Everybody in DC was relieved to hear Brock's and Gillian's theory about a single subject instead of a group looking for dead crowds. However, it was still a bio attack and it could be considered domestic terrorism. When Medley heard about the evening meeting at the Memorial, he asked for a live stream to watch it. So he invited the rest of the brass to gather at a conference room about six-thirty, in time to pick their seats in no hurry in front of the huge screen, let the aides deliver coffee and sweet bites, and finish their vital discussions about world's peace and golf.

Medley swallowed a snort when Cassidy came in with Wright and the Director. The Section Chief had nothing to do there with his seniors, but the Director had invited him because it was his agents working the case. So Medley could snort all he wanted and hate Cassidy's guts, but had to keep his mouth shut.

Back in Boston, Brandon got online with Tanya to get the stream for Cooper, because she wanted to watch it too.

Meanwhile, in Savannah, Kurt and Ron helped Tanya to set up her little work station by the small stage, set the camera, get the audio from the microphone and check everything worked. Then they went back to the inn, where Fred and Greta had taken over the kitchen, promising to have dinner ready on their return.

Hank asked Tanya yet again, to make sure she had the slide show in the right order and ready. Before the girl punched his lights out, Aldana made him turn to her and fixed the knot of his tie. Hank hated speaking in public, and knowing his audience included the brass and Cooper didn't exactly help.

"You'll do fine," Aldana said with a reassuring smile.

"Shut up!" Hank growled. "You said thirty people. And there's over a hundred! Only here!"

"Looks like word got out and all kinds of specialists related to Infectology and viruses showed up."

He shot a nervous glance at the large hall, were at least ten rows of chairs were already taken by hospital directors, executives from laboratories, doctors, medics and scientists from all over the city and around. Even though they were all used to handle top technology, the suits were the only ones without pen and paper in hand to take notes the old way.

Russell managed to keep from even smiling at Hank's distress, especially because Aldana's elbow was only a couple of inches away from his ribs. He patted the biochemist's shoulder. "Use your cards and you'll be fine."

Hank took a hand to his chest pocket to check the cards were there. Gillian approached them at a firm pace—considering her high heels. She'd decided to dress up for the occasion, knowing the kind of people she was about to address wouldn't pay attention to anything a jeans-user could say. So she wore a white tailored suit, a gray-blue blouse and white high heels. And she hated every minute of it, daydreaming of her jeans and sandals in the SUV trunk. Until she spotted Brock's appreciative look at her gear. Which reminded her of her last dream—especially the part of his hands rolling up a tailored skirt like the one she was wearing now. She fled like the chicken she was to join her team, to fight the urge to whether change her clothes or assault Brock in public.

"Let's get done with this shit, Hank," she said.

"Good luck, guys," said Russell.

She managed a smile back at him, Aldana and Tanya, and led Hank to the few steps. Few but steep. Great. She'd have to be extra careful not to reach the stage with her face first. Brock waited by the stage, wearing his blue suit, his red tie and his proper-fed blank scowl as Gillian had requested. Which was good for her. This was the stupid bitter man she was used to have around, so he shouldn't distract her—much.

All the conversations died away when she took the stage, followed by Hank and Brock. As she stood before the microphone, she noticed ninety-nine percent of the people gathered there were men. She was able to spot six women. Maybe. She wasn't sure about the gender of two of them. Then it hit her. Funny. It was still easier for her to face a hundred strangers than the man behind her.

* * *

In DC, the Deputy Director had the lights lowered when she introduced herself. The brass kept quiet as Gillian made a quick account of the situation and introduced Hank.

He took a deep breath when she waved for him to come to the microphone, then she stood behind him with Brock. Hank cleared his throat, nodded at Tanya and checked his first card.

Everybody around the large oval table in DC frowned at Hank's technical speech.

"Does anybody get a single word he's saying?" muttered Wright.

"They do," replied Cassidy in the same tone. "Look how they're taking notes."

"The CDC was notified about this meeting, right?" asked the Director.

Medley traded glances with his aides.

