“Give it back,” Kyle ordered.

“Pictures of your boyfriend?”

“Fuck you, Aaron, that’s my work. Give it back.”

He grabbed at the pad again, and again Fogelman lifted it out of his reach. Changing strategies, he stepped back and rested his hands on his hips, waiting. He looked off to the left, down the hall. Mrs. Arness stepped out of her classroom, glanced their way, disinterested, and went back inside.

Fogelman opened the sketch pad and laughed out loud at the first page, a series of three drawings of Ultor showing different degrees of energy through movement.

“Is this supposed to be you?” Fogelman asked, holding the pad so Christina could see it.

She laughed. “Oh my God! That is so gay!”

“You think you’re a superhero or something, runt?” Fogelman asked.

Kyle stepped toward him, reaching out. “Give it back.”

“Too bad you’re not ripped like this, dude; maybe you could take it away from me.”

“Maybe I could anyway,” Kyle said.

Fogelman turned away from him and called out to a couple of his buddies down the hall.

“Hey, look what the runt thinks he looks like!”

More laughter. Kyle felt his face flushing red. His blood was roaring in his ears.

“It’s missing something,” one of Fogelman’s friends said, grabbing the pad.

Kyle tried to push his way past Fogelman. Fogelman blocked him. Kyle stepped right, pivoted around, and tried to lunge forward, only to be blocked by another body, and another body. By the time he got through the knot of people, Fogelman had taken the pad back and was holding it up for all to see. Someone had taken a pencil and drawn a giant erect penis onto each version of Ultor, making it look like the first one was having anal sex with the second one, who was having anal sex with the third one, who was masturbating.

“Give it back!” he snapped at Fogelman. To his horror, his voice cracked, drawing more laughter from the bigger guys. Anger spiked through him. He moved toward Aaron Fogelman with purpose.

“Give it back!”

Fogelman laughed, still holding the sketch pad up out of reach. “Or what?”

“Or this,” Kyle said.

He hooked his right leg around Fogelman’s left and drove his shoulder hard into the bigger kid’s solar plexus. The breath left Fogelman in a gust, and he tripped backward and fell like a giant redwood. Kyle went down on top of him, kneeing him in the groin, then the stomach, as he scrambled his way up Fogelman’s body, reaching for the sketch pad, now on the floor.

As he grabbed for it, a pair of polished dress shoes came into view. Kyle’s stomach dropped as he looked up to see Principal Rodgers glaring down at him.

Rodgers bent over and picked up the sketchbook, scowling at the pornographic drawing. “Mr. Hatcher, Mr. Fogelman. I will see you both in my office. Now.”

Fogelman groaned and rolled onto his side, cupping his balls with his hands. Kyle scrambled to his feet, shooting a glare at Brittany, who looked on with wide eyes, her books clutched to her chest.

“Nice friends you’ve got, Britt,” he said. “I can see why you’d rather hang with them.”

15

“Are you nervous, Jamar?” Liska asked. “There’s really no reason for you to be.”

“I’ve never been hypnotized before,” Jackson admitted, his eyes darting from Liska to the other woman in the room.

“It’s nothing to be worried about,” she said. “I promise.”

The other detective was Valerie Edgar, who worked Sex Crimes. She was a nice-looking woman in a next-door-neighbor kind of way—simple, shoulder-length brunette hair; a friendly, open face; a nonthreatening, feminine quality. Hypnosis was something she had studied and become very good at in addition to her training as a detective, in order to help victims and unlock the memories of witnesses. Her demeanor was comforting and reassuring.

Jamar Jackson, however, did not seem comforted or reassured. The sweat on his forehead gleamed under the fluorescent lighting in the interview room. He wiped it off with his hand and shoved up the sleeves of his sweater.

“Man, it’s hot in here,” he complained, shifting on his chair. “Why is it so hot in here?”

“I’m sorry,” Liska said. “There’s some problem with the heating system. They can’t seem to get it sorted out.”

“Eight freaking degrees below zero outside and it’s like the damn jungle in here,” Jackson said, then quickly caught himself. “Pardon my language.”

“I hear you,” Liska said. “It’s like a sauna. We’re all dying here. If they don’t get this fixed today, I’m coming to work in a bathing suit tomorrow. Can I get you something to drink, Jamar? Water? A can of pop?”

Jackson looked suspicious, like he figured they would try to slip him something.

Kovac watched through the one-way glass and rubbed at the tension in the back of his neck. Tippen stood beside him, eating a red Twizzler.

“Jesus,” Kovac muttered, “you’d think he killed the girl with his bare hands. I’ve never seen a witness so freaked out.”

“He probably thinks she’s going to put him under and make him cluck like a chicken,” Tippen said.

Jackson tried unsuccessfully to look cool about the whole thing. “Naw, I’m good. Thanks.” He looked at Edgar, forcing a smile, like he wanted her to think he was joking. “You’re not gonna make me cluck like a chicken or anything like that, right?” He tried to laugh a little.

Valerie Edgar smiled warmly, sharing the joke. “No. I promise. All that happens here is I help you relax so you can easily access your memories. It’s a good thing. You’ll feel calm and safe, with none of the tension you had during the event itself. You’re in complete control the whole time.”

“Will I be out? Like unconscious?”

“No, not at all. I want you just to take a deep breath now and exhale slowly through your mouth.”

She took him through that exercise for a good five minutes before asking him to close his eyes. He squeezed his eyelids shut like a five-year-old child pretending to take a nap. Edgar continued with the breathing exercise, her voice going softer and softer.

In another five minutes, Jackson cracked open one eye. “Am I out? Is this it?”

Kovac swore and tipped his head back, looking at the ceiling. “This is a fucking disaster.”

“Just wait,” Tippen said. “Valerie is good. I’ve watched her hypnotize a rape victim who was so terrified she couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. She’ll get him.”

Again Valerie Edgar smiled gently. “You feel fine, don’t you? You’re in complete control.”

“Yeah,” Jackson said, relieved. “I’m good. It’s all good.”

“This is all there is to it. Relax, close your eyes; breathe deeply and slowly.”

Kovac could see the tension leave Jamar Jackson’s body. The kid relaxed. His breathing deepened. Impressive.

Edgar asked him a couple of easy questions first, as he settled into that mysterious state of unconscious consciousness, gradually leading him to the heart of the matter: those crucial few moments before and during the incident on New Year’s Eve.

Jackson recalled vivid details about the goings-on in the back of his limo, right down to the color of the pubic hair on the girl with no panties (not a natural blonde). Details of what had been going on in front of his Hummer were sketchier.

The box truck to his left had been white with orange and black lettering. He didn’t remember what it said. Probably a U-Haul truck, Kovac thought. There had to be hundreds of them based in the Twin Cities, to say nothing of trucks coming into Minneapolis from anywhere else.

The body of Rose Reiser—New Year’s Doe—had been discovered by a guy driving a box truck. But they had thoroughly searched the truck, and the driver had been completely cooperative with the investigation. He had been ruled out as a suspect. This box truck was probably no more significant to the Zombie Doe investigation than that one had been to the investigation a year past.