by Tim Dorsey
The conference room of the local FBI office was once again filled to capacity. And once again, everyone watched a video that they now knew by heart. The surveillance tape went frame by frame through the firefight in the parking lot of the Life-Armor corporation. Agents paid particular attention to the end of the video and an old brown Nissan nonchalantly driving off the top of the screen.
The TV went black, and the agent in charge faced the room.
“Well, that certainly was an entertaining little goat-fuck. Anyone care to share thoughts on how this could have happened? Agent Lang seems to be the only one who knew what he was doing.”
“By the way, how is he?”
“Just a shoulder wound,” said the bureau chief. “In the hospital, binge-watching TV and waiting for medals of valor.”
There were personnel from every local field office and some top brass from D.C., plus the always nerve-racking unofficial observers from the CIA and Department of Justice.
“This is Tom Mansfield from Virginia,” said the bureau chief. “The whole mess is starting to get a lot of moving parts in a hurry, so he’s going to give the latest update. Tom?”
A veteran agent with full gray hair and an American flag lapel pin stood up. An indescribable aura of gravity that commanded respect. “As of zero-nine-hundred, we’ve shifted the focus of our task force to this man . . .”
An assistant held up a glossy eight-by-ten photo of someone who looked perpetually self-conscious.
“His name may or may not be Benmont Pinch. We’re still checking his background, but as of now it appears so clean that it’s suspicious. And this next part is especially unsettling, but the growing body of evidence can no longer be ignored. It appears we have a spy at one of the top echelons in Washington.”
That set the room murmuring.
“Pipe down!” said the bureau chief.
A hand went up. “Is this Benmont the mole in the Bureau?”
“No,” said Mansfield. “We believe he’s the agent’s outside contact. Here’s the chronology of what we know so far: There were a number of homicides here in Florida that didn’t initially get our attention until your Agent Lang in the hospital sent an inquiry memo to the main office. Turns out his hunch was right. All the victims’ identities were contained in one of our most highly classified files. The only possible conclusion at the time was that the documents had been compromised by someone on the inside. We did a thorough housecleaning that came up empty . . . Then we caught a lucky break.”
The assistant held up another glossy photo.
“This is a man named Quint Powers, who was found murdered with a prostitute in a local hotel. Clearly staged. Expert spycraft,” said Mansfield. “Mr. Powers was a supervisor at the Life-Armor office where we had our little shootout. Apparently Mr. Powers stumbled upon something suspicious in one of his employees’ computers . . . Now this next part is a little hazy, and we’re still trying to put it all together, but separate e-mails began circulating through the Social Security Administration until we realized we had a mole.”
Another hand. “What finally tipped us off?”
“The two Social Security bureaucrats who handled the e-mails are now dead,” said Mansfield. “That’s how we’re certain there’s a mole. Nobody else but someone in the company would have been able to see the internal routing of those e-mails . . . Use your imaginations. Probably passed along in a newspaper on a park bench.”
More murmurs.
Mansfield reached for a carafe and poured a glass of ice water. “Which brings us back to the late Quint Powers. It appears he came up with a far-fetched theory that is now rapidly gaining credence at the highest levels. We initially thought the list of victims had been stolen from the Bureau, but it now appears that our spy in Washington knew enough about our intelligence procedure to direct the reconstruction of those lists by an outside contact. He needed a professional data analyst. Enter Benmont.”
“But how was it possible to re-create such a list?”
“Quint Powers figured it out. His so-called crazy theory,” said Mansfield. “Given the recent series of events, we reverse-engineered all the steps in Mr. Powers’s hypothesis, and it completely checks out . . . For whatever reason, he discovered that Benmont Pinch had assembled a list that was prioritized by numerical ordering of the last four digits of Social Security numbers. We surmise this was what first attracted Quint’s attention, because who would prioritize anything by just the last four digits? The second sequencing priority was alphabetizing and isolating all instances of juxtaposed names. Then, after deleting sets of twins by flagging identical birthdays, what do you have left? A list of people with the same last names—husbands, wives, children, aunts, uncles—who weren’t twins but somehow had sequential Social Security numbers. And who does the government issue such sequential numbers to? . . .”
