"Aw, fuck."
"Yeah."
"Great, just great! I'm with his CO...I gotta go."
"All right, I'll talk to you later."
The whole time I was talking to the Lieutenant, Colonel Wright was watching me. I think he had an inkling of the last bomb the boss dropped on me from his facial expressions. When I hung up, he looked at me and grinned. "Find out about daddy?"
"Yeah. Did his father know about his condition?"
"Well, not exactly."
"Could you give me a better explanation than 'not exactly'"?
Lance Corporal Chesty Puller the Fourth chose that moment to come into the room. Lance Corporal Puller was the Marine security force mascot. An English bulldog of remarkable ugliness, questionable morality, and poor housebreaking (as witnessed by the fact that they have broken him down to Lance again, at one time I think he made Gunny, but he keeps pissing on the CO's rug.) He was the perfect mascot for a Marine; or at least so the Sailor in me thought. Chesty snuffled into the room, snuffled over to me, took one sniff and headed for the high country as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him. This is why I don't own dogs; I like dogs, really, but I haven't found one yet that will not either piss himself in fear, or try to attack me on general principles at first sniff. It's annoying, but I've gotten used to it.
Colonel Wright watched this whole scene with amusement, shook his head, looked at the Sergeant Major, and said "Your dog is a wus." he shook his head again, stroked his chin for a second, and looked up at me from his chair. "Not exactly, in this case, means: not so that you could notice. Sergeant Brown was in a bad position. On the one hand, his dad was a second-term Senator, and no matter how you would like to disengage yourself from your family, it just isn't possible. He and his father didn't see eye to eye on lots of things, this man's Corps being one of them. On the other hand, his girlfriend, and I mean real serious girlfriend, was a 'Thrope. He chose love over the family stand, but didn't want to go public and cause a scandal. He was afraid that it would do his father's political career no end of harm, and while he didn't particularly like his dad at times, hey it was his DAD!"
"So you're telling me that the guy who is campaigning in a big way for the revocation of civil rights for anyone that isn't a "pure human"; doesn't know, that his son is one of the people he's campaigning to disenfranchise?"
"Yep."
"Well, I'm glad I don't have to be the one to tell him."
I now got one of those looks from the good Colonel. He had a great "Fuck you very much" look.
Shortly thereafter, we bid Colonel Wright a good day and met Senior Chief Pierson for lunch and small talk at the chief's club. Then it was back to the office at Sequim.
Chapter Ten
We got back to the office about one-thirty in the afternoon, and I immediately called the lieutenant back to find out the rest of the story.
Murphy told me that Senator Brown had called in some of his "buddies" at the FPI to investigate the "Murder of my son by those evil servants of the horned one, known as lycanthropes". Greaat! I urged Murphy to use any horsepower that she had with the PTBs to head off this witch hunt, and hung up. Shit. An hour later, Murphy called me back to say that the best she could get was mutual jurisdiction. The FPI would not be called off, but we would be allowed to conduct our own investigation in parallel. It seems that the Committee for Preternatural Affairs (which is the governing body for the FPI) had a strong minority that sympathized with Brown's position. There were enough others in the committee that, while they didn't agree with Brown, either owed someone a favor, or wanted to be seen as sympathetic to the grieving parent, or whatever to make a majority. So, we were stuck with the FPI tramping all over our woods. Murphy wanted me to write my initial report soonest, and email it in so that it could be turned over to the FPI along with the autopsy and the crime scene data. Again, greaat...
So, Pete and I took the next couple hours writing as complete a report as we could. We did everything we possibly could to emphasize the evidence that led me to believe that the murderer was not a 'Thrope. Was this unethical? Well, yes and no. Is it unethical to emphasize in your report those things which led you to believe that the bad guy was armed? No. Is it unethical to emphasize evidence that makes it look like your buddy is innocent? Hel yes. This was somewhere between those two. I was sure before the lab report that the 'Thropes didn't do it. But you can't very well put down that you heard your dead uncle tell you it wasn't the 'Thropes that killed the victim, now can you? Only if you want to be locked up in Western State Hospital. And remember that we're writing this report for the Fanatics, Pricks, and Incompetents. Anything that makes those idiots see reason was fair game in my book. By the end of the day we had a pair of masterpieces of the report writers' art. Veritable Pulitzer Prize winners of police prose. We sent them off...it was all for naught.
