Mind in Chains

by Bruce M Perrin

  There had to be more, something I had overlooked. But I had no idea what it might be. Perhaps with time, the predispositions that kept channeling my thoughts to the same flawed conclusion would fade. Then, an insight could emerge—if there was one to be found.

  With no other option, I turned back toward my office.

  2:06 PM – The St. Louis FBI Field Office

  “Morning, sunshine,” said Clements, peering over the top of her cubicle wall rather than coming around to the opening. She’d come to think of this particular choice of locations as a buffer between some disappointing news he was about to deliver and her reaction. But since the Bureau wasn’t a place where a woman succeeded by being meek, he’d just need to take whatever precautions he deemed necessary.

  “I got my sunshine before I ever went to bed,” Rebecca replied, knowing it was an exaggeration but only a slight one. “What’s up?”

  Clements looked around, which struck Rebecca as odd. From his vantage point, all he would be able to see was the tops of other cubes. “Walk with me,” he said after a moment.

  Rebecca mumbled “crap” under her breath, the request virtually confirming that bad news was on the way. She got up from her desk and followed Clements into the hallway.

  “I saw your email on last night’s surveillance,” said Clements as they walked. “Good work.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hawkins took note, too. He thought we should take a closer look at the realtor.”

  “OK, I did my job. So, why all the drama?” asked Rebecca, tiring of the suspense.

  Clements took a breath. “He wants someone to meet with Bledsoe. But not you.”

  Rebecca stopped; Clements turned to face her. “Is that all?” she asked.

  Clements’s eyes narrowed as if trying to see through a calm façade that hid a smoldering anger. But after a moment, he apparently gave up. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said. “The Council is used to seeing you around, and it looks like their tongues are loosening. If you go interview Bledsoe, that cover’s blown. So, Hawkins asked me to handle it.”

  They started walking again. “The only thing that surprises me,” said Rebecca after a few steps, “is that we’re not trying to get something firmer before you go see him. For all we know, Bledsoe has some swampland in Florida he plans to sell to the doctor, and that’s his idea of getting even.”

  Clements chuckled, then turned serious. “That’s possible, but there’s a hell of a lot of pressure on Hawkins. The mayor calls daily—the governor, almost as often. Even the president is talking about the moral decay in St. Louis, to use his words.” Clements glanced back as they continued down the hall. “And don’t spread this around, but Hawkins’s intel on the church we’re raiding Thursday may not be all he claims. So, yeah, the Bledsoe interview may be something of a ready, fire, aim exercise, but can you blame him?”

  “What’s wrong with the intel on the church?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” replied Clements. “It’s just not that deep. The preacher has voiced support for tighter reins on medicine, and there may be some discrepancies in their finances, which, by the way, are the same two things that got him interested in the Council and your realtor, Bledsoe.”

  “I was told the Council had some members with deep pockets, but jeez, you’d never know it if you met them,” said Rebecca. “Half of them show up at these meetings in jeans and a baseball cap that looks like they were born with it.”

  “Trust me, they’ve got money. And as treasurer, Bledsoe would be in the middle of it if some is getting to the Crusaders. So, have you had a chance to check on the guy at all?”

  “A start, but nothing much so far. No arrests or warrants. He’s on social media, but I think his wife does most of the posting. It’s all family—vacation pictures, birthdays, stuff like that. The reason I think it’s her is that there’s a link to some family history. It’s mostly about the Walkers, which is her maiden name. But both families have been in the area for several generations, mostly in farming although there was one in law enforcement in the late 1800s.”

  Clements nodded his head slowly. “The law was different in those days. Lawmen, too.”

  “So I’ve heard,” replied Rebecca. “Bledsoe’s business also has a web page. He appears to handle just about everything: commercial, residential, farmland, even dabbled in some of the legal issues. That’s about it, so far. When are you planning to see him?”

