She’s been prepped over the phone by a forensic psychologist who’s familiar with the case from Sluiter’s initial spree in the early 1960s.

“He hates his father,” said the psychologist. “The father abused him badly. Don’t mention anything about his father, or parents in general.”

“All right,” Judy said.

“He’s sexually violent,” said the psychologist. “He might say certain things, looking to get a rise out of you. Try not to give him the satisfaction.”

“All right.”

Now, Judy clenches her jaw to prevent her teeth from chattering. She hopes this will give her an appearance of toughness. From her solar plexus outward, she vibrates with nerves and cold. The window-unit air conditioners at Ray Brook are set so high that she’s been bringing a jacket to work, in August. But to mention anything about it would feel like an announcement: I am weak.

A small crowd has gathered behind her. Hayes is there, of course, and Goldman. So are Captain LaRochelle and two of his lieutenants.

She tries not to look back at them. As usual, she feels both her age and her gender acutely. Hayes stands beside her, glancing at her.

“You sure this is all right with you?” he asks.

“I’m sure.”

•   •   •

Judy walks in alone. There are microphones in this room, she knows. They feed both a speaker and a recording apparatus on the other side of the one-way mirror. The idea of being listened to in real time makes her self-conscious. She wishes for more privacy.

Jacob Sluiter, who has been leaning back in his chair, sits up straighter when she walks in.

“Mr. Sluiter,” says Judy. “I’m Investigator Luptack.” She’s trying to keep her voice light.

For a moment, Sluiter says nothing. Then he says: “Are you cold?”

She hesitates only for a second. The psychologist has told her to show no sign of weakness; this, he says, is what Sluiter gets off on. With a woman, his goal will be to intimidate. Only one person escaped Sluiter in the early 1960s; that woman relayed that he had asked her to beg him for mercy, and that she had declined.

“No,” says Judy. “I’m fine.”

Sluiter looks almost disappointed.

“How old are you?” he says.

“How old are you?”

“Almost fifty-one. My birthday is next week.”

“Well,” she says. “Happy birthday in advance.”

She smiles at him.

Sluiter regards her, reading something.

“You look very young,” he says. “Do you live at home with your parents?”

Judy blinks. Willing every part of her body and face to be still. “No.”

“Are you married?”

Judy is silent.

“I don’t see a ring on your finger,” says Sluiter. “That’s why I asked.”

He smiles, crosses one leg over the other. “Didn’t mean to offend you, or anything.”

“Mr. Sluiter,” says Judy. “Can you tell me a little about your whereabouts since you left Fishkill?”

“Oh,” says Sluiter. “I have no idea where I’ve been. I was just walking north.”

“I see,” says Judy. “Did you have a particular destination in mind?”

“No.”

“Did you encounter anyone? While you were moving north?”

“No.”

For the first time since she entered the room, he looks bored. He turns his face away from hers, toward the one-way mirror, as if he knows he has an audience.

“Would you tell me a little bit about your—habits? Where you slept, what you ate?”

“I don’t really remember,” he says.

For a time, they continue in this way: Judy asking questions, Sluiter dodging them, until she begins to grow worried. She thinks of the men standing outside the room, listening. Imagines them glancing sideways at one another, as doubtful as she is about her ability to extract any information whatsoever from this man. Why did he ask for a woman investigator if he’d give her no more than he gave Goldman?

She hears the psychologist’s voice in her head. No sign of weakness.

She ignores it.

“You know,” she says. “I am cold. This building is the coldest building I’ve ever been in.”

She puts her arms around herself. Shivers a little.

He turns his face toward her again. His eyes, on the other side of his glasses, narrow a bit, as if bringing her more clearly into focus.

“Investigator Luptack,” he says. “May I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a virgin?”

Judy feels a rush of humiliation. The blood comes to her face, as if she’s been slapped. At twenty-six, she is, in fact, a virgin. She wants to deny it, but thinks of the microphone in the room, the speaker just outside it. She thinks of the four men, her colleagues, standing there and listening to every word.

She says nothing.