"NCIS," said Riley, pointing to Schag and Parker. Then, nodding toward the three men and Clarke, he said, "Brain trust," not trying to hide his sarcasm.
The deputy held the door open and pointed to an elevator at the end of a long hallway.
"Second floor," he said. "Can't miss it."
With a sidelong glance at the PhDs and physician, Riley muttered, "I wouldn't bet on that."
☼
The operations center was a large room separated into sections by long, horseshoe-shaped tables bristling with computer monitors and phones. Vests of blue, yellow, or red draped the back of each chair. Each vest held the name of a position in the incident command system, the organizational structure used during emergencies such as wildfires, earthquakes, even manhunts. The largest flat-panel television screen Schag had ever seen dominated the front of the EOC. During an emergency, the screen could display a single video picture or as many as a dozen separate video shots, whatever the emergency managers needed to maintain their situational awareness. That day, however, the screen was dark. This was an informational meeting, not the actual command system overseeing the manhunt for Bill Butcher.
As agent in charge, Riley took a seat at the table while Schag and Parker took seats at the back of the room against the wall. The "brain trust" took chairs reserved for them at the big table. Seated at the end of the table was a man with gray thinning hair and wearing a crisp sheriff's uniform. Four stars twinkled at his collar, identifying him as the sheriff of San Diego County. Schag considered the stars superfluous. Watching the trio of deputies dashing back and forth at each twitch of the bald man's gray moustache was enough to identify his authority even if all he wore was a Speedo.
The sheriff stood and glanced about the room with cold, gray eyes, waiting for the hubbub of conversation to die down. When it did, he cleared his throat and looked over the room, nodding his head.
"I trust we've all had an interesting morning," he said, raising a few hushed chuckles. "I know mine has been. Murder isn't exactly a stranger in this county. We've even had a few headless corpses in my time. But a head without a body? That's something new."
More chuckles filled the room. The joke may have been off color, but everyone in the room knew that black humor at a time like this was often the only way to stay sane. Still, Schag didn't join in the laughter.
"I won’t stand here and make a speech," he said. " I'm not up for re-election yet." Again, more laughter. "But I did want to thank you all for responding so quickly to our request for assistance. We all know we have had some desperadoes in the county before, but when one is as highly trained as this suspect is . . . well, it's good to have friends."
Around the table heads nodded. Only Riley and the other two agents' heads remained still. The sheriff appeared to notice.
"I also want to assure our colleagues from NCIS," he said, nodding toward Riley, "that we appreciate the position this tragedy puts them in. None of us here has not seen one of our own go bad. And I want you to know, Tom, we've got your back."
The room filled with the sound of polite applause, and Riley nodded in thanks.
"I appreciate that, Sheriff Betz," Riley said.
Parker leaned over so his mouth was close to Schag's ear. "That guy is a supreme politician, isn't he?"
"Which one," Schag whispered back, smiling, "the sheriff or Riley?"
Parker thought a moment, and grinned. "I guess you're right."
A door opened and Captain McManus entered the EOC with an exaggerated attempt at being quiet. The sheriff noticed him anyway.
"Oh, Mike," he said. "Glad you could join us."
"Sorry about that," McManus said. "We had a busy morning."
"Not to worry. The briefing just started." The sheriff turned and whispered something to one of his aides. The aide nodded, and the sheriff again addressed his audience. "As I promised, no more speeches from me. I want to introduce Commander John Hanes, the head of our emergency services division." A younger man with well-groomed dark hair and only one star on his collar stood and nodded at the others. "Emergency services contains both the special enforcement detail—that's what we call our SWAT team—our hostage negotiation team, and ASTREA, our aviation unit. It also holds most of our reserve deputies, many of whom were activated for this . . . crisis. John, would you bring us up to speed on the search and the investigation?"
