LECTURE
follows "Eve"

                ***January 5, 2024***

Not many of the 20-to-30-something men and women, all dressed in severe black/grey/navy blue business attire and wearing generally sober expressions as they strode the long, cool corridor with ceiling-to-floor tinted windows at left when coming from the second-floor elevators and pale grey walls punctuated with portraits of noted law enforcement figures on the right, noticed the older woman seated on one of the benches next to the wall of windows.

Like them, she wore a business suit, hers a rich plum color, with a dark blue binder resting on the bench beside her along with a navy blue parka. When the first few people had appeared in the corridor, she had been talking on her cell phone; now, as the bulk of the crowd passed, she was reading from a tablet, seated opposite the closest painting to the lecture hall, the glowering figure of J. Edgar Hoover who oversaw this visitor—as he did all visitors—inside the Boston field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Occasionally, she would flash a look upward as their conversation caught her attention as they passed.

"...never heard of this dude," commented a slim red-haired man.

"Not reading your training materials, Rupert?" bantered a tall Hispanic woman with her hair in a bun. "What will they think?"

"That we have lives..." responded a shorter blond man.

"Don't let the new director hear you say that–"

A minute or two later, two young men, one tall with tawny skin and brush-cut hair, the other shorter and stockier, with rumpled blond hair, lagged reluctantly at the very end of the stragglers.

"...read up on this Robert Goren, Ken?" asked the blond.

His companion laughed. "Profiler. From the gossip, old guard. Presumably a dry-as-dust old dude. Wish I could get away with earbuds, but someone would notice...would rather listen to the Knicks podcast."

The older woman's slightly elfin face glinted with amusement as she reached into her purse.

Once inside the door, the redheaded man and his companions, as well as those who followed, were surprised to see, seated quietly in the front row of the lecture hall, a blonde child in a red velveteen jumper over a pink-patterned sweater reading a thick book. Next to her, a child-sized pink parka seemed to be reserving a seat.

The tall woman stopped. "Excuse me..." she said to the girl, who looked up with large, lively brown eyes. "There's a training presentation being held in a few minutes—should you be here?"

The girl's eyes brightened, and she responded with a confident British accent, "My papa told me to sit here. I'm not permitted to move unless there's an emergency."

"Um, yes," the concerned woman said, backing away, and the youngster gave a polite nod and returned to her book.

The lecture hall's appearance was also odd from the trainees' point of view: typically, the seating area and the stage were both illuminated so that people could find their way to their seats and, in addition, observe what setup the scheduled lecturer was utilizing. Powerpoint, video, or multiple-lecturer presentations were preferred—a lectern indicating a straight-up lecture was the setup they dreaded the most. For this session, illumination bathed only the seating area; the stage lay in Stygian darkness.

"Theatrical bastard," a man in the audience remarked; the woman in the corridor would have identified him as the man called "Ken" who'd spoken a few minutes earlier.

"Please watch your language," piped a prim treble voice from the front row. "There's a ten-year-old present." Much of the audience tittered.

A scanner had already logged in each attendee via their badge as they entered the room. A buzzer sounded now, indicating attendance was complete and that each scheduled attendee was present. A minute went by, then two. People coughed or cleared their throats.

"Voodoo," a man's voice uttered, amplified and stentorian, and the audience snapped to attention.

The stage lights came up gradually, revealing a 98-inch flat-screen television at stage left with a sturdy wooden table set to one side holding a laptop and a well-worn brown leather binder. In front of the equipment, facing the lecture hall seats, stood a broad-shouldered man in his early 60s, well over six feet tall, his curly greying-brown hair and Van Dyke beard tidily trimmed, wearing a charcoal-grey suit, white shirt, and bright blue tie, the fingers of his hands restlessly curling and uncurling as he ran eyes around the perimeter of the room. As he shifted his attention to the audience, a humorous expression sprang into his brown eyes as he spoke into the microphone attached to his unobtrusive headset. "My late father-in-law—although I didn't know him at the time—referred to profiling as 'voodoo.'" He turned on a genial smile. "Criminalists, for instance, like Dr. Gilbert Grissom, might tell you that it's the physical evidence that solves the crime. But it's evidence in total, what's collected from the crime scene, and information gathered from the witnesses and the suspects. Profiling is a tool, not a solution, to help narrow the field.

