Coffee (16 page)

“At
this point, Sir, I’d take the case of the missing panty hose,”
Bryce said, putting down his pencil and turning.

“I
bet you would, especially if someone was in them.”

Inferring
sexual themes from everything said was common at the FBI. Bryce let
it go, with his sights on more important issues. If he played the
game right, he’d get out of Lange’s little Rookie
training ground and become a full field agent, maybe soon. The FBI
made you do your time, no matter what skills you brought with you.
But if you kept up an eager exterior, licking the floor like you
enjoyed it, the brass took notice.

Bryce
had already supported a number of important cases, and earned formal
recognition for excellence on two. At 33, he topped the average aged
rookie by seven years. As a seasoned First Lieutenant in the Marine
Air Corps, some of the others looked to him for unofficial guidance.

“Here’re
your orders.” Mike Lange let the stapled report fall from
the air. Bryce had to clumsily jump up and grab it, another small
example of Lange’s constant effort to maintain dominance
through humiliation. Lange turned and walked out.

Bryce
Applegate stood five-eight, weighing 170 - not a large man, but what
he lacked in brawn he made up in astonishing alacrity of mind and
body. It took him only a month to move up the FBI racquetball
ladder to number one, never losing a match. Many found his constant
enthusiasm and quick thinking attractive, if not contagious. His
most striking physical feature was his hair, a bright orange-red
color cut only an inch long. His slightly round Irish face always
appeared a little sun-burned, especially his forever rosy cheeks.
Freckles dotted every bit of exposed skin - face, arms, hands, even
his ears.

Bryce
wanted the field agent position badly. He wanted freedom to make
his own decisions, to solve cases, to catch and put away major
criminals - something more rewarding than his military service.

The
Marines had promised action and adventure, valuable training,
protection of grand ideals, and a chance to contribute to world
peace. But in practice, it seemed that paper work and constant
training exercises dominated his life. The exercises differed by
only the outrageous conditions in which they were completed - in the
middle of the night during a horrible storm, in the blazing heat or
icy cold, while carrying hundreds of pounds of gear. Although
pleased with the detailed knowledge and flying ability he gained on
certain jet and helicopter aircraft, Bryce needed a change. On top
of everything else, the Marines focused on other countries’
problems. Bryce wanted to be here, in his country, helping rid his
own back yard of the negative element. The FBI seemed like a good
place to go.

Bryce
shared a small office with two other much younger Rookies. One of
them, Tom Heller, a twenty five year old son of a New York City
Police lifer, spoke up, “Read it Bryce. Let’s see what
the big guy trusted you with this time.”

Bryce
scanned it first. Every conceivable situation had a specific form,
and God help you if you used the wrong one. “Order
Apportionment” he read off the top of the first page.
“Priority Level 5.”

Tom
interrupted, “Level five! Oooo! That’s right up there
with ‘Cat crosses state border, gets stuck in tree.’”

“Shut
up, Tom,” said Brooke Jackson, the third office-mate. Brooke
also had red hair, an unusual coincidence, although hers was darker,
more strawberry colored. Brooke looked more like an attractive
musician than an FBI type - small framed, long hair rarely brushed,
and never a dot of makeup. Bryce liked Brooke, as she had
demonstrated a keen perceptiveness and a professional eagerness not
found in many new recruits.

“‘Synopsis:’”
Bryce read the form’s section headings and their contents.
“‘Caller from Hanover, New Hampshire to Emergency Line
claims woman in danger in Dallas, Texas. The woman had been
previously pronounced dead due to a car accident three days earlier
in the same town. Order Summary: Assignment requires phone-only
inquiry for further information. Recommendation for next step due
Wednesday morning, 0900.”

“So
much for getting out of Washington, Bryce - another desk job,”
Tom summarized. Bryce was thinking the same.

Bryce
continued, “‘Detail: Administrative Assistant CJV
confirmed...’”

Tom
broke in, “CJV? Cynthia something. I know her. She’s the
‘D’ cup with the short brown hair.”

“Tom,
all you ever see are tits and hair. When are you going to grow up,”
added Brooke.

“Sometimes
I don’t see the hair,” Tom quipped with a silly smile.

