The morning light made a long shadow chase Amy's car along the road. Almost there, according to the maps lying on the passenger seat. She hoped she'd be able to get some coffee when she arrived. It had been an early start this morning and a late night before that, reviewing the files she'd pulled about the other murders.

Even when she had got to bed, sleep had not come quickly. The accident scene she'd chased Turner and Decker to preyed on her mind. That smashed up car the witnesses insisted Face had emerged from loomed up whenever she closed her eyes.

Turner put a watch on all the hospitals, as witnesses also said two men had carried Face into another car. Was he badly hurt? Taking him to a hospital would be a shortcut to jail. The team had a few doctor contacts, Amy knew a couple of names. But would they dare go to any of those people now? Risk dragging them into this mess?

Having to wait for the team to contact her and having no way to get in touch with them left her frustrated. However, she determined she wouldn't just sit and wait for orders from Hannibal. She had information and in this case, she could do more with it than the team could.

A road sign pointed her to the next left turn and she took it, started driving alongside a high fence, topped with razor wire. It went on for what seemed like miles. A long way beyond the wire, behind more fences and walls, lay a huge, low concrete building. In a moment, Amy turned right and stopped at the first gate, below a sign.

Fairspring Federal Penitentiary. Visitors Gate.

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Hannibal brought breakfast with him back to the warehouse, but nobody was interested in eating yet, until they heard about what else he'd brought back.

"You were drugged," Hannibal said to Face. He glanced down at the sheet of paper he carried, but the arcane chemical symbols on it meant little to him. Some of the words did though and his contact had explained them. "The test found the drugs in your blood and traces on the champagne glasses. Quite a cocktail, which included chloral hydrate, benzodiazepine and fluni... flunitrazepam and more that he's still trying to identify."

"Sounds like everything we've hit the big guy with over the years rolled into one," Murdock said, earning a growl and a dirty look from BA.

"It sounds to me like a little recipe someone's been perfecting for some time," Hannibal said. He looked at Face. Did this help him? Face would hardly be happy to see himself as a victim and he'd surely still manage to feel guilty about it, since he had years of training in that department. But he must see now that he wasn't responsible for what happened, or for failing to prevent it?

"Face," he said after a moment, holding up the large envelope that held the toxicology report. "What do you want me to do with these results?"

"I, well, I think we should get them to the police." Face nodded, and his voice took on more of a snap. "Yeah. They may not be admissible in court, but they're still important evidence. If the cops are going to get to the truth, then this is part of that truth."

The others nodded their approval.

"Okay," Hannibal said. "Let's get some breakfast and move out." He glanced at his watch. "And I'll try to call Amy again, see what she has to report. I tried her at home on my way back here, but I guess she must have headed for work already. Face, I'm guessing I can let you out of that manacle now."

"Oh that." Face stood up leaving the manacle still attached to the bench, but not to his wrist. "I got out of that just before dawn, when both my guard dogs here..." He nodded at the staring BA and Murdock. "Were snoring their heads off." He smirked. "Well I needed the bathroom and I hated to wake them."

Hannibal grinned at Face's smug expression. "Nice, Face, nice." He held out a cardboard cup of coffee and Face came over to take it.

Murdock shook himself from staring at Face walking around unchained. "Right, so we're going to mail the test results to the police?"

"Mail?" Hannibal shook his head. "Oh I think we can do better than that."

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It took Amy nearly an hour to get from the gate to the visitor's area. Checks on her car, checks on her ID. Searches of her purse, her briefcase, her pockets. At last, a guard took her into a visiting area, a long table divided into booths, the visitor and prisoner kept apart by a clear plastic screen. Only one other visitor waited at this early hour, an elderly woman.

Amy sat in a booth and waited, fidgeting with a pencil, trying to read her notes again and finding she could only read the same paragraph over and over, without taking any of it in. She had visited prisons before as part of her work, for interviews, but never a maximum-security facility like this. Of course, there'd been Strikersville, when the team went to investigate the warden's twentieth century gladiator racket. But with Face with her all the time, she'd felt safe.

Technically, she was safe here. Many locked doors and gates separated her from the prisoners. Still, she would be glad to get this over and get out of here.

On the other side of the Plexiglas screen she saw a door open and a prison guard brought in a man wearing an orange jumpsuit. Amy looked at him then looked down at her papers again, expecting the man to sit opposite the elderly woman a few booths away. However, the guard brought him over to sit in front of Amy and the prisoner picked up the intercom phone on his side. She picked up her handset.

"Robert Bryant?" She must not have hidden her surprise very well, and he gave a short laugh when he saw the photograph she had.