"And, in a way, aren't we all profilers to a minor extent? We learn it from childhood. There are these inexplicable, impossible creatures called 'adults' who must be placated each hour of the day. They give off certain signals to be interpreted. Olivia, shall we show them?"

The blond child sprang from her seat and walked up the steps and across the stage to join him. She surveyed the audience with anticipatory eyes but retained a calm face. "Hello, Papa."

"What happened to your mother? You came in alone."

"She told me at the door that she needed to use her mobile and she'd be here as soon as possible," Olivia answered soberly.

"All right. Do you agree with what I just said?" He favored the child with a fond smile.

"Oh, yes! Even if you have nice parents, you always learn to read them. It keeps you from being scolded—or, worse, punished." She looked at him impishly. "Or even worse, given extra algebra homework."

There was a chuckle from the audience; the lecturer's eyes twinkled.

At that moment, the lecture hall door opened almost inaudibly. The lecturer and the little girl shifted their attention there as the woman formerly sitting on the bench outside entered, her coat over her left arm and the blue binder tucked over it, walking briskly with her chin held high and shoulders squared, a satisfied smile lightly sketched on her face.

"Hello, Alex," he greeted her warmly after a beat.

"Made it at last," she replied cheerfully, tilting her head to direct her smile at him.

Olivia blinked. "Hello again, Mama."

"Hi, sweetie," she replied, then took her seat, transferring the pink parka to the seat Olivia had vacated.

"Something...very...interesting has happened," the girl observed, eyes wide, falling upon her standard descriptive phrase. "But nothing I was expecting."

Robert Goren watched Alexandra Eames' face. She gave him the most demure look she could manage in response, but it in no way disguised the positive energy radiating from her entire body.

"It looks like your mother has come up with a challenge for both of us. Keep going," he encouraged.

"I don't think...Mama expected it either...it was a surprise," Olivia ventured, and Alex's grin flickered, making it clear she was suppressing laughter. "It was a big surprise."

"What else did you notice when she entered, besides her face?"

"Her walk," Olivia continued with growing confidence. "She's...proud of what's happened. I walked like that when the Laurel Club accepted me. Renata said I swaggered. I remember." She squinted at her mother. "It could be because I was accepted into History Hunters at school–"

Alex's eyebrows fluttered slightly, so Olivia amended, "-perhaps...but more likely it's something for herself."

"Something...upcoming?" Alex supplied.

"No fair helping," he chided lightly.

"Is it about the...conference in April?" the little girl hazarded.

"Warmer," was the satisfied response.

Now he understood, and the grin on his face lit up the stage. Alex laughed and sat back in her chair as if she owned the world.

"You'll be doing something at the conference!" Olivia blurted out.

Alex smiled fondly, her eyes crinkling. "You could say that."

"What's your guess, Papa?" Olivia challenged.

"That wouldn't be fair—I've got more back history with her. I know all her moves. She'd walk like that when she was particularly pleased when we closed out a case successfully. Now what's your conclusion, Ms. Goren?"

Olivia now said confidently, "She's speaking at the conference."

"Très formidable, mon petit." Alex said with approval.

Bobby Goren bowed to his daughter. "Excellent, Ms. Olivia. You may sit down."

Olivia curtsied to the audience and hurried to join her mother, who winked at the lecturer.

