The public entrance to police headquarters is on North James Lovell Street. I used the department one on West State Street, just around the corner.
And found the two FBI agents from the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime waiting for me just inside the door.
The man: hulking and thickly muscled-bigger even than Thorne, and nearly my height. He had a presence about him that commanded respect and it seemed to affect everyone around us, almost as if he’d brought his own weather system with him into the building.
The woman: petite, with stylish glasses, her light brown hair pulled back into a sensible ponytail. The guy looked about thirty; she looked fresh out of the academy. Both were dressed neatly and conservatively. Most male FBI agents who aren’t working undercover seem to be into ties, but not this guy. Black turtleneck all the way. He held a half-finished two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew in one hand, a leather briefcase in the other.
He introduced himself: “Ralph Hawkins, FBI.” The words came out in a low rumble, a voice you’d expect from a guy who could bench-press a pickup. “This is Special Agent Ellen Parker.”
I greeted them. He passed the bottle of soda to his other arm, then enveloped my hand in his as we shook. “Detective Patrick Bowers,” I said. “Homicide. Just call me Pat.”
“Ralph.”
“And Ellen is fine,” Agent Parker told me.
“Good.”
A couple of moments later, as we passed down the hallway, she unexpectedly excused herself and walked off alone toward the elevator.
Ralph paused. “Gives us a chance to chat.”
Ah. So. Here we go.
I gestured toward the stairs and led the way.
“I understand you’re in charge of this case?” he said.
“Yes.” I could only imagine what a logistical and bureaucratic nightmare this was going to be if he tried to pull rank and take over. It would have been audacious, but I wasn’t ready to put anything past the FBI.
We entered the stairwell. Thorne’s office was on the fourth floor. We started up the steps.
Despite his size Ralph was quick and light on the stairs. “There are two ways we can do this. We can either waste time dicking around trying to figure out who’s calling the shots, or we can work together to catch this psycho. Your call.”
So, he had an attitude and got straight to the point.
My kind of guy.
“Agent Hawkins-Ralph…” We reached the second floor. “I have every reason to believe that you’re experienced and well qualified at what you do, but I need you to know that I’m going to find this guy and bring him in or take him down and if you get in my way I’ll do whatever is necessary to move you aside so I can do my job.”
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the ideal thing to say to kick off our working relationship, but I’ve never been especially known for my tact.
He paused as we reached the third-floor landing. He wasn’t out of breath. Neither was I.
I waited for his response. Tried to read him. Couldn’t.
Then he took a long, unhurried swallow of his Mountain Dew, finished most of it, and smacked his lips. “Glad to hear we’re on the same page. But…” I caught the hint of a smile. “How am I gonna get in your way, Detective, when I’m going to be the one way out in front of you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I can be a bit determined at times.”
“I’m counting on that.” We started for the fourth floor. “Besides, you couldn’t move me aside.”
“I’m stronger than I look.”
He cracked his neck and cords of muscle strained beneath his skin. “So am I.” He downed the rest of his soda and tossed the empty bottle into a trash can as we entered the hallway and passed the elevator bay.
And as he strode beside me on the way to Lieutenant Thorne’s office, I couldn’t help but wonder-if he really was stronger than he looked-just how tough this guy, who was obviously not a desk jockey, actually was.