“Enough,
boys and girls, I want to get through this.” He read on,
“‘CJV confirmed the identities of the caller and the
woman allegedly in danger. Knut Olafson, Professor of Mathematics
at Dartmouth College called the Emergency Line at 0453 Tuesday
morning from a research facility on campus. He left a short
message, claming that Harriet Bishop, a former graduate student, was
alive and in danger. The transcript of the message is attached, and
it can be heard by retrieving sound file FD.442.ML5. Hanover police
verified that Harriet Bishop had been a student but died in a car
accident on the previous Friday night. The caller said Bishop was
at a company called ‘Global Growers’. CJV reports that
such a company exists, in Las Colinas, Texas. According to a staff
person at Dartmouth, Olafson and Bishop had worked together on a
number of projects, and were considered good friends.’”

“Dead
student gets bad job in Texas,” Tom summarized.

Brooke
walked over to Bryce’s cube. “Sounds interesting, read
the message transcript.”

“Wait,
there’s a post script.” Bryce kept reading. “‘CJV:
The voice on the message sounded deathly ill, spoken with heavy,
difficult breathing. I was not able to get back through to the
caller at 0530. I called the Dartmouth College hospital to request
help be sent to the caller, but they said he was already there and
under their care. At 0830, I got through to a staff member at
Dartmouth, and she told me an ambulance had taken Olafson away very
early, and that they had still not heard details on his condition.’”

“He’s
sick?” Tom asked without wanting an answer. “His friend
dies a few days earlier, he gets sicker than a dog, and then starts
imagining things. Sounds like a no brainer to me.”

Bryce
scanned the transcript. “Not much here, but the transcriber
indicates some of the message was not clear enough to understand.”

“Let’s
listen to it, I’d like to help,” offered Brooke.

A
voice wafted in from the outer room, Mike Lange’s. “No
you won’t, Miss Jackson. You have your orders. This one’s
a minimum research job for Bryce, anymore resources on it would be a
waste of taxpayer’s money.”

Brooke
returned to her desk, but before sitting down, she mouthed with
exaggerated enunciation back to Bryce, ‘ASS-HOLE!’
Bryce grinned and winked.

Bryce
thought it over before beginning. He stared out the window at the
chilled wind blowing leaves around Washington, DC’s grassy
mall. It very well could be that the caller’s sickness caused
him some disorientation. If he was close to the deceased, all the
more reason she would be on his mind. But why so desperate and
specific? The caller said exactly where she was. He would have
expected the fantasies of a sick man to be more visual and less
detailed. Truth is stranger than fiction, and this was very strange.
First he would hear the recording, and go from there.

- Chapter Ten -

Etty
finally won her battle with consciousness by 10am Sunday morning.
The evening’s events returned in a deluge. She jumped up, not
hindered by her pounding head, and ran to the shower. There she
stood, in the hottest water she could stand, washing again and
again, scrubbing, cleaning. She trembled with horrid thoughts. But
she re-confirmed her commitment to the new strategy - play along.
Write the best paper ever. Do their bidding with aggressive
excellence, but always looking for that one crack, that way out.

The
first step was to call McKinsey and initiate the project. The
thought of the rape so horrified her, so humiliated her, that she
forced it to the back recesses - fearing a preoccupation would
hinder the task at hand. She walked through the steamy bathroom to
the phone by the bed. “McKinsey, please,” she demanded
of the receptionist.

“I’m
sorry, he is still at home, and he usually doesn’t come into
the office on Sundays until mid afternoon.”

“Contact
him at home, please, and have him return my call at my apartment as
soon as possible. This is Harriet Bishop, I have some news for
him.” She hung up, and pulled on some jeans. The phone rang
before she had finished buttoning her cotton work shirt.

“Hello,
Mr. McKinsey?”

“Nope,
even better!”

She
recognized his voice immediately. “Bart! Get away from me!”

She
cocked back her arm to slam the phone down, when his words caught
her attention. “That’s no way to treat the man who
saved your life.” She reluctantly listened. “You
realize, I assume, how easily I could have killed you. Who would
question the head of security? Woman escapes, struggle, security
risk, woman killed. End of story. You should thank me.”