  “Thursday, we’re searching that church, so I thought I’d talk to him tomorrow. I don’t want to be caught waiting for a raid when in the end, it produces zilch.”

  “Sure,” Rebecca replied. “I’ve got that interview with Holyfield tomorrow. I mentioned it before?” Clements nodded. “What do you think about going together? I can stay out of sight during the Bledsoe interview. I can even drive.”

  Clements had his concerns about her behavior behind the wheel, using phrases like “beating the road into submission” to describe it, so she had made the offer as a distraction. If he was thinking about her gesture, perhaps he wouldn’t consider the pros of combining the trips too closely because there weren’t many. She just wanted to be nearby as the Bledsoe lead was being explored.

  “OK, sure, but I’ll drive,” he replied after a moment.

  “You know, sooner or later, you’re going to have to let me behind the wheel.”

  “Let’s go with later … for now.”

  Rebecca was certain he wanted to end that sentence with “forever.”

  Wednesday, May 15

  7:51 AM – Outside the Office of Walter Bledsoe

  Agent Gus Clements drove past Walter Bledsoe’s storefront real estate office, his head casually turning to look as he did. His motion was all Rebecca could see from her vantage point. She was leaning over in the front seat beside him, protection against Bledsoe looking out through his dirty windows and recognizing her. Of course, she didn’t know his windows were dirty, but if they looked anything like those farther up the street, they’d have the transparency of dense fog on a cool summer morning in the Mississippi river valley.

  “With all the pretty, quaint towns around here, why does this one look like they unplugged life support five years ago?” Rebecca asked. She sat up now that Clements was turning onto a side street, two blocks past Bledsoe’s office.

  “Supply and demand,” Clements replied. “The main occupation around here is farming, and farms are bigger nowadays. They get everything they need in bulk, leaving little for the two-pump gas stations and the mom-and-pop stores. If a town doesn’t have a history or a spectacular view to bring in some tourist money, they end up like this one—fighting over the crumbs.”

  Clements turned the car around and parked it on the side street facing the main road through town. “Best be going,” he said. “Don’t want to be late.”

  “Yeah, you don’t want to risk that he’s run out of information on retirement homes before you get there.”

  Clements grumbled something she didn’t quite catch but figured he wanted it that way. They both exited the car. Clements stared over the roof at her. “Where are you going?”

  “Thought I’d stretch my legs. There was a garage sale back on the main street, just past where we turned. I’ll be at it or walking on this block.”

  Clements hesitated but eventually agreed. The two of them walked to the intersection, Clements turning right toward the real estate office, Rebecca to the left.

  By the time she had walked ten paces, she realized the feel of the town had changed dramatically. Here, the houses were neatly painted and the lawns carefully trimmed. Each yard boasted flower gardens, all bursting with life. There was lawn art, ranging from religious statues to abstractions that twirled in the wind. Some seemed a bit tacky to Rebecca, but all suggested pride of ownership and stubborn defiance against the commercial death and decay just a few blocks away.

  Arriving at her destination, Rebecca found the driveway lined with everything from used clothes to drink glasses from Bourbon Stre
et bars to hunks of a black, shiny stone identified as “obsidian from Yellowstone National Park.” She smiled to herself, wondering what Clements would say if he came back and found someone cuffed in the back seat. Taking rocks from national parks was against the law, after all.

  “Lordy, girl. What are you doing in my neck of the woods?” The voice was familiar, but Rebecca couldn’t place it until she turned to find Wanda Jennings staring at her. “And all duded up, too,” the woman added. Wanda had never seen her in anything but the short, pink uniform she wore to catering jobs. The tailored, black suit over pale blue shirt she wore now were quite the contrast.

  “Wanda.” Rebecca stepped over and gave the large woman a hug. They weren’t really that close, but Rebecca needed a minute to think and Wanda took the gesture in stride. “Just headed to a funeral.”

  “Here?” her tone a bit incredulous.