The next morning we were called first thing out of the gate by Lieutenant Murphy, and told not to go to the office at Sequim, but instead to get in full uniform and drive via fastest route back to the office in Monroe. It seems we were to meet with our counterpart from the FPI, the special agent in charge for their investigation. Oh goody.
On the way there, we heard on the radio that the Liberian-flagged ship I had run into earlier (or rather almost ran into) wasn't Liberian, in fact she didn't exist. She had been claimed to Lloyds as sunk by pirates off the Straits of Malacca two years ago...curiouser and curiouser said Alice.
When we got to the office at about ten o'clock, Murphy called us into the office and gave me a lecture about how I needed to be a professional and not allow my personal feelings to affect how I dealt with Special Agent Joseph Bourgeois. Me! Like I would let my personal feelings affect how I dealt with someone in authority! Humph. I never...well, hardly ever. OK, maybe I did need the lecture, but still...
After the lecture, we talked about what directions we would pursue on the two investigations in the Olympics. At this point we were pretty sure that they were two separate crimes. We hadn't been discussing it for very long when Bourgeois showed up at the office. He was about six foot, four inches, and the blackest black man I have ever seen. This guy's skin was the color of a raven's wing, almost a blue-black. His eyes were deep brown, and he wore short dread-locks that gave his head somewhat of the appearance of a hedgehog. He was wearing gray slacks, an oxford shirt in royal blue with an ascot (probably an old school tie, but Hel-if-I-know which one) and a maroon sweater, all covered by a black trench-coat. If it weren't for the dreads, he would look like he just stepped out of Fed Quarterly. He also looked like he could be typecast as John Henry.
As he walked through the door and looked around I got the distinct scent of sugar-cane, rum, and the grave. (I can't really describe the smell of a grave, but it's distinctive, once you smell it you would know exactly what it is. Sort of dusty, musty, and dry bones.) It wasn't an unpleasant scent, necessarily, just very distinctive. He opened his mouth and this basso-profundo Jamaican voice came out. Sort of half James Earl Jones, half Bob Marley. "I am looking for a Lieutenant Murphy." He pronounced it British style, Leftenant.
Murphy stood up and waved him over, saying "You found her. On my left, corporal-detective John Fisher, and on his left, detective Peter Sims."
I saw one eyebrow go up, apparently no one had informed him that our boss was a female. His hand dipped into his pants pocket as he smiled at her and said "Good afternoon, no one mentioned that you were so beautiful."
Murphy lit up like a search light, she actually simpered. What the fuck? Lieutenants don't simper! They bark, growl, cajole, and occasionally even wheedle, but they do not simper. Yet there she was, big as life, and twice as school girlish. Then I noticed that I could smell the sugar, rum, graveyard combo much more noticeably. 'Oh no you don't Rasta-man' I thought. I needed to get this guy alone. If the boss finds out she got rolled by him, we're at war, and I'm not sure we would win. So...
As Bourgeois opened his mouth to speak, I noticed that he was fiddl
ing with something in his pocket. "Miz Murphy, I've looked over the data you sent to our office. It's not very complete now, is it? Were your officers unable to trail the 'Thropes from the scene of their crime?"
Even rolled, this was too much for Murphy. "Didn't you read the reports? Or the autopsy? The murderers weren't the 'Thropes. This was a frame, and not a particularly good one."
Bourgeois looked at her again, and smiled. His teeth were the size of Chiclets and just as white. This guy sort of reminded me of the dude from the "Un-Cola" commercials of the late seventies. "Now, Miz Murphy, how can it be a frame? Your officers traced the perps to the scene of the crime." Funny, that's not the way I remember it, and it's sure not the way the report read. "The damage was obviously done by Lycanthrope paws and teeth, what more do you want, mum? A signed confession? Now I know that dealing with preternatural things are more my agency's line of work, so why don't you just help us find them, and leave the capturing and the proof to my people?"