"I guess I've changed since that was taken."

He had. The man in the photograph was in his mid thirties, with light brown hair and a wide smile. He wasn't especially handsome, but tanned, healthy and well dressed.

The man in front of her looked a decade older, his hair streaked with grey. Stress, or simply because he couldn't dye it any longer? His tan had gone and the bright orange jumpsuit and fluorescent lights emphasised the pallor of his gaunt face, and the dark circles under her eyes. And the wide smile had gone, because several of his front teeth were missing.

"I... yes... I'm sorry." She pulled herself together with an effort.

"My lawyer said I should talk to you, he said you might have some good news for me."

"Well," Amy said, wishing she had something more concrete for him. If the murders in the stories were connected, then Face was only the latest man to be framed and this man was innocent. She wished she could give him real hope his ordeal might soon be over.

"Do you get the newspapers, Mr Bryant? Have you seen the stories about Templeton Peck?"

"Call me Robert, please. Yes, I've seen the story. It's... well, it brought back some memories."

"Um, can you tell me about your case? About that night..."

"The night I killed Lisa Watkins?"

Amy stared at him and he grimaced.

"The night they say I did anyway. I can't really help you too much on that. I still don't remember it. We went to the hotel, and when I woke up in the morning she was dead."

Amy nodded. She knew the story from the files. He hadn't even tried to run away. He'd called an ambulance, the police had come with it and the next time his feet touched the ground was on the floor of a jail cell.

"Robert, you were an executive at Paramount studios weren't you?"

"Yes." He looked surprised by the sudden change in subject, but a nostalgic look appeared on his face and he almost smiled. "Kind of job a man dreams about, rubbing shoulders with stars."

"And the women must throw themselves at you? You know, actresses, ones trying to be actresses."

Bryant frowned at her, looked embarrassed. "Well, yeah, I... that was part of the attraction, I suppose I can't deny that."

"Was Lisa like that? She thought you could help her career?"

Bryant looked away. "Well, yes, pretty much." He looked back at Amy. "She was gorgeous. And if I'd been, I don't know, a mechanic, or a clerk or something, she'd have been way out of my league, I know that. But money and power... Well it's kind of what they're for, isn't it?" He sighed and shook his head.

"You pleaded guilty at your trial. Why did you do that if you don't remember what happened?"

"My lawyer advised it. Said it was such an open and shut case that there was no way I wouldn't be convicted. He said I should plead guilty and that would get me a lighter sentence." He glanced around at the walls. "Fifteen years." His voice fell to a whisper. "Hell, I don't think I'll make it past five."

"Robert," Amy said, making him look at her again, held his gaze. "Did you do it?"

A stab of anguish in his eyes turned to despairing resignation after a moment.

"I guess I must have. I don't remember it, I swear to God. But it had to be me. There was nobody else there."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

He frowned. "What are you saying?"

"I can't talk about it much; I'm still putting it together. But let me tell you about Templeton Peck. He is..."

She glanced around, almost as if she expected Decker to be sitting next to her. Although nobody else was around except the old woman and a bored looking guard by the door, Amy spoke quietly.

"Templeton Peck is someone I know well, he's a friend. And I don't believe he murdered that woman. I think someone is framing him. And I don't think it's the first time they've done it. Somebody out there thinks they've found a way to commit the perfect crime. But this time they chose the wrong victims. And we're going to track them down."

"We?"

Amy bit her lip, thinking perhaps she'd revealed too much. However, she'd learnt - no, been taught - to trust her gut feeling. She smiled at Bryant.

"Mr Bryant, as of this moment you should consider yourself a client of the A-Team."

He gaped at her and she went on smiling at him, marvelling at her own presumption, as she started to shuffle together her papers.

"Well, I have more to do. I need to get going --"

"Wait." He glanced at a clock on the wall. "We're allowed thirty minutes. Can't you... well, stay for the full thirty?"

She saw the pleading in his eyes. The fear of going back to the hell that awaited him beyond all those doors and gates. She took pity on him, as she pictured Face in his place. She stopped gathering up her files.

"Sure."

"Thanks." He smiled, though put a hand to his mouth, covering the gap in his teeth. "It's just nice to have someone, well, civilised to talk to, even for a few minutes."

So they sat for the rest of the thirty minutes and he asked her about movies and news events and sports and all too soon for him the guard came and tapped him on the shoulder. He stood and put a hand on the plastic screen, perhaps in lieu of the handshake they couldn't exchange. In his other hand, he still held the intercom phone.

"Well, goodbye, Amy."

"Goodbye, Robert. I'll get some news to you or to your lawyer as soon as I can."