break the silence first. Jack quickly took a mental note of the bruises that ringed her neck and wrists, and that peeked out from underneath her hairline.
"Ophelia?" Jack gave in, leaning toward her, "Hi there. My name is Jack Crawford. I'm the Special Agent in charge around here. I'm the one you need to talk to. You can trust me."
Ophelia shook her head, her eyes still focused on empty space, "No."
"Why not?" Jack leaned back, clasping his hands in his lap, "You're in a big mess here, kid. But you won't be if you just talk."
She shook her head again.
Jack motioned for the women to come into the room, "The three of us are here to figure out why what happened, happened. We're all you're going to get. Beverly Katz," she nodded to Ophelia, a sympathetic smile on her face, "and Alana Bloom. Our job is to figure you out, but we can't do that if you don't talk."
Ophelia's head snapped to where Alana stood, and her gaze fixed so intently on her that Jack was convinced a hole would burn in Alana's head.
"You," Ophelia barked, "You. Alana Bloom."
Taken aback for a moment, Alana shooed the others from the room. Maybe she could get to Ophelia, girl to girl.
Alana sat, facing Ophelia, her face and voice as pleasant as she could make it, "He's not here now, so you'll just have to settle for me. You're a dance student, right? I could never get the hang of dancing."
"You know him, though," Ophelia refused to speak of anything else, "He's the one I need. Not Jack Crawford or Beverly Katz or Alana Bloom. I need to speak with him."
"But why?" Alana leaned forward so that her face was close to Ophelia's. Through the impassive mask of her face, Alana could see apprehension, fear, and emptiness. There was also something empty behind Ophelia's wide eyes. She was hiding something, that was certain.
Ophelia shook her head, "All that live must die, passing through nature to eternity."
"Shakespeare."
"We are the causes of our own suffering," her voice was mechanical, as if she was reciting lines.
"I have to admit, I don't know that one," Alana shook her head, casting a glance at the wall Jack and Beverly were standing behind, "But we digress. Tell me why you won't talk to anybody but him."
Ophelia shrugged.
"He's not a part of this department, Ophelia. He hasn't been for a while. I can't ask him to come back here after what's happened. It's not right, especially with such a volatile case still up in the air. Talk to me. From one girl to another. Tell my why you did it. Look, I'm not trying to pull any mind games on you here. I'll be as honest and open with you as I would a patient."
"I'll talk to him," Ophelia nodded, "I swear, I'll talk to him. I need to talk to him. You're his friend, right? He'll come for you. He needs to."
Alana leaned back again. Why was she so adamant about talking to the one person who had little to no bearing on her fate in the long run? She, Jack, and Beverly were the closest people she had to protectors. Ophelia had no parents to come and claim her. No aunts, uncles, or cousins, either. And there was no way she could deny what she had done. She was caught red-handed. Literally. So perhaps the only way to move along was to let her have what she wanted.
"Fine," Alana stood, "I'll call him."
Tears began to pool in Ophelia's eyes as her tense body relaxed and her jaw began to tremble, "Thank you. Thank you."
Alana met Jack and Beverly outside the thick metal door. They all looked equally confused; nothing about Ophelia made sense. She was erratic, emotional, and her mind was a sieve, holding onto only the most random bits of information. The trio hurried back to Jack's office in silence. Beverly was off to preside over a reconstruction of the crime scene, Jack was to meet with the Tempe police, and Alana had a phone call to make.
Once Beverly and Jack had collected their things and vacated the office, Alana rifled through her old leather bag, retrieving her cell and dialing the oh-so-familiar number as she absentmindedly came to stand before the cork board.
Her eyes were stuck on Ophelia's picture when he finally answered. "Alana Bloom. What a pleasant surprise."
"Hannibal? I need your help."