Borderline Insanity

by Jeff Miller

  That seemed to be the consensus. “The Professor has him white and thin, too.”

  “A fat guy would be too tired to carry out something like this, right?”

  If Harrison Baker could peg the guy as thin with a limited view for one second, he must be really thin. “Meet up with Beamer and find out what’s happening with the property and the bank. Why has it been sitting so long? Did anyone from the bank ever come here to check on it?”

  “Sure.” He started to walk away but stopped. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes.”

  He took a few steps back toward her. “I know you have issues with me.”

  “I don’t have any issues with you, Brent.”

  “Yes, you do,” he said. “But I’m asking for a clean slate.”

  She studied him for a moment, trying to figure out his angle. That was her issue with him. He always seemed to have an angle.

  “What?” he said.

  “Why are you a special agent, Brent?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because . . .”

  She waited. “You’re just searching for a palatable way to say it.”

  “Okay, why do you think I became an agent?”

  “As a path to something else. Assistant director. Deputy director. Or maybe running for Congress. Right?”

  He smiled. “If you think that’s worthy of disdain, tell me, Dagny Gray, why did you become a special agent?”

  “To be a special agent.”

  “And that’s more noble, I guess? Ambition is a bad thing?”

  “You can’t trust the ambitious, because honesty isn’t rewarded.”

  “So, you think I’m a liar?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t trust me?” He shook his head. “How dare you. I’m the only one who’s honest with you. The Professor is happy to have a huge case. That’s all he cares about. He doesn’t care about you. You think I’m ambitious? The Professor is ambitious. He’s auditioning for Director.”

  The idea seemed ludicrous. “C’mon.”

  “What?”

  “He doesn’t want to be Director.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he told me.”

  “You’ve talked about this with him?”

  “Yes.”

  The Professor had never discussed this with her. “He’s too old. He’d never be confirmed.” It hurt that he hadn’t discussed it with her.

  “He was supposed to retire when he was sixty-five, and he didn’t, and nobody stopped him. Everything about him is ambition, Dagny. Are you so blind you don’t see that? And you think you can trust Victor, with his puppy-dog crush on you. He likes you too much to be honest with you. He’s never going to lay it out for you. Me? I can lay it on the line.”

  “So lay it out, Brent.”

  “Who’s running this investigation? Because I was under the impression that the Professor had taken it over.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, actually. You’re giving me orders, and I don’t want to be taking orders from you if he wants me doing something else.”

  This was about his place on the totem pole. He didn’t want to be third; he wanted to be number two. “We wouldn’t even be here if I worried about what the Professor wants me to do. Sometimes you have to work a case and not worry about how it’s all perceived.”

  “You think I only care about politics, but there’s a reason for chain of command. Sometimes it’s actually good to run a case in an orderly manner, rather than just jumping on whatever fire is in front of you. You’ve got a million balls in the air right now and a righteous air about your juggling skills. But you’ve been up two nights straight, and when you collapse, who’s going to catch those balls? This case is too big for you, Dagny. You’re trying to manage it and investigate it at the same time. Those are two jobs.”

  It would have been easier to respond if it weren’t true.

  CHAPTER 38

  Over the course of three hours, Allison Jenkins never once let go of her clipboard. She held it on the steps of Bilford City Hall as she smiled at the camera that transmitted her reports to the Greater Dayton metropolitan area. She held it while she ordered a large coffee at Quiznos. She carried that clipboard with her into the restroom and still had it in her hands when she came out. There was a moment when she set it down on the hood of the Channel 2 News van, but it never actually left her grip, and when the cameraman pulled her away for another setup, the clipboard went with her.

  Jenkins had long black hair that she twisted into a bun each time she went on the air. The white blouse under the navy-blue suit plunged enough to keep a viewer watching but not enough to be judged unprofessional. She was about five seven, he guessed, and maybe 110 pounds. At twenty-eight years old, she was younger than Dagny. Young enough to dream of anchor desks and big-city affiliates, maybe even a network job. But old enough to know there were a thousand women like her, working in Butte or Bangor or Birmingham. There was probably a little sadness in her, he thought. The sadness that comes when dreams start to close.

  The thin man shook his head. She was too pretty to be working for a station in Dayton. The world was not just.

  Every once in a while, Allison Jenkins would answer her phone and scribble another note on her notepad. Another tidbit about what he’d done, he assumed. And that was the amazing thing about his relationship with her. She was thinking about him just as he was thinking about her.

  The thin man rolled down his window, plucked a pack of cigarettes from his front shirt pocket, and pulled one to his lips. A flick of a match brought flame to it. He scanned the crowd. Every Dayton, Cincinnati, and Columbus station had a van in town. And then there were trucks labeled CNN, NBC, ABC, FOX, and CBS. He even saw ones from Telemundo and Al Jazeera. Some of the crews chose City Hall for their backdrop; some chose the courthouse; some set up right on Main Street. He was pretty sure that his pickup truck was inside the shot that FOX was using, and that thrilled him. He smiled for the camera.

