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corner. I had to go two levels down to find a spot. Then I rode the elevator up to the main floor.
    The lobby had a high ceiling with an old-fashioned crystal chandelier that would have felt right at home at the Met. The interior, with its warm wood and brass fittings, was designed for tenants who could afford to pay plenty of overhead.
    A uniformed security guard behind a circular mahogany counter asked me to sign in. He pointed me to the two-story archway that led to the University Medical Imaging Center. A pair of potted trees, taller than I, flanked the double glass doorway.
    In the waiting area, the large window in the wall was slid open. A young woman at a desk on the other side had her jacket on and was shutting down her computer. She was tall and blond, like she was fresh off Malibu Beach. I told her who I was and why I was there. She disappeared into the back.
    While I waited I looked around the empty carpeted waiting room. Rows of straight-backed chairs were punctuated by low tables loaded with magazines. The photos on the wall were blow-ups of historic Boston. I was admiring a picture of the Old Howard—a burlesque house in Scollay Square, that mythic part of Boston long ago torn down to make way for a soulless Government Center—when the door to the inner area flew open. A tall, handsome man with a chiseled profile and a mane of silver curls came toward me, his hand outstretched. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and his teeth glowed.
    â€œDr. Zak?” he said. “Dr. Ryan has told me all about you. I’m Jim Shands.”
    He had the firm handshake of a seasoned politician. He ushered me into an antiseptic-smelling area where harsh fluorescent lighting bounced off a white vinyl floor.
    â€œPlease, call me Peter. I’ve read your papers on Lewy body dementia. Very interesting.”
    â€œAnd I’ve read yours on memory,” he said. “Impressive.”
    His gaze fell to a FedEx box on the floor. “What the…?” he started. Labels on it read WET ICE and STORE AT 4 C . “How the hell long has this been here? They know I’ve been waiting for this.” He looked around and, seeing no one, raised his voice. “Why in God’s name didn’t someone tell me this was here?”
    He picked up the box like someone might pick up a newborn baby and cradled it in his arms. “Amanda,” he barked. “Where is that girl?”
    â€œI think she went home,” I said.
    â€œIncompetence.” He muttered some more about how he’d told her a million times. Then to me, “Sorry. I need to take care of this. This won’t take a minute.”
    He disappeared down the corridor. When he returned a short time later he seemed fully recovered.
    â€œI appreciate your allowing me to observe,” I said. “I don’t know nearly as much as I’d like to about MRI technology.”
    â€œIf you’re going to see it, this is the place. We’ve got the strongest whole-body magnet used for clinical imaging in the country.”
    We started down the corridor.
    â€œI understand you do some forensic work?” he said.
    â€œI evaluate people who are accused of crimes.” I didn’t mention that I always work for the defense. I’d learned not to the hard way, having sat through more than my share of lectures that began with raised eyebrows and a knowing look, followed by Oh, so you’re one of those hired guns .
    â€œHave you read about the recent Johns Hopkins work, examining brain scans of convicted criminals?” Shands asked. “They found abnormalities in the prefrontal cortex.”
    I’d read the study. Their findings confirmed what had been hypothesized for years—that the prefrontal cortex plays a role in controlling emotions and behavior. It invited the question: Could we “fix” a criminal’s frontal lobes so he’d stop committing crimes? This kind of speculation had encouraged a flurry of