"That's a very simplified example–"

"Now wait a minute," protested Selena Mellado, the tall woman who had passed Alex in the hallway. "This was all a setup. Your daughter and your wife came in with a script–"

"Excuse me, Madame," Olivia said firmly, "but we didn't. Truly." She rose, then met her father's eyes, and he nodded in approval. Everyone was quiet as she finished her explanation. "Papa only asked Mama to come up with a secret or problem that she felt strongly about. She wasn't to tell me what it was. I had to guess what mood she was in, then what clues she gave off with her words and movements."

"I had several scenarios in mind," Alex added, standing to address the audience, "but since the call about the speaking engagement came in just a few minutes ago, I thought I'd put her powers of observation to the test. Anything else she might have concluded easily. She almost guessed one of the alternatives—that I was happy to hear that she's been accepted into the history club at her school–"

"What?" Olivia squealed.

"Sister Rosamund texted me early this morning."

"Papa! I got into History Hunters!"

"I never had any doubts you wouldn't, Min."

Alex and Olivia settled back into their seats, and his face sobered as he took one step forward. "For those of you required to attend my lectures, you may wonder why I've pulled this little stunt. As someone who has been in the same seats where you are now— many times half-asleep—through eleven years of training seminars, I hope to make what I have to say something you look forward to instead of something to endure; I hope that I'll impart a little information along the way and perhaps I'll engage you as well.

"Keep in mind that I'm not here to show you that profiling is a be-and-end-all, nor is it 'voodoo' in my father-in-law's sense. To recap my opening remarks, it takes the sum of all evidence gathered to work a case;  profiling is a tool we use to understand the UNSUB's motives and actions in the hope that we can apprehend the correct person or people before a situation turns violent or deadly. There is no single 'magic bullet.' I also wanted to impress upon you that we are all profilers in some way or another. It's not magic, but attention to human nature and the signals our bodies give off and what our speech reveals, sometimes in an unconscious manner, and, in its simplest form, children do it every day." Humor vanished from his face. "In my opinion, the finest untrained profilers in the world...are abused children. They must learn very quickly which behaviors trigger violence from the adults in their lives, and how to counteract or avoid it. Sometimes for them...it truly is a matter of life and death."

The silence that permeated the room was absolute.

Now he said quietly, with the palm of his hand open toward his family, "I'd like to thank former Captain Alexandra V. Eames, Homeland Security Taskforce, NYPD—who will presumably be speaking at the Active and Retired Woman Senior Officers Association conference in April—and our daughter Ms. Mignon Olivia Goren for their cooperation in helping this dry-as-dust old dude, who hopes he'll be far more interesting than the Knicks podcast."

There was a cross between a cough and a choking noise from the rear of the lecture hall as chuckles rippled through the seats. Alex added in a clear, strong voice, "As a former member of a Homeland Security Taskforce, just a reminder that you never know when you may be under surveillance," at which the audience murmured and chuckled. One head appeared bowed lower than the rest.

Robert Goren straddled the table's edge with his left leg, shifting his laptop and binder to that side of his body, now clicking a few keys with long, sensitive fingers so that the computer projected to the larger screen. "Incidentally...um...the only reason our daughter is permitted at my opening lecture is that it's the only one suitable for general audiences, and she asked if she might attend. For the rest of you, this is my final reminder to those who...who cherish a regular restful night's sleep that this may not be the discipline for you. I strongly suggest you transfer elsewhere in the Bureau if you find that to be true. Following this introductory lecture, you'll see and hear things you won't be able to forget." A pause. "Let's commence with the history of the art of criminal profiling, first in its infancy during the reign of Jack the Ripper...and of the negative uses of it, as in racial or sexual profiling–"

"Congratulations on History Hunters," Alex whispered as she put an arm around Olivia.

"Thanks, Mama. You didn't hear—Papa improvised the opening! Do you think he'll do the rest exactly as he rehearsed?" Olivia said quietly.

"We'll see." Alex chuckled to herself because she always expected Bobby to do the unexpected, her eyes on her husband as he began the next phase of his career.