The alumni board at MIT appeared to be equally unclear on what happened to Erica after graduation. They last had her working for a think tank in Palo Alto, but she was poached from that job after less than a year, and hadn’t updated the school. Likewise, the think tank didn’t feel comfortable disclosing Erica’s new position to either MIT or the federal government.
Meanwhile—and this was where the god of bureaucracy really stepped up—Erica had been trying to get a hold of Maggie Trent at the same time.
Corrigan was the reason Erica got to see that MIT graduation, when so many of her friends did not. She was also better acquainted with exactly what Corrigan could do—and how—than Corrigan himself was, which Erica thought probably made her valuable in a moment when it looked as if he’d gotten something wrong. So, when Erica saw the viral footage of the man who saved her life acting like a crazy person, she did all she could to get in touch with Maggie Trent of the FBI, if only to ask, how can I help?
But she didn’t have Maggie’s number, or Corrigan’s number, and they didn’t have hers. This was probably an oversight on someone’s part, except that Erica explicitly recalled thinking that if they needed to reach one another again, that would mean something awful was happening. Erica had been hoping they were past all of that.
She kept trying to get through, even after the media reported that the threat was over, and began the debate (still ongoing) over whether Corrigan Bain was a hero or a co-conspirator. It cooled the switchboards enough that one day, finally, Erica gave her name to someone close enough to Maggie to remember that Maggie wanted to talk to Erica. Twenty-two hours and three flights later, Erica was landing at Logan International Airport.
Maggie met her in baggage.
“Hey,” Erica greeted, with a hug. “I didn’t expect you to show in person. Aren’t you kind of important?”
“Depends on who you’re talking to.,” Maggie said. “I was up anyway.”
The wait for Erica’s one bag to come down the carousel was interminable, and conducted mostly in silence. They had a thousand things to discuss, but every subject mandated privacy first.
Finally, they got the bag, and made it to Maggie’s car.
“He’s not really dead, is he?” Erica asked.
Maggie hadn’t even started the car yet.
“Not currently,” Maggie said. “He also hasn’t woken up yet.”
“I’m sorry,” Erica said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just tired, thanks. But we have a lot to go over. Let’s get you to the hotel so you can start first thing.”
“I’m still on Japan time. Why don’t we get started now?”
Maggie grinned. “I was sort of hoping you’d say that.”
The news media didn’t know what to do with what happened in Center Plaza.
What was known was that there was a hostage, a man with a gun, a bomb, and Corrigan Bain, the erstwhile most-wanted-man in the city. When it was all over, Corrigan had been shot twice—once in the bullet-proof vest he was wearing, once in the stomach—and died at the scene...for about sixty seconds. He died again at the hospital, for seventy-three seconds, but had not died successfully since. The public didn’t know all of that—that he died, certainly, but not that he had been revived—although nobody scheduled a funeral, which was certainly notable. And the one family member anyone was able to identify—Corrigan’s mother—had dropped off the grid entirely.
It was also known that he was shot by the man with the gun, who was now in custody. Identified as Bernard Jenks, his last known address was in Quebec, Canada. Various media personages had written entire biographies of Mr. Jenks that would only end up useful to the people responsible for his high school alumni newsletter. Nothing about his life history could explain how he ended up standing in a mall under the Prudential with a gun and a large bomb.
Perhaps the most notable thing about the biography of Bernard Jenks was that there was more information available about him than anyone had been able to uncover on Corrigan Bain, and the media had an extra week to work on Corrigan.
Then there was the hostage, who should have been an absolute fount of information, given it was a blogger with whom the city was already intimately familiar.
In the four days between the bombing of the State House and the incident at Center Plaza, Monica Devereaux had been interviewed (television and radio) over a dozen times, and profiled twice by local and national print media. For someone who was a self-described introvert who actively sought out a profession that allowed her to work alone almost exclusively, she had pushed the envelope of overexposure to its upper limit. It seemed likely that, had it gone on for another week, everyone would have been sick of hearing from her.
Then she ended up in the middle of the story, instead of a prescient website owner on the fringes. It was known that she was the one wearing the bomb, and it was known that she was not a willing participant in the proceedings. She was a first-hand witness to the shooting of Corrigan Bain by Bernard Jenks, and she was there (of course) when Corrigan deactivated the bomb…somehow, despite having no training anyone could verify, on the deactivation of explosive devices. In fact, most of what the media definitely did know, they knew because of an initial interview with Monica, after she’d been taken from the scene.
It was only reasonable to expect that she would be available to provide additional details. However, after that on-the-scene conversation with a local TV outlet, Monica Devereaux stopped talking. Her website, while still active, was being held aloft by commenters. She posted no updates, and hadn’t even returned home, according to the multiple print reporters camped in front of her apartment building.