  “No, up north at Hawk Point,” Rebecca replied, recalling the name of one of the towns they would pass through on their way to see Holyfield. “Find anything good here?” Rebecca was hoping for a change in topic.

  “Naw, just the usual. How’d you come to be going through here, anyway? You overshot the exit to Hawk Point by at least 10 miles, besides turning south, not north off the Interstate.” She chuckled at her own words.

  Rebecca, however, didn’t see the humor. In fact, what she saw in her mind’s eye was anything but funny. Less than 36 hours ago, she had asked Wanda about Walter Bledsoe, finding out not only his name and occupation but that they might be romantically involved. At least, that was one interpretation of Wanda’s suggestive wink. And now, to discover Wanda lived in the town where Bledsoe had his office? Was everything she said to Wanda later whispered in Bledsoe’s ear? She straightened her jacket, suddenly aware of the slight bulge caused by her service revolver.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I headed out early—just for a drive. But I should get going.”

  “Oh, OK,” Wanda replied, shrugging. “Guess I’ll see you next time we’re short-handed.”

  Rebecca walked down the block, turning when she reached the side street. Wanda was still visible, perhaps looking at the wares at the end of the drive. Or maybe she was watching her? If Rebecca continued, she’d be only a block from Bledsoe’s office. If she turned down the side street, Wanda would know where they had parked, maybe even get a look at the car. And with the government plates on it, she’d need a good cover story lest Wanda was left to her own imagination.

  Rebecca raised her phone, pretending to take a call while watching the woman from the corner of her eye. Eventually, Wanda moved farther down the driveway and out of sight.

  Rebecca hurried down the side street, got in the car, and closed the door. She watched the intersection in front of her. Occasionally, a car or truck would pass, but no one was on the sidewalk. No one turned down her street. She continued to watch as seconds became minutes. She moved forward on the car seat so that she could check the passenger-side, rearview mirror. And there was Wanda, approaching from the rear. She must have circled around the block.

  “Crap,” Rebecca muttered to herself. She slid down in the seat, keeping her eyes just above the edge of the window so she could watch the woman’s approach in the mirror. There was something in Wanda’s hands. It was a small purse but definitely large enough for a gun. Rebecca was certain the woman’s hands had been empty when she returned the hug. Wanda had either purchased the bag at the sale or had retrieved it from somewhere. When she was three houses away, she brought the bag up to her face and started reaching into it.

  Rebecca focused all her attention on the possible threat, wanting every split-second advantage she could get if things went sideways. The driver’s side door opened. Rebecca’s hand flew to her revolver, her mind now screaming that she should have removed the safety strap earlier.

  “Easy there, partner. It’s just me.” Clements had jumped back from the door when Rebecca’s motions registered in his brain. Now, he crouched in the street two feet away, peering cautiously into the car’s interior.

  “Get in and close the door,” Rebecca hissed.

  Clements looked around quickly and complied. “What the hell’s wrong?” he asked.

  Rebecca checked the rearview mirror but saw nothing. “That woman who was on the sidewalk behind the car—you saw her?”

  “Yeah, she went in a house a couple of doors down. Saw her turn in just before that warm welcome you gave me. Who is she?”

  “Wanda Jennings, our catering lead,” replied Rebecca. “And I think it’s possible I blew my cover. Not today, but yesterday, when I asked about Bledsoe.”

  Clements started the car and drove away. After putting several blocks between them and Wanda, he pulled over. “So, what happened?” he asked.

  Rebecca proceeded to fill in the details that had seemed too insignificant for her report earlier but which now felt crucial. Wanda hadn’t merely known Bledsoe’s name, his role in the Council, and his business, but also his philandering ways. And she apparently lived less than three blocks from his office.

  When she finished, Clements released a long breath. “Funny. When I was walking back to the car, I was thinking I’d say something like, I’m either losing my touch or Bledsoe is one of the smoother characters I’ve met. I guess I have to add a third possibility. He was waiting for me.”

