"Yes, ma'am. There's no doubt left to be had with all the evidence."

"Yes, ma'am. There's no doubt left to be had with all the evidence."

"Thank you, Agent Carmody. Any advice for a woman in my position?"

"Afraid not. I don't have any men in my life. My dad died when I was 4, no brothers, no male cousins, went to a private girls' school, and I've been out as a lesbian since 8th grade. I have less clue about the male psyche than your average 4th grader. Is cooties still as big a threat these days?"

I smiled at her... Pity I'm not into chicks, she's what Z would call 'plasmoid' -- hotter than hot. But now what? Why would Z do something like this -- my own son? There is NOTHING that I can think of that would cause him to do... even the thought made my stomach turn.

"Ma'am?" asked Agent Carmody quietly, "We should probably get you in protective custody. A lot of times, family members think that the accused would hesitate, wouldn't do the same to them --"

"Yes. Whatever you need, Agent," I interrupted her. I didn't want to hear how horrible my son was. The evidence spoke volumes. Z, how could you?

I looked up at the knock, but it was Marshal McCormac that answered, "Is there something wrong?"

She paused a moment, like she was trying to phrase herself correctly.

"Ma'am --"

"I don't think I can take much more of 'Ma'am' from you people. My name is Rebecca."

She smiled in almost a flicker, then started again, "Rebecca, then, I'm sorry to say that we didn't catch up with him. It looks like he's left town, but he's smart enough he could have left us a false trail. We don't want you going back home quite yet, but we can probably drop the guard detail down to just a pair each of Agents from us, and the Marshals."

"That's good news. I was wondering how I'd keep my officers happy with double shifts. One pair I can spare easily. You want live-ins?"

"Not necessary, Marshal," she answered him, "We'll supply the live-ins, you supply the surveilling pair."

They talked some more, and then took me to what they called a safe house. After an evening of pizza and watching something on television that I wouldn't remember 5 minutes after seeing, I went to bed.

"Mom."

The voice in the darkness at once filled me with joy and terror.

"Mom."

He wasn't whispering, so something had happened.

"Mom."

"I'm awake, Z. What have you done, now?"

"Mom, I didn't do this that they're accusing me of. I know all of their evidence says I did, but you've got to believe me, I'm your son."

"Didn't you once tell me that familial bonds are not a logical basis for an argument to springboard from?"

"I... believe I did. Um, please believe me?"

"They say that the evidence is incontrovertible. So, what do you have to... controvert it?"

"Past behaviour. Ask them to have their psych docs examine everything I've done in the past, and if it fits anything I would -- or could -- possibly have done."

"Why aren't you more scared they'll walk in here?"

"Remember the blowgun Uncle Mickey taught me to use when I was eleven?"

"You drugged them?"

"Well, the guys out in the car down the street. The two in the house were just dumb enough to drink the scotch."

That explained some things. After Z and his best friends had gotten into my liquor cabinet several years ago, I kept the openly available scotch laced with enough valium to knock a body out after one glass. Apparently, he had known that.

"Z... just give yourself up, if you didn't do it, they'll clear you --"

"Mom, stop. You said yourself they have 'incontrovertible' evidence. Once cops are convinced that they have the right person, they stop looking for new suspects and focus on gathering more evidence against --"

A car door outside, followed by footsteps pounding up the sidewalk.

"Gotta go. I guess the good guys were supposed to check in."

"Z! Please, turn yourself in!"

He was gone.

She took one glance at me and barked back out toward the front room, "He was here, can't have gotten far, call in a canvassing crew!"

"He says the evidence is wrong."

She looked at me, with a mixture of pity and condescension.

"No, it's not. He beat that girl so badly it killed her. Her mother said she had complained about him in the past. There's a history."

"Look, he's my only child. Have your psych docs look at it again, make sure that the mother isn't lying... something. He could have killed those Marshals instead of just knocking them out. That should tell you --"

"What it tells me, Rebecca, is that he's too smart to add another murder charge to his list."

"Please. Call it appeasing a parent."

She sighed.

"Okay. Fine. I'll have the local forensic psychologist have a look at his profile on Monday."

She left then, and I spent the rest of the weekend pretty much crying. Come Monday morning, I was introduced to Doctor Cuvy ZpTenj, the forensic psychologist for all of Polk County.

"My name is difficult for most English-speakers to wrap their tongues around, feel free to call me Cuvy, or if you're feeling precocious, Doc, or Doc Cuvy, or whatever makes you comfortable."

She had an easy manner about her that made her instantly likeable.

"I need to ask you some things about your son, so I can build a profile and see that the FBI is doing their job correctly. Is that okay?"

I nodded.

"First off, he's listed in most cases -- and when I've seen him in the papers -- as just, 'Z' for a first name, not with a period for an initial, and yet, none of his names start with that letter. Can you tell me the story there?"

I smiled slightly. His name. That's what drove him to do this horrible... no.

"Ukriel Vanessaphra Winifred Xiomatesqa Yabbigajl. My husband gave him the most, ah, original, names he could find. Winifred may not be unheard of, but for a boy? Anyway, Z was the only letter of the alphabet not used, so I started calling him my Z within hours of his being born."

"Speaking of unpronounceable names..." she muttered, "Did he ever evince any dissatisfaction with his name?"

"Well, yeah, but what kid doesn't? By the time he was in 5th grade he was having fun with it, signing his name in a Z-pattern. Like this --"