The audience slowly began nodding.
“Exactly,” said Mansfield. “Shocking as it may seem, a low-level data analyst, using the resources of a private company, was able to generate a massive list of Florida residents in government protection programs.”
Abject alarm swept the room.
“If I may continue,” said Mansfield. “In this case, none of the witnesses who testified against organized crime have been touched. The only victims are former Soviet defectors and double agents who worked for us. Given when the Cold War ended, most are now living in retirement communities.”
Another question. “But I thought we stopped issuing sequential cards.”
“We did,” said Mansfield. “It became necessary when technology accelerated and identity theft started to get big. But nobody thought to go back and reissue the old ones, which we’re doing right now like the Manhattan Project.”
Mansfield stepped aside and allowed the bureau chief to take the floor again.
“I know there’s a lot more questions out there, but the main item you need to be aware of is that we have agents fanning out across the state at this very moment to pull in everyone on the list who hasn’t been hit yet. Second, everyone who has touched the e-mail and the attached report is dead: Quint, the lawyer, the two Social Security guys in Baltimore. This is as serious as it gets . . .”
An arm raised high at the back of the conference table. “But what about the fake FBI agent who Lang shot in the parking lot at Life-Armor? Isn’t it possible that this Benmont character was just another innocent witness they wanted to eliminate, and that was why the fake FBI agent was sent in?”
“Now, that’s a far-fetched theory,” said Mansfield. “Benmont Pinch may look unthreatening in that photo, but he is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. He’s already tried to kill one FBI agent.”
A hand went up. “I thought Agent Lang was shot by the fake FBI agent.”
“We believe that whoever the mole is in Washington saw the internal e-mails about Quint Powers’s theory and realized we were about to uncover Mr. Pinch, so they sent an associate to pose as FBI and extract him,” said the bureau chief. “Benmont’s as guilty as his colleague who pulled the trigger. I hope I’m not speaking only for myself here, but they came after the Bureau this time, which means it’s now personal.”
The chief turned and wrote on a whiteboard:
Top Priority: Find Benmont Pinch!
Sarasota
A Ford Falcon sat parked outside an Amish restaurant. Inside, two men occupied a rounded corner booth eating pie.
“I’ve been doing some thinking,” said Serge, sipping coffee. “You know how I’m always talking about possibilities others miss?”
“All the time,” said Coleman, spiking his orange juice with vodka.
“Like how you can get away with all kinds of stuff if you have a clipboard, or safety cones, or a windbreaker with letters on the back. Everyone just assumes you’re authorized.”
“Don’t forget hard hats.”
“Right, a hard hat is another magic wand. Wear a hard hat and people just melt and bend to your will. ‘Clea
r the building! There’s a gas leak!’ Then everyone runs out into the parking lot and leaves you alone while you fill your pockets with candy.”
“I still have Skittles left over from last time.”
“But I’ve come up with a new one that I can’t believe I never thought of before.” Serge finished his coffee and signaled a waitress for a refill. “We’ve watched a lot of college sporting events on TV. Have you noticed the one person who can do anything they want, no matter how far against the grain of society?”
Coleman shook his head.
“The mascot!” Serge pounded the table with a fist. “Those costumes are an all-access pass to outside-the-lane behavior. Tigers, eagles, hornets, devils, bulldogs, cowboys, Spartans, gamecocks . . .”
Giggle. “You said ‘cock.’”
“. . . Wear any of those outfits, and you’re free to run in crazy circles, twirl your arms, do push-ups, grab strangers for hugs, lead cheers in public against your rivals.”
“I’ve seen what happens when you do that in street clothes,” said Coleman. “We’re usually asked to leave.”