Commander Hanes thanked the sheriff and took his place at the head of the table. In a slow, dry voice, he briefed the gathering on the number of regular and reserve deputies that were on duty, the number of fixed- and rotary-wing aircraft the department had available, and the number of tactical officers staged throughout the county. Schag watched several attendees take notes. Occasionally, someone raised a hand and asked a question. His eyes fell on the brain trust. The three men—the PhDs—appeared enthralled with the minute details Hanes was dishing out. The woman, Dr. Clarke, appeared less so. She stared at a spot on the opposite wall, her hands playing absently with a ballpoint pen. She seemed to sense Schag watching her and turned her face toward him. Schag smiled and nodded, but Clarke only turned her stare back to the spot on the wall.
"The office of Customs and Border Patrol offered us the use of one of their new surveillance drones," Hanes said. "You'll be more familiar with this aircraft as the Predator used extensively by the military in Afghanistan. It will provide us with much more sustained flight time than normal aircraft. Of course, the CPB Predator isn't armed."
"We're working on that," said one of attendees, bringing about more laughter.
"Now I understand NCIS is available to give more background on the suspect, Mr. William Butcher, that might shed some light on his actions," Hanes said. "Tom?"
"Thank you, John," Riley said, rising. He half turned and held his hand out toward Schag. "I brought with me today Special Agent Linus Schag—"
"The guy whose name was painted on the wall with blood?" the sheriff blurted.
Every set of eyes in the room turned and stared at Schag as if he were some mysterious, grotesque creature. Schag felt his stomach churn.
"That's right, sheriff," Riley continued. "Agent Schag knows William Butcher better than anyone. They went through basic agent training together. I thought he could provide some background on the suspect."
Schag swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He had no idea he was to be used this way. Riley should have warned him. He stood, shooting a hard glare at his boss. Riley's face remained impassive.
"Perhaps Agent . . . Schag . . ." Winslow, the deviant behaviorist, pronounced Schag's name as "skag."
"Schag," the agent said.
"I beg your pardon?" Winslow looked at Schag over his reading glasses.
"My name," Schag said. "The C is silent. It's pronounced 'shag.'"
Winslow looked at the agent as if he were an impertinent schoolchild. "The agenda," he said, "has your name spelled S-C-H-A-G. Is that correct?"
Schag hadn't known there was an agenda that might have warned him of this ordeal. He nodded.
"Well, then, it should be pronounced Skag, just as school is pronounced."
Schag closed his eyes for moment, relishing the thought of using a police baton on the psychologist's head. "With all due respect, Dr. Winslow, it's my family name, and we'll pronounce it the way we want."
The others at the long table snickered, much to Winslow's consternation. Schag glanced at Riley who mouthed the words "brain trust."
"Very well, Mr. . . . Schag." This time Winslow pronounced it correctly. "Perhaps, you could give us some insight into Mr. Butcher's background. Something that might help us understand his actions."
"Agent . . . former Agent Butcher was one the best agents I've ever worked with, sir," he said. "I cannot imagine why he would commit these murders or make those demands—if he did do so. As for his background, he was a former Navy SEAL—that is, a sea, air, and land special operations commando. I think you all know that already. Bill—Mr. Butcher—suffered a serious injury in a parachute
accident, and took a medical discharge from the Navy. He recovered and applied to NCIS about the same time I did. We became roommates at the academy in Glynco."
"We understand how friendship can sometimes blind a person to his or her friends' less than desirable traits," said one of Winslow's companions. "But did this Mr. Butcher ever display a temper or a tendency towards violence?"
The stupidity of the question made Schag burn. "Mr. Butcher was a former SEAL, one of the most elite warriors in the world. He was trained to kill, if necessary. But I never once saw him be violent without cause—"
"Without cause," the psychologist interrupted. "What does that mean?"
Schag took another deep breath.
"We are law enforcement agents," he said through clenched teeth. "We sometimes get involved in violent situations with people who are violent. Sometimes we need to meet that violence with violence per the established tenets of the continuum of force."
Schag felt the muscles in his neck tighten, and with that tightness came a stab of pain in his shoulder that reminded him of the last time he faced one of those violent people, a crazed serial killer who almost shattered Schag' shoulder with a heavy wrench.
The same shrink started to ask another question, but Schag continued.