Beyond what was known, was everything that could only be guessed at. Nobody was really sure why Jenks shot Bain, while the twenty-odd police officers and FBI persons at the scene neither shot anyone, nor prevented anyone from getting shot. Devereaux did not—in her one interview—explain how she ended up kidnapped (presumably) and taken to the mall with a bomb on her chest. Speculation abounded, as speculation tended to do: were Jenks and Bain working together? Was the shooting due to an argument? How could Corrigan Bain deactivate a bomb that was supposedly the same kind of bomb that had flummoxed professional bomb deactivation people four days earlier? Did this mean he was involved all along?
Some of the questions being asked were the same ones being asked by law enforcement, albeit privately. The biggest such question was: what exactly was the point of all of that? The bomb never went off. The BPD and the FBI knew perfectly well that Bernard Jenks had no demands, and never interacted—aside from a couple of orders shouted at the first-responder—with anyone aside from Bain, and Devereaux. So why was he there?
This was the kernel of missing information that drove the media mad over the course of the week, following Bain’s public death. The official statement from the Boston Police was that the case was closed, the bomber responsible for what happened at the State House had been captured, and everyone was safe now. But Bernard Jenks was a black hole in terms of information, which meant there was no storyline to follow that could button up the story. The public needed a manifesto, or a statement of intent, or…something. Just a note on a napkin that read, “I don’t like Bostonians”, in Bernard’s hand, would have done the trick.
It wasn’t that law enforcement had made it impossible for anyone from the press to get this information; they didn’t have it either. Since his arrest, Jenks had only spoken a dozen words. Two of those words were, “not guilty”. They were spoken at his arraignment, and it looked to the assembled press as though the words came as a surprise to the court-appointed attorney standing next to him.
He was being held at the Suffolk County Jail until his trial date. Which just meant that BPD, the Suffolk County Sheriff’s department, the District Attorney, and the FBI had until then to figure out what in the hell was actually going on.
Hopefully, Corrigan Bain would be able to answer some of that, but the odds were pretty good that—while he
was not actually dead—he would never regain consciousness.
There were several different ways to get from Logan Airport to the FBI offices at Government Center. The way Maggie decided on, without really thinking about it, took them past the Nashua Street location of the Suffolk County Jail.
She’d spoken to Jenks personally, on three occasions. It was very much the case that she spoke, rather than that they spoke with one another, because he continued to be unhelpful. He didn’t behave like a man who was concerned about spending the rest of his life in prison, certainly. If anything, his demeanor leaned hard in the direction of religious fanaticism. Specifically, the, my reward will come in the next life component.
“So that’s it?” Erica asked, regarding their conversation up to that point. “You guys really don’t know anything more than the papers do?”
“Depends on which papers you’ve been reading,” Maggie said.
There were a bunch of conspiracy theories out there. The one that was most interesting had Corrigan as part of a secret government program whose goal was…well, it varied. This theory had it that he didn’t die, but was simply reassigned, after being outed by the press. The flashpoint for that theory appeared to be a blurry photograph that surfaced after the incident at the Pru. Someone got a shot of him being loaded into the ambulance. He was rocked to the side as he was loaded, which revealed a portion of the back of the bulletproof vest. It was hard to tell, but it looked like the words FBI were emblazoned on it.
Maggie happened to know that those letters really were on the back of the vest, because that was what he’d taken from the condo that day. (And not her gun, which she found in her own apartment a day later, still in its case.) It didn’t mean Corrigan Bain was a CIA agent with superpowers; it meant he was dating an FBI agent who was in the habit of leaving unusual articles of clothing in his house.
But at least that theory was rooted in some sort of reality.
“Well, okay,” Erica said, “but none of that explains why I’m here.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Maggie said. “I’ve only told you what we know. There’s a big pile of stuff we don’t understand. That’s what you’re here for.”
“Ooh, mysterious. I’m flattered. I guess I’m pretty good with things that are difficult to understand. What are we talking about?”
“You’re also the only expert on the subject who’s still alive,” Maggie said. “Someone built one of your devices.”
“One of my…devices?”
Erica looked confused.
“A more advanced version of the thing you guys were working on at MIT. I thought you would have figured that out by now, just from the reports.”
“To see the future? Like Corrigan does?”
“Yes, exactly. You know, because that was what we were so hung up on, the day of the bombing. How could Corrigan have thought a bomb was going to go off, when it didn’t? Didn’t you wonder that?”
“I did, yes, but…tell me more about this device.”
“I’m taking you to see it right now. It’s portable; Jenks was wearing the thing when Corrigan took him down, and it’s still mostly intact.”
“Oh, is that where the android story came from?”
Several conspiracy theories posited that Bernard Jenks wasn’t fully human. That Erica was citing this particular bit of weirdness implied that she had indeed been reading all the available news.
“Yeah. It’s a suit, kind of.”
Erica stopped talking. They’d just gotten off of Storrow Drive and were making their way down Charles Street—past the old location of the Suffolk County Jail, which was now (of all things) an upscale hotel. She appeared to be looking at the scenery. On the other side of the river was the tail end of the MIT campus, briefly visible as they made the turn. Maggie thought at first that this was what had brought on the sudden solemnity in her car’s co-occupant. Then she realized Erica’s lips were moving. She was doing calculations or something.
