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cousin’s face when you kick your opponents?”
    “Sometimes.” She pushes a strand of hair from her eyes. “Who did you pretend to hit when you played football for those Fighting Blue Hens?”
    “ Touché .” The eyes return to the file. “Date much?”
    “My social life concerns you as well?”
    Foletta sits back in his chair. “Traumatic sexual experiences like yours often lead to sexual disorders. Again, I just want to know who I’m working with.”
    “I have no aversions to sex, if that’s what you’re asking. I do have a healthy mistrust toward prying men.”
    “This isn’t a halfway house, Intern Vazquez. You’ll need thicker skin than that if you expect to handle forensic residents. Men like these have made names for themselves feasting on pretty college women like you. Coming from FSU, I’d think you could appreciate that.”
    Dominique takes a deep breath, relaxing her coiled muscles. Dammit, tuck your ego away and pay attention . “You’re right, Doctor. My apologies.”
    Foletta closes the file. “Truth is, I have you in mind for a special assignment, but I need to be absolutely certain that you’re up to the task.”
    Dominique reenergizes. “Try me.”
    Foletta removes a thick brown file from his top desk drawer. “As you know, this facility believes in a multidisciplinary-team approach. Each resident is assigned a psychiatrist, a clinical psychologist, social worker, psychiatric nurse, and a rehab therapist. My initial reaction when I first got here was that it’s a bit overkill, but I can’t argue with the results, especially when dealing with substance-abuse patients and preparing individuals to participate in their forthcoming trials.”
    “But not in this case?”
    “No. The resident I want you to oversee is a patient of mine, an inmate from the asylum where I served as psychological services director.”
    “I don’t understand. You brought him with you?”
    “Our facility lost funding about six months ago. He’s certainly not fit for society, and he had to be transferred somewhere. Since I’m more familiar with his history than anyone else, I thought it would be less traumatic for all concerned if he remained under my care.”
    “Who is he?”
    “Ever hear of Professor Julius Gabriel?”
    “Gabriel?” The name sounded familiar. “Wait a second, wasn’t he the archaeologist who dropped dead during a Harvard lecture several years ago?”
    “Over ten years ago.” Foletta grins. “After three decades of research grants, Julius Gabriel returned to the States and stood before an assembly of his peers, claiming that the ancient Egyptians and Mayans had built their pyramids with the help of extraterrestrials—all to save humanity from destruction. Can you imagine? The audience laughed him right offstage. He probably died of humiliation.” Foletta’s cheeks quiver as he chuckles. “Julius Gabriel was a real poster child for paranoid schizophrenia.”
    “So who’s the patient?”
    “His son.” Foletta opens the file. “Michael Gabriel, age thirty-four. Prefers to be called Mick. Spent the first twenty-plus years of his life working side by side with his parents in archaeological digs, probably enough to turn any kid psychotic.”
    “Why was he incarcerated?”
    “Mick lost it during his father’s lecture. The court diagnosed him paranoid schizophrenic and sentenced him to the Massachusetts State Mental Facility where I served as his clinical psychiatrist, remaining so even after my promotion to director in 2006.”
    “Same kind of delusions as his father?”
    “Of course. Father and son were both convinced that some terrible calamity is going to wipe mankind off the face of the planet. Mick also suffers from the usual paranoid delusions of persecution, most of it brought about by his father’s death and his own incarceration. Claims that a government conspiracy has kept him locked up all these years. In Mick Gabriel’s mind, he’s the ultimate victim, an