The Director saw all their faces said the same—err... nope? He shook his head. "Later. And make sure they get a copy of this." As a king bestowing scolds and favors on his courtiers, he turned to Cassidy with an approving nod. "Looks like your agent knows his thing."

Cassidy wore his white gloves for diplomacy and replied with a quick smile, "Lucky us, he does, sir."

* * *

At the Memorial's large hall, Hank explained the differences between the known Borna and the wild strain down to a molecular level. High on the wall behind him, a massive screen showed enhanced images of both. He paused to check his cards and a comparative chart replaced the images.

"So, summing up," he said. "What little we do know about the BVD is that the infection is caused by a combination of inhalation and touch of infected tissue. The incubation period is about four weeks. The first symptom is dramatic mood shifts. They're followed by migraine and fever, which can be high enough to cause convulsions and lead to encephalitis, most of the times fatal." He paused again to take a look at his last card. "This modified strain works by ingestion, the incubation period's been shortened to one week and there are no progressive symptoms—they skip straight to encephalitis."

Gillian knew he was done, so she stepped up. Hank didn't hide his relief to give her the spot before the microphone. She spoke in her plain, confident way.

"A CDC team will be here tomorrow, but they don't have anything new on this virus. So you are still the only reliable source of information to keep track on how the new-strain cases evolve. So please, don't hesitate to call us and let us know any change on the patients you consider relevant."

The caption from the security feed filled the screen, showing the woman with the cap by the store fridge.

"As I said before, this is not, I repeat, not a terrorist attack. This woman is responsible for what's happening. And you can help us find her."

A young man in a wealthy suit, sitting at the third row as if the whole thing was such a waste of his precious time, asked, "And don't you have anything better than a blurry picture?"

She gifted him with a patient smile, as if he were a slow kid. She could bet her car that he ran Daddy's company, and he'd grown up surrounded by Daddy's minions, whose job description included putting up with the spoiled brat and throw a parade at any stupid joke he made. Nowadays, his payroll surely included a bunch of jesters with the only mission of celebrating as smart his every word.

"Of course this is not all we have. We're working this case with Supervisory Special Agents Brockner and Coleman, both of them specialists in criminal psychology, and they already have this woman's profile to deliver to the local authorities."

"Her profile? Good, then you do have another picture of her."

Gillian smiled wider and the young man sat up, as if she'd slapped him. But before she could say anything, she smelled Brock's cologne closer. When she glanced back, she found him coming to her side. So she left him room to stand before the microphone.

Brock spoke in his rock-solid, methodical way, a piercing stare on the young man. "Behavioral analysis provides accurate psychological profiles on subjects. They include not only gender and age, but also habits, tendencies, motivations and areas of work and residence. This helps law enforcement officers to narrow down their search, usually to a few names or even one." He was sure the man would keep quiet, so his eyes moved over the audience. "In this case, we're talking about a woman in her mid-forties, working on a scientific field which grants her access to rare viruses and lab equipment to run trials on them. She's not prone to socializing, but people around her have heard her talk about the loss of somebody she loved, in such a way that made them feel sorry for her." He fixed another piercing stare on the young man. "The local authorities will share the rest of her profile with the public as they deem fit."

He invited Gillian to have the microphone back.

"That'd be all for now," she said. "Thank you all very much for your time and collaboration. We'll be at the lobby in case you have any questions. Good night."

Hank hurried off the stage at her words. Brock preceded her, but only to offer her his hand to help her down the steep steps. She avoided eye contact, wishing he didn't notice her chill at that brief touch.

* * *

"It's the red tie."

Ron and Kurt turned to Fred with questioning frowns. They were done eating and lingered at the table, before one of Kurt's computers, watching the feed.

Fred moved his glass of wine at the screen. "Whenever Brockner wears that tie, Reg losses all her cool."

Ron shook his head. "It's the blue suit. That's what gets to her."

"Nope. It's the red tie."

"The blue suit. She doesn't even flinch at his other suits."

"The tie."

"The suit."

While they kept going, Kurt dialed Tanya on speaker. "Hey, T, what gets to Reg the most? Brockner's red tie or his blue suit?"

The other two interrupted their stubborn debate at hearing the girl's huff.

"It's the hanger, you moron."