BALACLAVA BABE

January 1982

I gaze through one-way glass. Empty my mind, free floating and detached, waiting for a spark, a jolt, a drum roll—anything at all that will enable me to say effortlessly, unequivocally, “It’s you. You’re the one.”

I gaze, unblinking, until my eyes hurt and the faces of the six men standing shoulder to shoulder merge into a swirling, disjointed pattern. A crack of thunder makes the strip-light flicker, snapping me back to the observation room and the stale smell of cigarette smoke. Garda B warms herself beside an oversized radiator.

“Take your time, Carol,” she says. “Before making your identification.”

“How will I know for sure?” I say

Her brow scrunches. “Just ask yourself if any of these