One of the things i find most rewarding about my job is that there is always a certain amount of variety. Some days I get to use large and expensive machinery to run very modern scientific tests; some days I simply peer into a microscope. And if nothing else, the scenery changes when I go out to crime scenes. Of course, the crimes are all different, too, ranging from the common and vulgar wife slashing to some really quite interesting eviscerations from time to time.

But in all my vast and varied experience with the department, I had never before been asked to use my scientific training and acumen to prepare my terrified sister for a press conference, and I have to say this was a good thing, because if it had been a regular part of my job, I would have seriously considered quitting forensics and getting a job teaching middle school physical education.

Deborah dragged me off to her cubicle and immediately burst into a very unattractive cold sweat; she sat down, stood up, paced three steps in each direction, sat down again, and began to squeeze her hands together. And just to add to an already sky-high Irritant Quotient, she began to say, "Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit," over and over in various volumes and inflections, until I began to think she had lost the power of intelligent speech altogether.

"Debs," I said at last, "if that's your statement, Captain Matthews is going to be very unhappy."

"Shit," she said, and I wondered if I should slap her. "Dexter, Jesus, please, what am I supposed to say?"

"Anything but 'shit,' " I said.

She stood up again and walked to the window, still mangling her hands. Every little girl who has ever lived has grown up wanting to be an actress or dancer or some kind of performer-all of them except Deborah. All she ever wanted out of life, even at the tender age of five, was a badge and a gun. And through hard work, dogged intelligence, and really painful arm punches, she had achieved her goal-only to find that in order to keep it, she now had to be an actress. The word "irony" is terribly overused, but still, the situation seemed to call for a bit of wry amusement at the very least.

But it also called for a certain amount of Dexter's newfound Lily Anne-born compassion, since I could tell that without my help, my sister was going to prove once and for all that there really was something to the idea of spontaneous combustion. So when I decided that Debs had suffered enough, I got up from my rickety little chair and went to stand beside her. "Debs," I said. "This is something so easy that Captain Matthews is good at it."

I think she almost said "shit" again, but she caught herself and just bit her lip instead. "I can't do it," she said. "All those people-and reporters-cameras-I just can't, Dexter."

I was glad to see that she had recovered a little, enough to separate "people" from "reporters," but clearly I still had work to do. "You can, Deborah," I told her firmly. "And it will be a lot easier than you think. You may even get to like it."

She ground her teeth and I think she would have punched me if she hadn't been so distracted. "Don't hold your breath," she said.

"It's easy," I said again. "We're going to write out a few short paragraphs, and all you have to do is read them out loud. Just like giving a book report in sixth grade."

"I flunked book reports," she growled.

"You didn't have me to help," I said, with a great deal more confidence than I felt. "Now come on; let's sit down and write this thing."

She ground her teeth and squeezed her hands together some more for a few seconds, and she seemed to think about jumping out the window. But it was only the second floor, and the windows were sealed shut, so finally Debs turned away and slumped back into her chair. "All right," she said through clenched teeth. "Let's do it."

There are only a very few cop cliches that are necessary for saying almost anything to the press. That is one reason, of course, that a talking suit like Captain Matthews could become good enough at it to rise up to his lofty rank based solely on his ability to memorize them all and then put them in the right order when standing in front of a camera. It was really not even a skill, since it took a great deal less ability than the simplest card trick.

Still, it was a talent Deborah did not have, not even a little, and trying to explain it to her was like describing plaid to a blind person. Altogether it was a nasty and unpleasant interlude, and by the time we headed down to the press conference I was nearly as sweaty and frazzled as my sister. Neither of us felt any better when we saw the standing-room-only crowd of salivating predators waiting for us. For a moment Deborah froze in place, one foot raised in the air. But then, as if somebody had flipped a switch, the reporters turned on her and began their routine of shouting questions and taking pictures, and as I saw Deborah clamp her jaw and frown, I took a deep breath. She's going to be all right, I thought, and I watched her climb to the podium with something like pride in my creation.

Of course, that lasted only until she opened her mouth, and after that began one of the most miserable fifteen-minute spells I can remember. Deborah trying to speak to a roomful of cops was profoundly uncomfortable. Deborah trying to make a statement at a press conference was torture so intensely painful that I am quite sure that the men in black hoods who worked for the Inquisition would have shuddered and refused to participate. Deborah stammered, stuttered, stumbled, sweated, and lurched from phrase to carefully polished phrase in a tangled sweat so thorough she looked like she was confessing to child rape, and when she finally finished the prepared statement I had worked on so hard there was stunned silence in the room for several seconds. And then, alas, the reporters smelled blood in the water and leaped on Deborah with a savage frenzy. All that had come before was cupcakes and kitties by comparison, and I watched as Deborah slowly and carefully tied the rope around her own neck and hoisted herself into the air, where she twisted in the wind with agonizing completeness until finally, mercifully, Captain Matthews had suffered enough and stepped forward to say, "No more questions." He did not quite shove Deborah off the podium, but it was clear that he had to think about it.

The captain glared forcefully at the assembled lynch mob, as if he could beat them into submission with his manly stare, and they did actually quiet down just a bit. "All right," he said after a moment. "The, uh, family members." He put a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat and I wondered if Deborah was contagious. "Mr. and Mrs. Um Aldovar. Would like to make a brief statement." He nodded and then held out an arm in a half embrace.

A stunned-looking Mr. Aldovar led his wife up to the microphones. She looked exhausted and several years older, but as they stood there in front of the crowd she visibly gathered herself, pushed away from her husband, and fumbled out a sheet of paper. And the reporters, bizarrely enough, actually went silent for a moment.

"To the person or persons who took our little girl," she began, and then she had to stop for a moment and, just for consistency, clear her throat. "Our Samantha," she said. "We don't have a lot of money, but whatever we have or can get, it's yours. Just please don't hurt our little girl… Just…" And that was as far as she could get. She covered her face with her hands and the paper fluttered to the ground. Mr. Aldovar stepped forward and took her into his arms and glared at the crowd as if they knew where Samantha was and refused to tell.

"She's a good kid," he said angrily. "There's no reason in the world to, to-Please," he said with a softer tone. "Please just let her go. Whatever it is you want, just please let her go…" And then his face crumpled and he just turned away. Captain Matthews stepped forward and glared out at the room again.