Steven James - The Bishop

One of the eight doors on the right side of the auditorium edged open. Even though most of the attendees didn’t seem to notice, the movement caught my attention. A woman entered. Naturally beautiful face. Frizzily curled red hair. Coy smile. Wearing a dark green National Academy polo shirt.

I did a double take.

It couldn’t possibly be her.

But it was.

Detective Cheyenne Warren from Denver.

A National Academy shirt? That doesn’t make sense. She’s Cheyenne gave me a slightly embarrassed look for interrupting, then held up her palms in a small sign of surrender, mouthed the word “Sorry,” and headed for the nearest seat.

Margaret cleared her throat slightly, jarring me back to the discussion. “Agent Bowers? You were saying? Motives?”

Motives? Was I…?

I struggled to regain my train of thought, but Cheyenne’s smile had at least momentarily derailed it.

Over the last year I’d served on a joint violent crimes task force with the Denver PD, and Cheyenne and I had worked seven cases together. From the start, we’d both been attracted to each other, no question about that, but first my grief over Christie’s death and then my relationship with one of the profilers here at Quantico had kept us from dating.

Then last month, when Lien-hua and I broke up, Cheyenne hadn’t been shy in letting me know how she felt about me. However, at the time I realized that seeing her would have been, at least initially, a way of dealing with the breakup, and I couldn’t stand the thought of using her, so I’d pulled away even though I knew it had hurt her.

But that was more than three weeks ago.

And now here she was.

Back to the discussion, Pat.

“Yes. I…”

Something about offenders… space and time…

Ah yes.

I wasn’t sure if it was my exact point, but it was close enough: “So, while offenders might act, and in many cases, think, in aberrant or deviant ways, they’re not fundamentally different from the rest of us. They’re not monsters. They’re human beings who understand and interact with their environments in the same ways all human beings do. So…”

Cheyenne had taken a seat in the fifth row and was now watching me attentively, pen in hand. I found it hard not to stare at her.

“Fourthly-”

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. There’d been enough interruptions already, so I ignored it, but noticed that both Margaret and Lieutenant Doehring were glancing down, Margaret at the phone that sat on the table beside her legal pad, Doehring at his belt.

The fact that all three of us were being paged simultaneously could not possibly be a good sign. Doehring pulled out his phone while Margaret discreetly tapped the screen of hers. I eased mine from my pocket, but I kept my eyes on the audience. “As I was saying, the fourth premise is-”

“Excuse me, Agent Bowers.” Margaret abruptly set her phone down and bent toward her mic. “I’m very sorry about this, everyone, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to end our discussion prematurely tonight.”

I read the text message on my phone: a body had been found in a primate research facility in DC. The message included an address on South Capital Street but no other specifics.

But what caught my attention was the sender’s name: FBI Director Rodale, a man who didn’t get involved in cases unless they were related to national security or involved a nationwide manhunt or unusually high media coverage.

After her terse announcement, Margaret promptly rose and headed toward the hallway.

Since she was the executive assistant director, I wondered if her text had contained more details than mine had. Before I left for the scene I wanted as much information as possible, so I quickly gathered my things and went to find her before she slipped away.

I caught up with Margaret just down the hall, near the entrance to the Gerbil Tube that led to the admin building.

“Margaret,” I called. She kept walking.

“Wait.”

She didn’t turn.

“Executive Assistant Director Wellington.”

She stopped. Looked over her shoulder. Eyed me.

“A primate research lab?” As I joined her, I noticed Tessa at the far end of the hallway, picking her way toward me through the already forming crowd. “Why are we getting involved in this? Is it on federal property?”

“No, Agent Bowers, it is not.” I waited for her to elaborate, and at last she said, “A body was found.”

“I know that much, Margaret. But why would Rodale-”

“Because”-her voice was both hushed and laced with urgency-“the victim is Congressman Fischer’s daughter.”

“What?” Now she had my attention.

“House minority leader. From Virginia. Democrat. First District.”

“I know who he is.” I was processing the implications. Quantico is located in Congressman Fischer’s district, and he’d been outspoken lately on shrinking the size of the FBI by up to 20 percent because of what he called “bureaucratic redundancy.” He favored “a more progressive approach to curbing criminal behavior,” although he’d never specified exactly what he meant by that.

Congress’s budget debates had been going on all week on Capitol Hill, and since Fischer’s brother had been the vice president during the last administration, the congressman had clout and connections, and the last I heard he was gaining support for slashing the Bureau’s funding. Needless to say, he was not the most popular political figure around the Academy at the moment.

She looked at her watch. “I have two calls to make. Director Rodale reassigned Agent Hawkins to this case, so he’ll meet you at the scene. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

Normally, Margaret would work the strings on something like this from behind her desk, but with the inevitable media firestorm, I had a feeling she might see this as a chance to gain some political or administrative clout by being present at the scene near those television cameras.

She turned on her heels, strode away, and a moment later Tessa arrived by my side.

Obviously, I couldn’t take her with me to the crime scene, but the house where we were staying for the summer was in the opposite direction, so I didn’t have time to take her back there either.

I decided I could drop her off at a coffee shop or mall on the way. Not ideal, since I could be wrapped up for hours, but at the moment no better options popped to mind.

“C’mon.” I placed my hand gently on her shoulder and guided her toward a side door to the parking lot. “It’s time to go.”

“It’s bad, isn’t it?”

There was no sense trying to hide it. “It’s not good.”

It looked like she was going to ask more questions, but she remained silent. We’d nearly made it to the exit when I heard footsteps behind me. The sound of someone running.

I turned.

“Pat.” Cheyenne jogged toward us. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I wish,” I said, and I meant it. She was one of the best detectives I’d ever met. For a moment I thought of the Bureau’s Joint Op program of involving National Academy students in ongoing cases-both to train them and learn from them-but a pile of paperwork that would take hours to fill out stood in the way.

I wanted to ask her how she’d managed to wrangle her way into the National Academy, which typically involves a six-month application process, but that conversation could wait. I did, however, add, “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“I’m surprised to be here,” she replied ambiguously. The three of us reached the door. I pushed it open as Cheyenne nodded to Tessa and said warmly, “Ms. Ellis.”

“Detective Warren.” A hint of confusion. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Denver?”