Rook

mask. She looked about for his tools, some tray or trolley with gleaming metal instruments on it, but she saw nothing. Tension was building within her. If there was no equipment, then how did the Checquy members gather their information? Would there be some surreal torture, the man’s flesh and bones rending themselves? Would a psychic tear the thoughts out of his brain? What had horrified Thomas so much that she’d vomited regularly during these sessions? Myfanwy’s fingers gripped the arm of her chair, dimpling the soft cloth. She squirmed back against the cushions as the interrogator lifted his latex-gloved hands and reached for the man. Beside her, Gestalt leaned forward intently, and a hush descended upon the room.
    The interrogator rested his hands on the man’s hair and then began probing with his fingers, tracing the contours of the scalp. He leaned back slightly and spoke rapidly into a microphone that hung from the ceiling.
    “His ancestors hail almost exclusively from Western Europe, except for a great-grandfather from Poland,” he said. The loud man who had tried to intimidate Myfanwy gave a snort, and the interrogator froze. He drummed his fingers angrily on the subject’s head, and then continued. “He is predisposed to be talented at music and mathematics but is also prone to self-doubt. He has extraordinary physical courage and little to no sense of humor. He has no compunctions about killing.”
    The interrogator ran his fingers carefully down one of the man’s arms and paused at the wrist. Squinting, Myfanwy could see that he was pressing lightly and had closed his eyes.
    “He is thirty-two years old, the second-oldest child. He was born in June. He has undergone several major surgeries and received various implants. Among other organs, his kidneys and lungs have been replaced.” There was a long pause, and the interrogator cocked his head as if listening for something. “That surgery took place four years ago. He is right-handed. He is allergic to dairy.” The interrogator turned the man’s palms upward. He got down on one knee and leaned closer to the armrests of the chair, peering carefully at the lines crisscrossing the man’s palms.
    “He was born in Brussels, and his father died when he was four. In university he met a tall dark stranger. Female. It did not work out. He learned how to type. For several years, his employment was sporadic. Mainly manual labor. And he did a great deal of traveling. Then, when he was twenty-five, he joined the military. He learned martial arts. He did a great deal more traveling. There was violence. And he was committing most of it.” The interrogator stood up and walked over to the sink in the corner. He moistened a paper towel and carefully wiped the man’s hand with it. Then he fetched a magnifying glass and polished it. He peered at the hand again.
    “After two years in the military, his life took a major turn.”
    “Dr. Crisp, what was this turn?” called out the loud man, interrupting. The interrogator looked up in irritation.
    “I’m not sure,” he said testily. “Some sort of professional shift, but a drastic one.”
    “How can you tell?” asked the loud man. The man sitting next to him tried to shush him. “Perry, please don’t start,” Myfanwy heard him whisper to the big man.
    “Because his fingerprints have been removed,” the interrogator replied.
    Myfanwy jotted down a note on her pad; Gestalt subtly tried to sneak a peek, but she covered it.
    “What else do you see, Dr. Crisp?” she asked. He removed his glasses and squinted more closely at the hand.
    “A great deal more travel, and then he encountered a short, fair person whom he already knew very well. He appears to have found true love. And had three children. One of whom died. Twice.”
    “Twice?” exclaimed Perry. “How do you figure that?” The interrogator threw down his magnifying glass in exasperation.
    “All right, who is that?” Crisp asked.
    “What, can’t you tell by my voice?” Perry sneered.
    “The voices are electronically disguised, you colossal fool! But let me hazard a guess… is it someone whose eldest daughter hasn’t gotten married yet and never will?”
    “Well, of course she won’t
now,
you fraud! What kind of person tells an eighteen-year-old girl she’ll never get married?” Perry stood up and pounded his fist on the glass.
    “An accurate one!” yelled Crisp, striding over to the glass. He yanked his mask down to reveal a