"I knew Bill Butcher professionally and as a friend, and I never knew him to be hot tempered or unduly violent," he said. "I know his family—his wife Yolanda and their two kids. He was madly in love with all three of them. He was like a teddy bear around his family."
"Then why did Mr. Butcher and his wife separate?"
"I didn't know they'd separated until I read his list of demands," Schag said.
"Ah, yes, The Butcher's Bill, as the media so whimsically calls it," said Winslow.
"Agent, when was the last time you saw your close friend, Mr. Butcher?" Winslow's companion asked.
"About three years ago," Schag answered. "Maybe more. Bill was working a case in Bahrain and I was transporting a prisoner. We ran into each other at the NCIS offices there. Tom—Agent Riley, you remember, don't you? You were working out of Bahrain then."
Riley nodded. "Yes, I remember that case. About two years ago, I'd say."
"And what did you talk about?" the psychologist asked.
"Just caught up on life, work, and his family."
"And nothing since then? Winslow asked.
Schag shook his head. "We exchanged emails occasionally. Might be six months since the last time I heard from him. I sent him emails but never heard back."
"You weren't aware Mr. Butcher was dismissed by the NCIS six months ago?" Again Winslow.
"No."
"So," Winslow concluded, "you weren't such close friends, after all."
Schag didn't answer.
"Perhaps the agent could explain to us why such a nonviolent person as this Mr. Butcher would call himself The Butcher?" the third psychologist asked.
Schag bit the inside of his mouth, trying to keep his anger in check. He crossed his arms behind his back and balled his fists until the knuckles turned white.
"Bill Butcher never called himself The Butcher," he said. "That was a nickname we gave him in the academy."
"Was there a particular reason you named him that?" Winslow asked.
"There was a lead instructor in D-Tac who was . . ."
"I'm sorry," Winslow interrupted. "An instructor in what"
"D-Tac," Schag repeated. "Defensive tactics. Hand-to-hand combat. The lead instructor liked to get . . . overzealous when demonstrating tactics on trainees, sometimes injuring them. When he tried to get . . . overzealous . . . with Bill—well, being an ex-SEAL, Bill knew more about hand-to-hand combat than the instructor. The instructor ended up face down on the mat in an arm lock he couldn't get out of. That's when we—all the trainees—started calling Bill 'The Butcher.'"
Winslow removed his reading glasses and looked at Schag. "So, Mr. Butcher lost his temper with this instructor and assaulted him."
Schag glared at the psychologist. "That is not what I said. Bill demonstrated his superior knowledge of defensive tactics. Afterward, the instructor asked Bill to help teach the D-Tac classes. And the instructor never got overzealous with the trainees again."
Winslow stared back at Schag a moment, his lips puckered. "Very well, thank you, Agent . . . Schag," he said, making sure he pronounced it correctly. He looked at his colleagues. They both shook their heads. "You've been most helpful."
Winslow turned away, as did everyone else at the table. Schag continued standing for another minute, struggling with his own anger. With a deep sigh, he sat back down.
CHAPTER 6
Monday
San Diego County Emergency Operations Center
San Diego, California
1230 Hours
SCHAG BARELY HEARD THE REST of the meeting. Someone asked whether Butcher could have developed post-traumatic stress disorder—PTSD—since his tour in Iraq was in a noncombatant role. The Navy commander said something about participation in combat was not necessary to get PTSD, that exposure to the stress and horrors of war was enough. Schag wondered why none of them realized that as a SEAL, Bill was involved in both overt and covert combat operations dating back to the first Gulf War, but he said nothing.
One of the shrinks wondered if Butcher was a victim of something he called "mobbing."
"If his co-workers thought his work actions were jeopardizing their own self-interests," said Winslow, waggling his ballpoint pen in the air, "if they thought he was jeopardizing their promotions or, say, raises—whatever—they might gang up on him, to mob him as we say, and create a hostile work environment that would force him to leave his position. If so, he could still harbor great grievances against his co-workers. We see this all the time in work place dynamics."
Tom Riley protested the speculation.
