The Bishop pbf-4

by Steven James

  Washington DC

  Astrid and Brad stepped into the security office of the primate research facility they’d chosen for tonight’s game. The timing of the shift change had worked in their favor. They’d drugged the security guard, so except for the gorillas and monkeys, they had the place to themselves.

  This game, over the next three days, would be the most thrilling, the most satisfying game of all.

  Brad’s game.

  Already Astrid could feel the excitement this night would bring, the glorious surge of power filling her, releasing her, preparing her for the passion they would share with each other later in their bedroom.

  Brad was reconnecting the security camera console’s router.

  “I’m almost done,” he said softly.

  “How long?”

  “Five minutes, max.”

  One of the Marines held up his palm, motioning for us to stop.

  I handed my credentials to him through my open window. “Evening, Sergeant Hastings,” I said. “Good to see you again.”

  “Dr. Bowers.” He took only a quick glance at my ID and verified the plates on my car. Despite the stoic look on his face, I heard warmth in his voice. “What’s it been, sir? A year?”

  Sergeant Eric Hastings was in his early twenties. Caramel eyes. Short blond hair. Probably less than 6 percent body fat.

  This was the first time this summer I’d seen him, and the first time I’d brought Tessa to an Academy function. “Almost. And when are you going to just call me Pat like everyone else?”

  A small grin. “When I’m not in this uniform, sir.”

  Tessa was handing her driver’s license to me, trying not to stare at Eric, but her eyes betrayed her. I accepted my creds from Eric, gave him Tessa’s license.

  He leaned over to compare her face to her license. He took his time. “Ma’am,” he said respectfully.

  “Hey,” she said. I could tell she was searching for the proper way to address him. “Sergeant… sir.”

  His scrutiny seemed to bring out her shyness, and she lowered her eyes. Demure. It made her even cuter than usual, and I was suddenly anxious to get going. At last he handed her license back to us. “Welcome to Quantico, ma’am.”

  “It’s Tessa,” she said, a little too loudly in reply.

  Tessa felt like smacking herself in the head. Hard.

  Okay, first, you’re like totally gawking at the guy and then you tell him your name right after he’s been studying your driver’s license? Brilliant, Tessa Bernice Ellis. Just brilliant.

  As Patrick pulled forward, she stared out the car’s side window and tried to distract herself from thinking about the cute sergeant and the ditzy impression she’d left him with.

  It didn’t work.

  Patrick didn’t like her seeing older guys.

  And now, she caught herself wondering what her dad would think-her real dad.

  She knew it wasn’t fair, comparing the two men like that, but ever since she’d met Paul, she’d found herself doing it more and more.

  And in her imagination, Patrick was having a hard time measuring up.

  Everything had become so confusing.

  And oh, then there was this, another thing she’d been doing that was guaranteed to screw things up between her and Patrick-in addition to the emails he knew about, she’d been secretly emailing Paul on her own almost every day.

  She didn’t do it to purposely dis her stepdad, it’s just that there were things she needed to ask her dad, things she didn’t feel comfortable asking with Patrick looking over her shoulder. However, the emails had become a fractious little secret that she was keeping from the one person she didn’t ever want to deceive.

  I left Tessa alone with her thoughts.

  We passed signs to the Marine weapons ranges and obstacle courses, then cruised past some intersections that, quite intentionally, had no road signs. After all, there are sections of the Quantico Marine Corps Base best left unadvertised to visitors.

  We passed the sprawling, ultra-modern FBI Forensics Analysis Lab, the most advanced forensics laboratory in the world; then came to the turnoff for Hogan’s Alley, a sixteen-acre vacant town the FBI built in the eighties to use for training agents to collect evidence, respond to hostage situations, perform felony vehicle stops, and apprehend hostile suspects in urban areas. I didn’t mention to Tessa that the body farm lay in the stretch of woods just beyond it.

  Instead, I said, “Here we are,” and pulled into the parking lot beside the Academy’s administration building, and then I led her inside.

  From the safe side of the glass, Astrid watched the woman struggle against the leather restraints as the two chimpanzees began their work.

  The woman’s screams grew more and more shrill, more and more frantic, until they crested in a final shriek of terror.

  The scene had become rather disturbing. Astrid found herself looking away.

  Brad, however, was still focused on the woman, whose cries were plummeting into a series of wet gurgles that were quickly drowned out by the frenzied cries of the chimps locked in the glass-walled cage with her.

  Astrid glanced at her again.

  She’d stopped struggling.

  Stopped jerking.

  For her, it was over.

  But the chimpanzees had only just gotten started.

  Astrid turned away and said to Brad, “I’ll see you later tonight.”

  “Yes.”

  “Enjoy the show.”