Well, that blew it. Getting a person angry enough is a sure way to lose the control you achieved on them. The sort of mental control Bourgeois had been using was more of a persuasion than a true mind control. More the sort of thing that a really good politician or salesman can do, not the sort of true mind control that takes major spell work and is prima-facie evidence of Felony Fraud. It doesn't quite achieve the level of a crime normally, and it can't make someone do something that is completely against their nature. It's persuasion, not puppet mastery. And it can't stand up to strong will or emotion, especially anger. Murphy got up and looked Bourgeois in the eye. "Get your arrogant, clueless, incompetent ass out of my office. We will pursue our investigation; you pursue yours, and keep your Inquisitor wannabees the fuck out of my way." With this, Bourgeois beat a hasty retreat.
I looked over at the Lieutenant, she was fuming. I motioned with my head in the direction of the door and she gave a curt nod. Knowing Murphy, this was as much as I was going to get until she cooled down. This was just as well, because when she was in her normal mind, she would want to know where I was going. I stood up and followed Bourgeois out of the building.
As I walked out the door, Bourgeois looked down at me and said "Can I help you, officer?" Now he wasn't patronizing or anything, which was a little surprising, considering what he had just done inside. I tried my best to be political about the whole thing.
"Agent Bourgeois, do you have any idea what you just did in there?"
"I seem to have alienated your lieutenant for some reason, but I am not sure why."
"Oh, you have most certainly have done that, but that's not what I'm talking about. What I'm talking about is that gross misdemeanor you performed inside."
Well, now he really looked puzzled, which told me a lot. "I take it you're not aware that you're putting out a Glamourie?" I asked.
"Well, of course I'm not, mon. Er, I mean, I'm sure I'm not. And how would you know anyway?"
"I guess your dossier on me isn't as complete as you guys thought. I smell magic, friend, and I smelled it in there, from you. That constitutes use of magic on a law enforcement officer in the performance of their duty. A gross misdemeanor in this state, and yes, my testimony on this would be admissible."
"I don't know what you're talking about, mon." His accent was getting worse by the minute. "Don't you think I would know if I was performing magic?"
"I don't know, what's in your pocket that you keep playing with? It seemed to kick in when you started worrying it."
"Oh mon, that's just my Ju-Ju."
"Yeah, well, your Ju-Ju is radiating magic every time you fiddle with it; and if you try to roll my lieutenant again, I'm torn between prosecuting you, eating you, or being really mean and letting my lieutenant know you're working magic on her. Do we have an understanding?"
"If I worked any magic on your boss unknowingly I humbly apologize. I don't suppose I should go in and apologize to her?"
"Not the smartest thing you could do."
"I better be going then." with that, he left. Got in his fed-mobile and drove off. I really wanted to talk to him about why he was completely discounting the whole forensic report, but I didn't get a chance to. This whole interaction was really weird. The guy seemed nice enough out here, but in the office he came off as a total "prick with ears". Very weird.
We went back to the office in Sequim after that, and tried to figure out what the Hel to do from there. The next morning I got calls from several of the local police offices wanting to know what was going on with the FPI, and had we ceded jurisdiction? So I got to explain the whole thing several times, each time getting madder than the one before. After about the fourth repeating of this, as each office was contacted by Bourgeois and told that "We expect your complete cooperation on this matter, and contact with the FPP will no longer be necessary." and they in turn, called me to ask what-the-fuck...I was pissed.
I'm a pacer...when I get pissed, I pace. This is an exercise that works much better for me outside than in, probably due to the fact that I'm an energetic pacer. (A trait that I suspect has something to do with the cat in me.) I had just gotten up to go outside and do some most energetic pacing, while fantasizing about Bourgeois' head, and what I would really love to do with it, when a suit walked in. Now when I mean suit, I am, of course, talking about a guy in a suit. In this case, a very expensive suit. I don't know designers, but if this wasn't an Armani, it was one of his close competitors. Something about a well-designed and expensive suit, even if you don't know diddly about suits, you can tell that one was pricey. This one probably went for a few grand. The guy in it smelled of gun oil and leather. OK, so he was packing, even though I couldn't see a bulge. He was about five foot eleven, two hundred and forty or so pounds, blue eyes, blond hair, jutting jaw. Sort of looked like the posters you see of the Aryan master race. Come to think of it, he looked like a slightly taller rendition of me, except for the lack of mustache.