  While the rest of the city was quiet, the downtown streets teemed with folks who had come from around the country to see the spectacle, snapping photographs of the national reporters, tweeting their latest sightings. No Mexicans were downtown, though. He hadn’t seen any Mexicans since the story broke. It was silly, he thought. They were safer now than they had been in months. He wasn’t even interested in killing them anymore. Now that he had the attention of the world, his mind had gone to an entirely different place.

  Allison Jenkins wrapped another report and then unfastened her bun, shaking her head so that her hair cascaded down past her shoulders. Her cameraman—a middle-aged, heavyset man with an unruly ponytail and an unkempt beard—said something that made her laugh. Someone like Jenkins would never have talked to someone like that if it weren’t for the forced proximity of their employment, he decided. But here she was, chuckling at something he’d said. That was the real miracle of the labor market.

  A younger man approached Allison and pointed to something on her notepad. This man wore a tie and cuffed dress pants. His hair was neatly cropped, and he was relatively fit. The thin man guessed he was in his early thirties. Probably had a crush on Allison, just like the cameraman. Maybe had a chance with her, unlike the cameraman.

  The thin man watched Allison and her male cohorts load up their van. It was only seven thirty, but they’d wrapped for the day, content to let their clips replay for the rest of the night because there was nothing new to report.

  He’d give them something new to report.

  When the news van pulled from its spot, the thin man eased his truck into the traffic. The van turned left, then right, and the thin man followed a few cars behind. The news crew made its way to the Applebee’s in New Bilford, and the thin man parked at the Kroger across the street and watched them enter the restaurant.

  Three cigarettes and one hour later, Allison and the t
wo men walked out of the restaurant, hopped in the van, and drove three blocks to the Hampton Inn. The thin man followed them, parking on the other side of the motel’s lot. His forehead throbbed, and he rubbed it with both palms. When the pain subsided, he grabbed a Cincinnati Reds cap from the floor of his truck and placed it on his head. Pushing his door open, he hopped down from his truck and walked to the front of the motel. The automatic doors slid open, and he stepped inside.

  The kid behind the counter greeted him warmly. “Checking in?”

  “Waiting for a friend,” the thin man replied. He grabbed a newspaper from the check-in counter and settled into a seat in the lobby. The front page of the paper had a picture of the silo, and the accompanying headline read, “Massacre in Bilford.” He smiled—that seemed about right—and then skimmed through the article. Dozens dead, it said. Dozens.

  It enraged him. He’d killed more than eighty people. They still didn’t understand the scope of what he’d done, which meant they couldn’t understand the extent of the pain they’d caused him.

  He would make them understand, even if it meant killing a few more.

  CHAPTER 39

  Dagny found Diego Vega in the back booth of Applebee’s, wearing his Catholic vestments, face buried in the menu. She realized she had never seen a priest in a restaurant before. He lowered the menu and looked up at her. “What do you know about the Green Bean Crispers?” he asked. “Because I feel like the Grilled Chicken Wonton Tacos would be a betrayal of my people.”

  “Your mom didn’t make you wonton tacos?” She slid into the seat across from him.

  “We have places with more charm in Bilford, you know.”

  She hadn’t picked Applebee’s for its charm; she’d picked it because it had Weight Watchers point totals for some of the items on the menu. “How come I never see priests at restaurants? Why is that? They have to eat.”

  He smiled. “I think you’d be surprised at how little money we make.”

  “But you guys have all that property.”

  “Stained glass doesn’t clean itself.”

  As a lapsed Jew, she knew embarrassingly little about Catholicism and the church. “How little do priests make?” Gauche, for sure, but he had invited it.

  He set his menu down and leaned back in his chair. “I make twenty-four thousand dollars a year. Plus a housing stipend and a car allowance that helps defray some of the expense of both.”

  She imagined trying to live on so little. “I’ll pick up the check.”

  “How much does an FBI agent make?” he asked.

  “Looking for a new career?”

  “Depends upon your answer.”

  “I make a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, but that’s because I’m in DC and have a law degree. Most make less than that.”

  “That’s a good living.”

  “It’s enough to pay for cable channels I never watch and insure a house I rarely see.”

  “How much would you make if you were practicing law?”

  “I made a hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars a year when I quit. If I’d kept at it, I’d be a partner now, making at least seven hundred thousand dollars.”

  “So, thirty years of priesthood is equal to one year of lawyering.”

  “Yes, but at least you can live with yourself.”

  He shook his head. “Less than you’d think.”

  The waitress came, and Diego ordered the Green Bean Crispers. Dagny chose the lemon-Parmesan shrimp, which was thirteen points—half of what she needed for the day. She could make up the rest with a dessert.

  Once the waitress left, it was time to talk business. “How are we on cooperation?”

  “I’ve got a hundred forty-two people on board to help identify bodies and give statements,” Diego said.