  “Damn. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be,” Clements replied. “I think there’s a good chance this is just a coincidence. She knows everyone, so it makes sense she’d know him. And an affair, if there is one, doesn’t mean she’d say anything about you. But you made a possible connection, so we need to check it out before you take any more catering gigs. OK?” Rebecca nodded.

  “Say, you recall Bledsoe’s wife’s name?” asked Clements.

  “Yeah, Sarah. Maiden name, Walker. Why?”

  “He had a picture on his desk. The woman in it seemed familiar, but that name doesn’t ring a bell. I’m going to call this in.”

  Once the call was connected, Clements requested “… the collection and coordination of all existing information on one Walter Bledsoe and his wife, Sarah Walker Bledsoe, with the intent of initiating a preliminary investigation.”

  The smooth way these words rolled off Clements’s tongue made Rebecca think he had used them before, perhaps often. Or maybe they were the prescribed phrase in some regulatory manual Rebecca had yet to study. If so, she would do so eventually because the transition from assessment to preliminary investigation was significant. Achieving the latter status would greatly increase the information they could access, including logs of incoming and outgoing phone calls and emails, bank and credit card records, even the content of public conversations obtained with high-power microphones.

  Before Clements disconnected, he added two caveats to his request. First, he asked that special attention be paid to any references to a Ms. Wanda Jennings. And second, the subjects of this pending investigation, Bledsoe and his wife, might be aware of the FBI’s interest.

  “So, what happened in there?” asked Rebecca when he disconnected.

  Clements started the car and pulled away from the curb. “He took a visit from the FBI awfully casually, like he gets agents coming in all the time. Even when I got to the Council, he didn’t react. He just said it was a private, by-invitation group—in other words, none of my business—and he refused further comment. So, that plus the strange feeling I got from the picture of his wife—it was enough to peg my suspicion meter.”

  “Peg?”

  Clements chuckled, glancing sideways for a moment, then back to the road. “I forget you kids have no experience with gauges. I’ll let you figure it out, but in the meantime, think about how you want to handle Holyfield. That’s your call and you have about an hour.”

  How to handle Holyfield? That sounded like a setup by a mentor who thought every minute on the job was another teaching moment. There was no need to plan for that interview; all she had to do was ask him one or two, simple que
stions. So, Rebecca pulled her phone and started tapping on the screen. After a moment, she said, "To peg a meter means to make it hit its top possible reading. It’s derived from a physical post or peg, used to keep the needle of an analog gauge from rotating too far and being damaged.”

  Clements snorted softly. She put the phone away and turned to watch the countryside roll by outside her window.

  8:23 AM – The Offices of Ruger-Phillips

  “Ruger-Phillips, Dr. Sam Price. How may I help you?”

  It was the standard greeting for unknown numbers, so I was a bit surprised to hear Nicole’s voice on the other end of the phone call. “Hi, Sam. Got a minute?”

  “Sure, but where are you calling from? My phone’s not recognizing the number.”

  “I’m in the lab. I left my cell phone at my desk. Anyway, I wanted to tell you, Laura can’t make lunch. Something came up.”

  “Nothing bad, I hope.”

  “I don’t think so. She didn’t explain but apologized over and over. I’m just disappointed we missed the opportunity. I even suggested we try dinner again, but she declined.”

  “With bullets for dessert, one time in your apartment is probably enough,” I said.

  “Sam.” She tried to sound irritated, but I could hear a touch of amusement in her voice. “Besides, that was the second time. We dropped by before dinner so she’d know how to get there. I even gave her a quick tour.”

  That was an interesting tidbit—one I wish I had known when Agent Marte asked how Greenwood had found Nicole’s office so easily. Oh, well, it was irrelevant now.

  “Anyway, you still want to go to lunch, don’t you?” asked Nicole. “Laura offered to cancel the reservation, but I said no.”