He looked around the office, looked at me, and walked over. "Detective Fisher?"
"Yes?"
"My name is Jones, can we talk?" I thought to myself, yeah, right, and I'm the proud owner of a bridge in New York too.
"Sure Mr. Jones, step into my temporary office." Well, it wasn't much of an office really, more of a cubicle, but it would do. "What can I do for you?" I asked as he sat down.
"John, can I call you John? Thanks. John, we have a mutual interest in keeping the FPI away from the group of veterans you're looking for. We should be able to find a way to make this work out for both of our best interests."
OK, I had him made now. This was the next step from the company. This guy just dripped salesman. High-priced salesman, but salesman just the same. Let's hear what the CIA, or DIA, or whatever alphabet soup group was really behind this, wanted. "Well, Mr. Jones, I know why I want to keep those particular assholes out of my woods, but why does-...who did you say you represent? Anyway, why does some spook group want to keep them out of the woods?"
"You caught me." he didn't seem particularly disappointed. I think he half expected to be made. "I am with the DIA. Look, we did some things that we don't really want exposed. I'm not ashamed of any of it, except maybe the way we dealt with some of the guys that worked for us." Well, if he really meant that, I could work with him, but...the way to tell if someone like this was lying was watch his lips. If they were moving...but he went on. "We suspect that if you find these guys, the most that you will do is send them to jail for a couple years, and probably not even that. We also trust you not to make a media circus out of this. The FPI, them, we don't trust."
"OK, gotta bring it up. If you trust me so mucken fuch, why the assholes with the MP5's on my front lawn? This was not a sign of trust and friendship where I was raised."
"Well, yes, about that, someone from my office made an unfortunate decision. It seems he was used to dealing with a different type of person than we know you to be. He is no longer with my office. Is there any way that we can convince you to drop that uncomfortable and c
ompletely unnecessary lawsuit?"
I had to think about this for a moment. I knew, or should have known, that they would ask me for this, but I hadn't given any thought to what it might take to get me to drop the thing. "No, sorry, you guys don't have anything I need."
Mr. Jones appeared flabbergasted. "Detective Fisher, do you understand the resources we have? Do you realize the scope and latitude of our abilities? How can you turn this down?"
"Mr. Jones, do you realize who you are talking to? A couple months ago, my great uncle died. With his death I became heir to a fifteen million dollar estate, well, about nine million in cash after your brothers at the Infernal Revenue Service got done fucking me. That's cash or negotiable securities. Dude, I own a fucking island, and a huge estate in France that I haven't even been to. I own the Black Prince's fucking battle sword. I'm not your average middle class cop on the beat. With what I inherited, my paycheck is going to end up allotted to CFC for the SEAL Memorial fund, and the NRA Legal Defense fund. Frankly, I need the tax writeoffs more than I need the money."
I hadn't planned that yet, and needed to talk to the accountant type, as soon as I got one, but those were two of the charities that I had always given money to in the past. I suspected that I really did need the tax write-offs.
"You can't buy me, sir. I have more money than I will ever be able to spend. I have more toys than I will ever be able to play with. I have a great woman that I hope to make the next Mrs. Fisher. I have a great lawyer that will help me keep these things in spite of any threats you want to make. We've already seen that your black ops thugs can't threaten me. But you violated my home. You destroyed the one thing that I demand, which is my privacy. What your boys did was wrong, and broke the law besides. No, help me out with the FPI, and I will thank you, and we will both win. Don't fuck with me and I will not make this lawsuit the three-ring circus that we both know I can make it. But your agency will get a black eye out of this, be sure of it. I will exit this with enough legal decisions that anything you or any other federal agency does to me will look like the revenge that it is, and will get thrown out of court on its ear. And before you go to the next stage and threaten my job, remember, I DON'T NEED IT. I do this because I love it, and because it needs to be done. Take my federal badge; I'll get a state or county badge, or I'll go private...think about it."
Keeping The Faith (John Fisher Chronicles Book 2) Page 11