She
squeezed the phone, trying to twist off it’s top like it was
Bart’s pudgy head. She wanted to accuse him, scream every foul
word she knew. But to acknowledge the rape would give him yet
another humiliating advantage. He had his way with her unconscious
body, an act as abominable as necrophilia. He wanted her to break
down, dissolve into an hysterical mess. She wouldn’t give him
the satisfaction. Her only revenge was to pretend ignorance.
“Fine. Thank you for smashing my head with your gun.”

“That’s
not all I did.”

She
hurried her words. “Look, you’re the last thing I care
about right now. I’m going to begin working for McKinsey now,
full time. You watch me. I don’t believe anything you say
anyway. Now get off the line, I’m waiting for his call.”

“But
Etty, I ....”

“Little
boy.” She sighed in a motherly tone. “So you saw me
naked. I imagine that was quite a thrill, for a guy who can’t
get a date without holding a lethal weapon. Now go away!”
She hung up.

The
phone rang immediately. She prepared herself for more of Bart’s
bantering. It was McKinsey.

“Good
morning, Miss Bishop. I understand you had an accident last night.
Bump on the head?”

“Yes
Sir. I’m sorry. I acted foolishly. It won’t happen
again.” She decided to keep the rape from McKinsey as well,
at least for now. She had just finished her period, so the
likelihood of pregnancy was small. Diseases concerned her, but most
would not show up in a test for awhile anyway. Gathering physical
evidence for a suit was obviously useless - they weren’t about
to let her press formal charges. Besides, McKinsey would just talk
to Maslow. She wanted that beast guessing whether she even knew he’d
done it. And if McKinsey came down hard on him, he might do
something extreme, like release the bacteria. It wasn’t easy,
but she kept the horrible act to herself. “I’m fine
now, thank you. I have something to say to you.”

“Go
right ahead.”

“I
am ready to do your research. Full time. I see now that this is my
best option. It will be the finest damn analysis you ever read.”

McKinsey
nodded to himself. “Very good, Miss Bishop, very good.
You’ve made the right decision. I appreciate your desire to
leave, but you have to play by our rules, just until we can earn
your respect.”

“I
understand.” She thought to herself, ‘Respect! I have
more regard for serial killers than I do for you.’ She
continued, “I would like to take over one of the study cubes
in the Finance Library as my own. I need the equipment and access
to information, so working here would be cumbersome.”

“No
problem. I’ll have one assigned to you.”

“I’m
going to need a lot of support. Someone to retrieve information,
pull from outside sources, etc.”

“I’ll
call and make sure they have enough people on duty, and if you run
into any delays, I’ll have someone assigned to you as your own
assistant. What else?”

“I’ll
take you up on the offer to buy clothes and other personals. That’s
it for now.”

“No
problems there, easy all around. I’ll have an escort come for
you. Are you ready now?”

“I’d
like a number I can call day or night to be escorted. I work
strange hours some times.”

“Just
call security. I’ll remind them of their obligation to you.”

“Mr.
McKinsey, no more funny business from me. I’m serious this
time, I will do this report.”

“Good
to hear!” he said amiably.

Etty
wondered to herself how a guy could surround himself with murderers
and rapists and still come out sounding like a glee club teacher.

“My
only request is that Bart Maslow is permanently taken off my escort
list.”

His
voiced boomed again, “Not a problem, I’ll ensure it.
I’ll check in with you in a few days. Now you promise to call
me if you need anything, anything at all?”

What
an odd man, she thought. “Yes. Of course.”

“All
right then, I’ll make those calls before noon. I’ve got
some fritters on the table getting cool, so I’ll see you
later. Bye!”

She
finished dressing and called security. While she waited for them to
come, she checked out the refrigerator. She had not eaten in thirty
six hours, and seeing food made her almost frantic. A gallon jug of
orange juice beckoned, which she guzzled from the bottle. The cool
liquid separated the sticky membranes in her throat. She could
follow the splashing sensation of cold all the way to her stomach.
She grabbed a loaf of white bread, and spread peanut butter in thick
globs on three pieces. She pulled up a stool and sat right there at
the countertop and ate in large bites, washed down by more orange
juice. She found a bag and packed some food for the library - the
rest of the bread, the jar of peanut butter, some strawberry jam,
and a six pack of Coke.