"The NCIS, like all U.S. government agencies, has programs in place that ensure any employee with a grievance can have that grievance heard," Riley said.
"Have you ever heard the phrase 'going postal,' Agent Riley?" Winslow asked. "Last time I checked, the U.S. Postal Service was a U.S. government agency."
Riley rolled his eyes and sat back with a sigh.
"We should acknowledge, however, that Mr. Butcher has yet to harm any of his fellow NCIS agents," said one of Winslow's colleagues.
"He did write Agent Schag's name in blood at a murder scene," said Hanes. "That could be taken as threatening."
"Or a request to have an old friend called in who could talk to him," said Riley.
Lieutenant Commander Clarke tried to break in several times, but the three men of the brain trust ignored her. Commander Hanes interrupted the psychologists and asked Clarke to make her point.
"We hear a lot of talk of PTSD and suicide among veterans," she said. "But research indicates there may be another cause of emotional turmoil among veterans. It's called agueloquine psychosis."
"That's utter nonsense. The reports of psychosis caused by agueloquine are anecdotal, at best," Winslow said. "It's been prescribed to thousands, perhaps millions, of people around the world with no harmful side effects."
"And just what is this . . . what did you call it?" asked Hanes.
"Agueloquine," she said. "It's an anti-malarial drug developed by the Army that's been given to thousands of our service members. In most people, it's harmless. However, in a small minority of people, it appears to cause a form of psychosis."
"Oh, really," said Winslow, his head shaking along with his two colleagues. "And what research would that be?"
"Research we're conducting at the naval medical center," she answered. "We've been looking into this—"
"I'm sorry, young lady, but we are wasting our time with this avenue of discussion." Winslow turned his back to Clarke, as did his two fellow psychologists.
☼
Schag didn't hear any more. Telling Parker he needed to use the restroom, he left the EOC and paced the corridor outside. He stopped at a window and looked ou
t at the county administration building next door. There people walked calmly to their offices. Some sat outside in the shade, working on laptop computers. Others sat outside the cafeteria, eating late lunches. No one seemed to care there was a madman running loose, a madman who was one of Schag's closest friends. He removed his glasses, squeezed his eyes until he thought they might pop, and ran his hand across his entire face. He didn't hear the voice behind him say his name.
"Mr. Schag?" It was a woman's voice. When Schag didn't respond, she tried again. "I'm sorry. I should say Agent Schag."
Schag turned and found Lieutenant Commander Clarke looking up at him with her large brown eyes. He slipped his glasses back on.
"That's correct, isn't it?" she asked. "NCIS agents should be called Agent So-and-So, right?"
"As long as you pronounce my name correctly," Schag said.
"I've never met an NCIS agent before," she said, "so I wasn't sure."
"Is there something I can help you with, commander?"
"I hope so," she said, nervously. "I mean, I hope I can help you . . . and your friend, Agent Butcher."
"Your colleagues in the 'brain trust' don't seem eager to help former Agent Butcher," he said.
"They aren't my colleagues, agent," Clarke said. "They're psychologists. I'm medical corps."
Schag glanced at the gold insignia on Clarke's khaki collar. Unlike the Army, which used the medical caduceus to identify medical personnel, the Navy used a golden oak leaf to identify medical officers. Clarke's leaf had an acorn centered on it, the emblem of a physician.
"I see," Schag said. "You're a real doctor."
"Quite," she said. She looked up and down the hallway. "Look, is there a place we can talk? Someplace not so heavy with testosterone?"
Schag glanced out the window again.
"There's a cafeteria over there," he said with a jerk of his head. "I could use some coffee."
"Great," Clarke said. "Me, too."
They walked across the compound in silence. Clarke sensed Schag was too preoccupied for small talk, and she was still steaming about her own treatment at the hands of the brain trust. Clarke insisted on buying the coffee and Schag let her, sensing her own need to establish herself as more than a mere woman after her mistreatment by the psychologists. She ordered a nonfat cafe latte, Schag a black coffee, and they took a table outdoors.
The Butcher's Bill (The Linus Schag, NCIS, Thrillers Book 2) Page 5