To get to the FBI Academy’s auditorium, we had to walk through one of the lighted, climate-controlled walkways connecting the buildings, affectionately known as “Gerbil Tubes.” When I mentioned the nickname to Tessa, I anticipated what she might say, something like, “Wonderful. The brightest minds in law enforcement and the best they can come up with is ‘Gerbil Tubes.’ How reassuring. I feel so much safer from the forces of evil.”
Instead, she just mumbled, “Caged animals,” and I wasn’t sure if she was referring to the FBI staff, or just reiterating her militant views on protecting animal rights. I held back from commenting.
Currently, the Academy had about 350 field agents in training, who we refer to as New Agents. In addition we have nearly 300 staff, many of whom bail on events like this.
This coming Monday we were beginning a new ten-week National Academy class for command level and elite law enforcement personnel from around the world, another 300 people, half of whom had already arrived.
The auditorium holds about 1,100 people, but I only expected about half that many to show up for tonight’s panel discussion.
For the program, Lieutenant Cole Doehring from the Metro DC police department and my friend, Special Agent Ralph Hawkins, were scheduled to appear with me, and an eight-foot table equipped with three microphones on short stands sat on the stage. Three chairs had been placed behind the table. A wooden podium stood beside it.
Even though we weren’t scheduled to start for another fifteen minutes, already at least one hundred men and women were seated. Tessa regarded them briefly.
“I’m gonna sit in the back.” She gave me a wry smile. “In case I fall asleep.”
“If you do,” I said, “try not to snore. You might wake someone else up.”
“Not bad.” She was replying over her shoulder. “I’d give that one a B+.”
I walked onstage, positioned myself behind one of the microphones, and took a few minutes to glance over my notes. When I looked up, I noticed FBI Executive Assistant Director Margaret Wellington stride into the auditorium and, after sweeping her eyes around the room, lock her gaze on me and march toward the stage.
Great.
Five years ago I’d noticed some discrepancies in a report dealing with one of her cases. Evidence had been lost and I was called into a hearing at the FBI’s Office of Professional Responsibility, our internal affairs department. I reported my findings, and, though she hadn’t received a letter of censure or even an official reprimand, she had been reassigned to a satellite office in Asheville, North Carolina-not exactly the career ladder rung she’d been eyeing.
Ever since then, she’d had it in for me, and as it happens, fate had tipped in her favor. After two unexpected promotions in the last nine months, she was now my boss.
Life in the Bureau.
Stylishly dressed in a tailored pantsuit and wearing staccato heels-a not-so-subtle way to announce her arrival-she toted a brown, Italian leather briefcase that almost matched her hair, which reminded me of carefully brushed strings of bark. “Agent Bowers,” she said curtly.
“Hello, Margaret.”
She held her head ramrod straight, set her briefcase on the table. “You just can’t get used to the fact that I’m an executive assistant director, can you?”
“It’s sinking in.”
A smile that wasn’t a smile. “Good to hear.” She centered her case directly in front of her. “And so, I will ask you to address me appropriately. I’ve earned my position and I deserve to be called by my formal title.”
“You know what, Margaret? I agree.”
She blinked. “You do?”
“Sure, why not? Using each other’s formal titles sounds like a good idea.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “Ah. I see. You want me to call you Dr. Bowers, is that it? Or Special Agent Bowers, PhD?”
I shrugged. “Either one would work for me.”
I’d suspected that the idea of constantly reminding herself that someone had accomplished something that she hadn’t would bother her even more than being called by her first name, and it looked like I was right. It was entertaining to watch her reaction.
“I suppose,” she conceded at last, “that a certain degree of casual intercourse might be acceptable, considering our long professional history together. But not in front of the New Agents.”
Although I knew what she meant, the phrase “casual intercourse” just didn’t sound right at all coming from her mouth, especially when she added, “not in front of the New Agents.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
She clicked open her briefcase. “I had to give Agent Hawkins another assignment, so I’ll be sitting in for him tonight.”
Based on how much Margaret believes in my investigative approach and considering Lieutenant Doehring’s views about geospatial investigation, I had a feeling that this might very well turn into more of a debate than a panel discussion.
“I see,” I said.
As she removed some of the papers from her briefcase, I was surprised to see a photo of a golden retriever taped to the inside flap. Trying to redirect the conversation, I pointed it out: “That’s a good-looking dog, Margaret.”
“It’s Lewis.”
“Lewis.”
“Yes, Lewis.” She checked her watch, and from where I stood I could see it was only a couple minutes before 7:00. Lieutenant Doehring still hadn’t arrived. “Lewis is my pet.”
“I didn’t know you had any pets, Margaret.”
“Now you do.”
I decided to offer her a small olive branch. “Well, like I said, he’s a good-looking dog.”
Doehring appeared at the doorway, started for the stage.
She closed the briefcase authoritatively. “He’s a purebred.”
Of course he was.
Doehring, who’d always reminded me of the X-Men character Wolverine, minus the mutant beard, pounded up the steps to join us.
After twenty years on the force, he had a reputation for being street-smart, blunt, and as tough as nails, but he was also the father of two little girls-seven and four. And from what I’d seen, they had him wrapped around their little fingers. A quintessential cop in all the best ways, Doehring and I had worked together a number of times over the years, and even though we didn’t always see eye-to-eye, I liked him. He knew how to work a case and how to bring it to completion.
“Pat. I heard about Werjonic.” He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry.” There was genuine sympathy in his voice.
“Thanks.”
“He was a good man.”
“Yes. He was.”
For a moment he let the words, the grief, sift through the air, then he greeted Margaret. “EAD Wellington.”
“Lieutenant. Thank you for not being late.”
“You too,” he said.
We shared a look, an almost-smile, then he took a seat. I set my phone to vibrate, slid it into my pocket, and Margaret clacked over to the podium to get the seminar underway.