“More like grabbed,” said Serge. “But mascots are applauded for the same antics. Is that fair? They can even beat up the other mascot if they want.”
“That’s hilarious,” said Coleman. “I’ve seen them put on that act before.”
“It’s not always an act,” said Serge. “Once a guy really hated the guts of this other mascot, and he was like, ‘Just wait till we put our costumes on.’ Then on the sidelines he beat the shit out of the guy. A felony assault is going down, but thousands of onlookers are laughing and taking pictures as a leprechaun stomps an owl half to death.”
Coleman looked at the feathered costume head sitting on the end of the table. “Is that why you’re dressed like a duck today?”
Serge stretched his wings. “I’m taking this baby for a spin.”
“But don’t you think it only works when you’re at a sports event?” asked Coleman. “We’ve been getting a lot of strange looks since we came in here.”
“That’s just the culture of the people who run this restaurant. When have you ever seen the Amish in freezing weather at a football game with bare chests painted in team colors?”
“You’re really smart.”
Serge grabbed his costume head and stood. “Let’s roll . . .”
The Ford Falcon eased up to the guard booth at Boca Shores.
Earl stepped out, rubbing his chin. “A duck today?”
“I’m authorized.”
The gate arm raised. The Falcon cruised inside.
Serge slowed as he passed the parking lot in front of the clubhouse. A crowd milled aimlessly. “That’s interesting.” They circled the square lake and returned.
Residents checked their watches and monitored the entrance. A duck got out of a Falcon. “What’s going on?”
A woman with binoculars and a straw sun hat pointed at an empty shuttle bus. “Our driver is late for our field trip.”
“Field trip!” Serge flapped his wings. “I love field trips! Can I go? Please! We can sing songs and have snacks and touch stuff! Please, please, please!”
“I’m sure there’s enough room.”
“Great! Where are we going?”
“Myakka River State Park,” said the woman, applying sunblock.
“Myakka! I’ve been there a million times! Even escaped once,” said Serge. “There’s the boardwalk, the canopy bridge, the dam, country store, log cabins! At thirty-seven thousand acres, it’s one of the largest Florida parks, developed by the Civilian Conservation Corps and dedicated 1941. It thins the tourist crowd down to only the most worthy because the attraction is nothing but nature just rippin’ out there! I’ll get my camera! . . . Coleman! . . .”
Something had caught Coleman’s attention, and he was drifting over toward a pair of retirees standing behind the bus.
“What’s that bozo doing now to attract attention?” Serge waddled over in his duck suit.
Coleman slipped an old man a ten-dollar bill. “Thanks.” A blue pill was furtively exchanged in a handshake. He popped it in his mouth and started back toward the Falcon.
“What the hell are you doing?” asked Serge.
“Retirees rule!” Coleman pointed behind him as another old man joined the candid meeting behind the bus. “They’re doing drug deals!”
“Coleman, you realize it’s simply a black market in Viagra?” said Serge. “It’s going on at almost every retirement community in the state.”
“Viagra?”
“Another thing that burns my ass,” said Serge. “Not the pills themselves, but the men in charge of the system; another shame to my gender!”
“How so?”
“A lot of insurance companies cover Viagra while at the same time excluding birth control, even though a pregnancy would cost them much more. Why would they do such a counter-intuitive thing, you ask?”
“I didn’t understand all the words,” said Coleman.
“Insurance executives correctly figure that if a woman is responsible enough to seek birth control, she’ll buy it anyway. You’d think the same reasoning would apply to Viagra. But if Viagra increases the chance of pregnancy, who cares? They’ve already passed that cost along to the women.”
“Dear God, how is that allowed to happen?” asked Coleman.
“It’s the composition of the people making the decisions,” said Serge. “Let me put it another way. Can you imagine an exclusively female boardroom: ‘Yeah, denying birth control coverage is a shitty thing to do to our sisters, but we’re running a business here after all. On the other hand, excluding Viagra? That’s just crazy talk!’”
