The interrogation room at the FBI field office in Lower Manhattan was colder than the holding cell at MDC had been. Gray walls, metal table bolted to the floor, one-way mirror reflecting Keenan’s calm face back at him. His wrists were cuffed to a chain looped through the table ring, standard for suspected homicide but he sat like he was waiting for a business meeting, shoulders relaxed, expression almost bored.

Special Agent Hale sat across from him, file open, photos spread out like playing cards.

Keenan hadn’t said more than six words since they brought him in:

“I need to speak to my lawyer.”

Hale leaned forward. “Mr. Dane, we’re...