  The number shocked her. “That can’t be all from Bilford.”

  “I asked people to pass the message along to friends and family throughout southwestern Ohio. I think we’re going to be able to get information about almost everyone who was killed.”

  “I can’t believe so many responded,” she said.

  “I guess I had a little help from God.”

  “The one you don’t believe in?”

  “How else can you explain it?” He leaned toward her. “Everyone is still scared. I need transportation and security. People to keep them safe, patrol their neighborhoods. People they can trust.”

  Dagny pulled out her iPhone and texted Principal Geathers: Need five buses tomorrow.

  Seconds later, she received the reply: No problem.

  She turned back to Diego. “I’ve got you buses, and I’ll get you agents to provide security.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “So, what’s next?”

  “We keep chasing the evidence, wherever it goes.”

  “I mean, what should I do next?”

  There was desperation in the way he said it, and Dagny understood it completely. She didn’t want to give up control of the case because she thought of it as hers; Diego couldn’t sit back because he thought of it as his. “Help with the translation during statements tomorrow. Make people feel comfortable.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if you want to think like an investigator, think about this. All of the victims are young, undocumented, Hispanic men—that’s the obvious thing they have in common. Is there something they have in common that isn’t obvious? Were they all from the same town in Mexico? Did they all work the same job at one time? Maybe the same coyote brought them here. Or maybe—” Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. Restricted. She let it go to voice mail. “We’ve got all kinds of data about these men from their phones, but no sense of who they are. What brought them together.” Her phone buzzed again. Still Restricted. She sent it to voice mail again.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Unidentified caller.”

  Her phone chirped with a text from the Professor: PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE!

  It buzzed again, and she answered the call. “Hello?”

  “Special Agent Gray, glad to catch you. It sounds as though we are making progress on the investigation. Any new developments in the past few hours?” It took her a second to recognize the voice, which she knew only from television, and even then, she wasn’t sure.

  “Mr. President?” Diego’s eyes widened when she said it.

  “I’ve been briefed by Timothy on the case. Anything new since he departed?”

  She hadn’t expected to be briefing the president from the back booth at an Applebee’s, and she struggled to find her voice. “We’ve finished emptying the silo. Sorting and documentation is underway. We’re gathering information from the counties in the region to assess whether previous murders might be attributable to the unsub. Members of the local Hispanic population will be giving statements tomorrow and helping to identify the bodies. The database with information from the deceased is growing.”

  There was silence on the other end of the call. “So, we’ve got nothing,” the president finally said.

  That was one way to put it. “Not yet, sir.”

  “No suspects at all?”

  “Soon, we hope.”

  The Professor jumped in on the call. “We have a good profile of the man, Mr. President. I believe we will capture him within the week.”

  That was unhelpful. “Or soon, anyway,” she said, trying to manage expectations.

  “But certainly within a week,” the Professor said, with a sternness in his tone that warded her away from further clarification.

  “Well, I should hope so,” the president said. “Albert, tell Dagny the plan for tomorrow.”

  She assumed that Albert was Albert Douglass, the president’s chief of staff. He spoke with a deep, authoritative drawl—a kind of Southern cadence that calmed and soothed. Dagny imagined that this was half of the reason the president had picked him. No one wants bad news with a New York accent. “At nine thirty a.m. tomorrow, you will appear on the front steps of the Bilford Police Depa
rtment, where you will hold a press conference for local and national media. The conference shall not last longer than twenty minutes. We will send you a brief statement to read at the beginning of the conference. Please do not deviate from the text, Agent Gray.”

  “I’m sorry. You want me to do a press conference?”

  “Yes. At nine thirty a.m.”

  She would have preferred a root canal. “I really don’t think I’m the right person for the job. The Professor is great with the press.”

  “I’m staying in DC tonight,” the Professor said. “They need someone in Bilford, and you’re the logical choice.”

  She thought she’d try again. “Maybe someone from the Office of Public Affairs would be better suited—”

  Douglass’s deep voice interrupted. “You’re a bit of a celebrity, Agent Gray, as well as attractive and, from all reports, competent. We want you to be the face of the investigation.”

  “I think—”

  “Look,” the president’s famous voice interrupted. “I’m the president, and that makes me the decider, and you’re doing it, yada yada, stuff like that.”

  She hadn’t pegged him for a Seinfeld fan. “Yes, Mr. President.” That was probably what she should have said from the start. “After I read the statement, do I take questions?”

  “Yes, you should take questions,” Douglass replied, “but be careful not to answer them.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Just be reassuring,” he said. “We are proceeding with the proper protocols. We are confident in the progress we are making. We are taking all appropriate steps. Yada yada, stuff like that.” Apparently, they were all Seinfeld fans.

  “Where do we stand with the NSA data?” Dagny asked. This was more important than a press conference.

  “The Professor requested access,” the president explained, “and I had to turn him down. The data is only for investigations of terrorism from foreign sources, so it would be inappropriate to access it here. I’m sure you understand.”