“Never thought of it that way,” said Coleman.
“You took the pill, didn’t you?”
“Sort of.”
“Congratulations, you’re sort of pregnant.” Serge checked the memory on his digital camera. “Just keep your shirt untucked and don’t bump into people.”
One of the old guys from the bus ambled over. “Hey, Serge!” He glanced around suspiciously, then held out a prescription bottle. “Need anything? It’s on me.”
“I don’t mean to brag,” said Serge, “but that would be overkill. It’s why I can’t read historic markers when there are children around.”
“If you change your mind . . .”
Time went by. People began to sweat.
“That’s it!” yelled Serge. “We’re leaving on the field trip!”
“But our driver isn’t here yet.”
“Yes, he is,” said Serge, climbing in behind the steering wheel.
“But you’re not allowed to drive the shuttle bus.”
Serge waved feathers. “I’m authorized.”
Chapter 27
State Road 72
A shuttle bus sped east on a two-lane road through pastureland. Serge held the steering with one hand, and the other waved a wing over his head like an orchestra conductor. The passengers swayed back and forth.
“. . . The wheels on the bus go round and round . . . round and round . . .”
“Serge . . .”
“What, Coleman?”
“Uh, I’ve got a problem over here.”
Serge turned. “That’s disgusting.” He placed the duck’s head on Coleman’s lap.
Fifteen minutes later, a shuttle bus pulled up to the park rangers’ station.
“. . . Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall . . .”
Serge got out his wallet to pay the admission. “I’m authorized. Pay no attention to the duck head. Any questions?”
The shuttle bus drove along the southern lip of the lake and made its first stop at the bird-watchers’ boardwalk. Serge charged down the wooden planks to the end and spun around. “I’m sure you’re all new to this, so I’ll just help you identify the wondrous assortment of species . . . Okay, that one over there is a little far away, but I think it’s a heron—”
“Tricolored heron . . .”
“A
nd there’s a sandhill crane . . .”
“Black-necked stilt . . .”
Serge got out his camera. “Uh, very good . . .” He raised it toward an osprey.
All around him: click, click, click, click, click . . .
“Serge.” Coleman walked up holding a duck head over his crotch. “They’re taking more pictures than you do. And you take like a million.”
“I know. I think I’ve found my people.”
“A red-shouldered hawk . . .”
“Wood stork . . .”
“Limpkin . . .”
Click, click, click, click, click . . .
“Ibis . . .”
“Roseate spoonbill . . .”
They boarded the shuttle and took a tranquil, winding drive through a long tunnel of oaks draped with Spanish moss. Cameras out the window. Click, click, click.
“Stop the bus!”
Serge slammed the brakes and spun around. “What’s the matter? Is everyone okay?”
“We’re fine,” said a woman up front, standing and adjusting her sun hat. Everyone else began standing as well, bunching toward the front of the shuttle. “Can you open the door?”
A curious Serge did as requested. “Bathroom break?”
“No, you almost missed the trail.”
The bus emptied. “What’s going on?” asked Coleman.
“I think they want to hike,” said Serge. “Let’s go.”
The seniors had a good head start, and the pair trotted after them. Myakka boasts a wickedly healthy ecosystem with all manner of life fighting for elbow room. Serge and Coleman ran down a narrow, shaded path of dirt and leaves, snaking through a dense marsh with a vibrant green covering. Tree frogs, and insects dancing in the water, and oaks shrouded with ferns and moss. The two pals had almost caught up to the others in a stretch of scrub and hardwood hammock.
“Coleman, spiderweb.”
“What? . . . Ahhh! Get it off me! Get it off me!”
“Home wrecker,” said Serge. “Hold still.”
“What is it?”
“You don’t want to know.” Serge watched the pointy yellow-and-black legs of an orb weaver creep onto Coleman’s shoulder. He humanely brushed it off.