Steven James - The Bishop

I left Tessa alone with her thoughts.

We passed signs to the Marine weapons ranges and obstacle courses, then cruised past some intersections that, quite intentionally, had no road signs. After all, there are sections of the Quantico Marine Corps Base best left unadvertised to visitors.

We passed the sprawling, ultra-modern FBI Forensics Analysis Lab, the most advanced forensics laboratory in the world; then came to the turnoff for Hogan’s Alley, a sixteen-acre vacant town the FBI built in the eighties to use for training agents to collect evidence, respond to hostage situations, perform felony vehicle stops, and apprehend hostile suspects in urban areas. I didn’t mention to Tessa that the body farm lay in the stretch of woods just beyond it.

Instead, I said, “Here we are,” and pulled into the parking lot beside the Academy’s administration building, and then I led her inside.

From the safe side of the glass, Astrid watched the woman struggle against the leather restraints as the two chimpanzees began their work.

The woman’s screams grew more and more shrill, more and more frantic, until they crested in a final shriek of terror.

The scene had become rather disturbing. Astrid found herself looking away.

Brad, however, was still focused on the woman, whose cries were plummeting into a series of wet gurgles that were quickly drowned out by the frenzied cries of the chimps locked in the glass-walled cage with her.

Astrid glanced at her again.

She’d stopped struggling.

Stopped jerking.

For her, it was over.

But the chimpanzees had only just gotten started.

Astrid turned away and said to Brad, “I’ll see you later tonight.”

“Yes.”

“Enjoy the show.”

She was referring to the game, their game, but he didn’t look away from the chimps when he replied, “You too.”

She sensed that he was thinking only about what was happening on the other side of the glass, so she took his chin in her hand, turned his face so that he was looking into her eyes. “It’s time to go.”

“Okay.”

Brad gave the woman one last look before following Astrid away from the chimp exhibit, then they each went their separate ways to prepare for tonight’s spectacle. Brad into the pouring rain, Astrid to change for her performance.

To get to the FBI Academy’s auditorium, we had to walk through one of the lighted, climate-controlled walkways connecting the buildings, affectionately known as “Gerbil Tubes.” When I mentioned the nickname to Tessa, I anticipated what she might say, something like, “Wonderful. The brightest minds in law enforcement and the best they can come up with is ‘Gerbil Tubes.’ How reassuring. I feel so much safer from the forces of evil.”

Instead, she just mumbled, “Caged animals,” and I wasn’t sure if she was referring to the FBI staff, or just reiterating her militant views on protecting animal rights. I held back from commenting.

Currently, the Academy had about 350 field agents in training, who we refer to as New Agents. In addition we have nearly 300 staff, many of whom bail on events like this.

This coming Monday we were beginning a new ten-week National Academy class for command level and elite law enforcement personnel from around the world, another 300 people, half of whom had already arrived.

The auditorium holds about 1,100 people, but I only expected about half that many to show up for tonight’s panel discussion.

For the program, Lieutenant Cole Doehring from the Metro DC police department and my friend, Special Agent Ralph Hawkins, were scheduled to appear with me, and an eight-foot table equipped with three microphones on short stands sat on the stage. Three chairs had been placed behind the table. A wooden podium stood beside it.

Even though we weren’t scheduled to start for another fifteen minutes, already at least one hundred men and women were seated. Tessa regarded them briefly.

“I’m gonna sit in the back.” She gave me a wry smile. “In case I fall asleep.”

“If you do,” I said, “try not to snore. You might wake someone else up.”

“Not bad.” She was replying over her shoulder. “I’d give that one a B+.”

I walked onstage, positioned myself behind one of the microphones, and took a few minutes to glance over my notes. When I looked up, I noticed FBI Executive Assistant Director Margaret Wellington stride into the auditorium and, after sweeping her eyes around the room, lock her gaze on me and march toward the stage.

Great.

Five years ago I’d noticed some discrepancies in a report dealing with one of her cases. Evidence had been lost and I was called into a hearing at the FBI’s Office of Professional Responsibility, our internal affairs department. I reported my findings, and, though she hadn’t received a letter of censure or even an official reprimand, she had been reassigned to a satellite office in Asheville, North Carolina-not exactly the career ladder rung she’d been eyeing.

Ever since then, she’d had it in for me, and as it happens, fate had tipped in her favor. After two unexpected promotions in the last nine months, she was now my boss.

Life in the Bureau.

Stylishly dressed in a tailored pantsuit and wearing staccato heels-a not-so-subtle way to announce her arrival-she toted a brown, Italian leather briefcase that almost matched her hair, which reminded me of carefully brushed strings of bark. “Agent Bowers,” she said curtly.

“Hello, Margaret.”

She held her head ramrod straight, set her briefcase on the table. “You just can’t get used to the fact that I’m an executive assistant director, can you?”

“It’s sinking in.”

A smile that wasn’t a smile. “Good to hear.” She centered her case directly in front of her. “And so, I will ask you to address me appropriately. I’ve earned my position and I deserve to be called by my formal title.”

“You know what, Margaret? I agree.”

She blinked. “You do?”

“Sure, why not? Using each other’s formal titles sounds like a good idea.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “Ah. I see. You want me to call you Dr. Bowers, is that it? Or Special Agent Bowers, PhD?”

I shrugged. “Either one would work for me.”

I’d suspected that the idea of constantly reminding herself that someone had accomplished something that she hadn’t would bother her even more than being called by her first name, and it looked like I was right. It was entertaining to watch her reaction.

“I suppose,” she conceded at last, “that a certain degree of casual intercourse might be acceptable, considering our long professional history together. But not in front of the New Agents.”

Although I knew what she meant, the phrase “casual intercourse” just didn’t sound right at all coming from her mouth, especially when she added, “not in front of the New Agents.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

She clicked open her briefcase. “I had to give Agent Hawkins another assignment, so I’ll be sitting in for him tonight.”

Based on how much Margaret believes in my investigative approach and considering Lieutenant Doehring’s views about geospatial investigation, I had a feeling that this might very well turn into more of a debate than a panel discussion.

“I see,” I said.

As she removed some of the papers from her briefcase, I was surprised to see a photo of a golden retriever taped to the inside flap. Trying to redirect the conversation, I pointed it out: “That’s a good-looking dog, Margaret.”

“It’s Lewis.”

“Lewis.”

“Yes, Lewis.” She checked her watch, and from where I stood I could see it was only a couple minutes before 7:00. Lieutenant Doehring still hadn’t arrived. “Lewis is my pet.”