Erica Smalls was probably the smartest person Maggie would ever expect to know personally, and she’d met a lot of smart people. That she also looked like a fashion model was something Maggie was trying not to take personally.
“It’s impossible,” Erica said, some three blocks later. “That’s why.”
“That’s why what?”
“You said you thought I would have figured that part out already from what was available to the public, and you’re right; I would have if was possible. It’s not.”
“Well that happens a lot, doesn’t it? Around Corrigan?”
“That’s true.”
“I mean, we had to deal with invisible creatures murdering people last time around, right? It’s impossible, until it isn’t.”
Erica looked like she was going to say more on the subject, but pulled it back.
“Maybe I should look at the device first,” she said. “Then we can have this conversation again.”
Joe White was surprised to discover David Spence waiting for him in front of the jail, rather than Margaret Trent. It had been Maggie the last three times. This either meant she had something more important to do, or she’d decided this was a waste of her time. Joe was leaning toward the latter, only because he was pretty sure it was a waste of his time.
“Where’s your girlfriend, Davey?” he asked, while Dave extinguished the cigarette he’d been enjoying from less than fifty feet from the front door, contrary to federal regulations.
Joe always thought Dave was a good cop, but he was also someone who liked to break little rules, because he wanted to be the kind of guy people thought of as a rule-breaker. It was the same reason he enjoyed letting people—people who knew his wife personally—think he was having a thing with Maggie Trent. It was mostly an idiosyncrasy with him: Joe didn’t think he was someone willing to break the important rules. Dave wouldn’t pocket cash from a drug bust, or beat down a suspect, or plant a drop piece on a perp. But he wanted to be thought of as someone who could do those things.
It was probably the kids. Or the premature balding. Whatever the reason, it was why Joe tended to prefer not to work closely with him, good cop or not.
Plus, Maggie was easier on the eyes. She continued to annoy the hell out of Joe, but he couldn’t deny that.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” David said. “Do you have a new set of questions for our friend today?”
“Nah, same ones. Figure I’ll just keep asking until he gets bored of ‘em. You?”
“I don’t have a list. This is my first time, I thought I’d just wing it.”
“Oh, and you didn’t answer my question: where’s Agent Trent? She get tired of this guy already?”
“Maggie’s consulting with an expert right now.”
“An expert? In what?”
David shrugged.
“That’s all she told us.”
“Does this expert have a name?” Joe asked.
“I’m sure he does. Most people do. You ready?”
The Suffolk County Jail was a maximum-security facility full of short-term residents who were either on their way to prison or exoneration, depending on how expensive their lawyer was, and perhaps also on whether or not they were guilty.
In order to get in to see Bernard Jenks, White and Spence had to sign in at the first desk, show some paperwork with the D.A.’s signature on it at a second desk, surrender their firearms at a third desk, and then wait at a fourth desk for a half an hour, while the prisoner was moved from his extra-secure private cell and his attorney—who was waiting at a fifth desk somewhere—was brought in to represent his client’s interests. They would all meet in an interrogation room, where the two police officers were allowed to talk to Jenks for as long as an hour.
They were also allowed to record the conversation. If the perp felt like confessing—he’d already pled not guilty, but stranger things had happened—they were allowed to hand him a pen and paper so as to formally document that confession. They were allowed to tell his attorney to let the man write, i
n the event the attorney felt obligated in some way to advise his client not to confess under these circumstances, as surely the correct way involved a plea deal with a representative of the District Attorney’s office.
They were not allowed to beat the shit out of the guy. Joe checked the paperwork, and that was definitely not allowed.
After all those desks—plus a dozen doors that had be unlocked for them—they were escorted into the room. Jenks was cuffed to a steel table, next to a P.D. named Landon. Joe had never met Landon outside of this room, and didn’t know what kind of person he was when he wasn’t going full-on attorney, but he seemed like an okay enough guy. Probably not a cross-the-room-to-shake-his-hand kind of guy; more of a nod-hello type. It was hard to say, because the kid was a little green.
“Landon,” Joe greeted, shaking the attorney’s hand across the table. “This is Detective David Spence.”
David and Landon shook, and then everyone joined Jenks at the table.
“We have a few questions,” Joe said. “And we’re hoping your client can answer them this time.”
The questions were indeed the same ones they’d asked every other time they spent an hour with Bernard Jenks. They were interesting questions, if only because they illuminated precisely how little the FBI knew. Landon, for instance, probably found them extremely interesting.
About half, if answered, would be a tacit admission of guilt for a crime Jenks had already pled not guilty to. Whenever those kinds of questions came up, Landon advised his client not to answer. His client didn’t, but he wasn’t answering anything either way. On the second try, Joe snuck in, “what did you have for lunch today?” and Jenks still didn’t answer. He smiled, though, so he wasn’t deaf.
They went through all of them anyway.
Why did you blow up the State House?
What were you hoping to accomplish at the Prudential?
Fixer Redux Page 16