  She was referring to the game, their game, but he didn’t look away from the chimps when he replied, “You too.”

  She sensed that he was thinking only about what was happening on the other side of the glass, so she took his chin in her hand, turned his face so that he was looking into her eyes. “It’s time to go.”

  “Okay.”

  Brad gave the woman one last look before following Astrid away from the chimp exhibit, then they each went their separate ways to prepare for tonight’s spectacle. Brad into the pouring rain, Astrid to change for her performance.

  5

  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 f
ew 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.

  6

  “Good evening,” she said. “I’m Executive Assistant Director Margaret Wellington, and I’d like to begin by thanking you for your attendance this evening. As you know, emerging research is reshaping the way criminal investigations are structured and carried out. Tonight we will be discussing the integration of technology into criminal investigations in the twenty-first century.”

  A pause. “We are honored to have Washington DC Metro Police Lieutenant Doehring with us.” She gave him a nod. “And Patrick Bowers, one of the Bureau’s most experienced criminologists. I’m sure you’ll find his insights scintillating.”

  Her comment about my scintillating insights was completely devoid of sarcasm, which in itself seemed to be a new and novel form of sarcasm.

  “Tonight promises to be an engaging and thought-provoking discussion.” She added a few more opening comments and announcements, then gave Lieutenant Doehring the floor.

  Doehring took the podium and began describing ways in which the Washington DC law enforcement community was implementing the use of cell phones equipped with touch screens that also scanned fingerprints so that suspects’ prints can be run through AFIS within seconds of apprehension.

  Currently, the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, a little-known branch of the defense department that I consult with on behalf of the FBI, had given me the prototype of a new phone, still in development, that included the function Doehring had just mentioned, as well as defense satellite mapping capabilities and a 3-D hologram projector for mapping and analyzing crime scene locations. Amazing stuff.

  Doehring listed advancements in using microwave emitters for non-lethal crowd dispersal, Israeli-developed guns that can shoot around corners, ways to x-ray crowds to determine if armed assailants are present, three-dimensional orthodigital photographs to help with bite-mark analysis, and so on-all devices we’d been using at the Bureau for the last several years.

  “However,” he said, “you can have all the high-tech gadgets in the world, but unless you stick to time-tested, proven investigative procedures, you’ll come up short every time. Good investigations always focus on uncovering the perp’s motive, means, and opportunity.”

  And this is where our views began to diverge.

  I don’t look for any of the above.

  And I definitely do not use the word perp.

  Doehring went on to detail a few cases that had “gotten bogged down in technology” until “good old-fashioned gut instincts” broke the case wide open. I sensed his tone shifting, becoming slightly antagonistic. From where I sat on the stage, I could see the attendees’ faces, and most of the people appeared to agree with him that the classic approach was best.

  Great. That would make my job so much easier.

  Twenty minutes passed, Margaret encouraging Lieutenant Doehring, occasionally asking for my input, never questioning his assertions. I was careful to keep my comments focused on th
e valid points Doehring was making. No sense diminishing his authority in the eyes of the attendees.

  At last he finished, and Margaret turned to me and said simply, “Agent Bowers.”

  My turn to use the podium. “Well.” The mic squealed and I backed away from it, tried again. “Recent advances in technology have allowed us to utilize geospatial intelligence, or GEOINT, from the defense department’s satellite array and apply it to law enforcement. By analyzing the locations related to serial offenses and studying the timing, location, and progression of the crimes, we can work backward to find the most likely location of the offender’s home base, a geographic region we typically refer to as the hot zone.”

  “A geoprofile,” Margaret interjected, possibly with a slight note of derision, it was hard to tell.

  “That’s right.” Before I moved into the technical aspects and algorithms, or demonstrated my cell phone’s geospatial hologram capabilities, I needed to lay out some theoretical groundwork. “Geospatial investigation builds on research in environmental criminology, sociology, routine activity theory, crime scene analysis, and environmental psychology, and is based on four basic principles concerning criminal behavior.”

  Blank faces in the audience.

  Fantastic opening there, Pat. You’ve got ’em in the palm of your hand.

  I took a breath. “First, even though it seems self-evident, all crimes occur in a specific place at a specific time; nearly all are committed in locations with which the offender is familiar, or along the pathways between these areas. Understanding those geospa-tial and temporal aspects of the crime leads us to a better understanding of the offender’s travel patterns and cognitive map of his surroundings.”

  Even though she was near the back, I noticed Tessa yawn.

  It might have been a subtle joke. I couldn’t tell.

  “Essentially, the distribution and timing of the crimes show us how the criminal understands and interacts with his environment,” I explained. “Secondly, despite conventional wisdom that many crimes occur randomly, most of the current research supports the conclusion that people commit crimes only after a series of rational decisions shaped by environmental cues.”