Bobby arched a brow, but she put down her coffee cup, dead serious now.
"I only remember him because he kept arguing with me. I was in the hospital, happy to finally have everyone gone, not asking me all sorts of ridiculous questions. How do you feel, Catherine? What do you need? Can we get you anything? Really, I was starving, dehydrated, and raped out of my fucking mind. What I needed was for everyone to leave me alone.
"And then this man walked in, dressed in a dark suit and tie. Not a big man, but quite handsome. He flashed his badge and announced, 'Special Agent, FBI.' Just like that. With authority I remember feeling impressed. His tone was firm, strict. Like what you would expect from an FBI agent."
"What did he do, Catherine?"
She shrugged. "He asked questions. Police questions. What did I remember about the vehicle—-color, make, model, plates, interior? Please describe the man who was driving. Height, weight, coloring, age, ethnicity. What did he say, what did he do? Where did he take me, how did we get there, and on and on and on. Then he showed me a sketch."
"A sketch?"
"Yes, a pencil drawing. Black and white. Nicely detailed, like what I imagined a police artist would do. I was hopeful, because no one had made an attempt to identify my attacker yet. But the drawing wasn't of Richard."
Bobby blinked a few times. "The sketch wasn't Richard Umbrio?"
"No, the man pictured was smaller, more refined around the jawline. When I told Mr. Special Agent that, he didn't take it so well."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he started arguing with me. Maybe I didn't remember quite right, it was dark, I was underground. Honestly, the agent started to piss me off. But then the door opened, a nurse appeared, and he left."
"Mr. Special Agent left, just like that?"
"Yes. Closed up his notebook, exited stage right."
"Did the nurse say anything?"
"Not that I remember."
Bobby frowned, trying to put these pieces together. "Did Mr. Special Agent provide a name, contact information, a business card?"
"No."
"Did you mention his appearance to anyone else? The police, your parents?"
Catherine shook her head. "Everyone was asking me questions. What was one more suit in the room?"
"But he came a second time?"
"The day I was going to be discharged. A nurse was in the room this time, taking my blood pressure. The door opened, he appeared. He looked the same as before. Dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. Maybe the same suit, now that I think about it.
"This time, he flashed his credentials toward the nurse and said we needed a minute alone. She hustled out. He came over to my bed, got out his notebook. He went over all the questions again. His voice was gentler this time, but I liked him less. Everyone was asking me everything and telling me nothing. Then, of course, he produced the sketch again."
"Same sketch?"
"Exact same sketch. Except this time, as I watched, he altered it. Thickened the hair, added shadowing to the cheeks. 'What about now,' he'd ask. I'd shake my head and he'd tinker with another element."
"Wait a minute," Bobby interrupted. "You're telling me the original sketch was something he'd done himself? Not an official police sketch?"
"I'd originally assumed it was a police artist's rendering, but to watch Mr. Special Agent go to town, I guess not. His revisions blended into the first picture perfectly Who knew FBI agents had such skills?" Catherine shrugged.
"So as you watched, he altered the drawing."
"Sure, but it didn't change anything. The man in the sketch was not Richard, and no amount of tinkering with hairstyles was going to change that. Which I told Mr. Special Agent. He didn't take it so well. Insisted I was wrong. Maybe the person in the sketch had gained weight, wore a wig."
Catherine curled one corner of her mouth with disdain. "Really, I was twelve. What the hell did I know of disguises? Mr. Special Agent had asked me a question, I gave him my answer. The minute he started arguing with me, he pissed me off."
"So what happened?" Bobby prodded.
"I told him to leave."
"Did he?"
Catherine hesitated, picking up her coffee cup, holding it in front of her lips. "For a moment… For a moment, I wasn't sure he would. And I remember, just for an instant, starting to feel uneasy. But then the orderly showed up and Mr. Special Agent bolted from the room. As the saying goes, good-bye and good riddance." Catherine blew the steam off her coffee and finally took a sip.
"Did you see him again?"
"No."
"Ever mention his visits to anyone?"
"A few weeks later, when the police finally showed me a photo array. I spotted Richard's photo immediately, tapped on it, and said, 'At last you people are listening to me.' The police didn't seem to know what I was talking about. But that didn't surprise me. Even a twelve-year-old can realize that law enforcement types don't play well with one another."
Bobby grunted at that. "What about anyone else from the FBI? Ever get interviewed by any other FBI agents?"
"Nope."