Michael Connelly - The Poet

She drank some of her Coke and I didn't ask any more questions. I couldn't ask any of the right ones so I decided to cool it for a while. But she continued on unbidden.

"When we divorced I left the VICAP team, started handling mostly BSS research projects, profiles and an occasional case. He switched over to Critical Response. But we still have our little meetings in the cafeteria and on cases like this."

"Then why don't you transfer all the way out?"

"Because, like I said, assignment to the national center is a plum. I don't want to leave and neither does he. It's either that or he just stays around to spite me. Bob Backus talked to us once and said he thought it would be better if one of us transferred out, but neither of us will blink. They can't move Gordon because he's got seniority. He's been there since the center started. If they move me the unit loses one of the only three females and they know I'll make a beef about it."

"What could you do?"

"Just say I'm being moved because I'm a woman. Maybe talk to the Post. The center is one of the bureau's bright spots. When we come to town to help the local cops we're heroes, Jack. The media laps it up and the bureau doesn't want to dim that. So Gordon and I get to keep making dirty faces at each other across the table."

The plane pushed over into a descent and through the window I could look up ahead. On the far west horizon were the familiar Rockies. We were almost there.

"Were you involved in the interviews of Bundy and Manson, people like that?"

I had heard or read somewhere about the BSS project to interview all known serial rapists and killers in prisons across the country. From the interviews came the psychological data bank the BSS used to create profiles of other killers. The interview project had taken years and I remembered something about it having taken its toll on the agents who faced these men.

"That was a trip," she said. "Me, Gordon, Bob, we were all part of that. I still get a letter from Charlie every now and then. Usually around Christmas. As a criminal he was most effective in manipulation of his female followers. So I think he thinks that if he is going to get anybody to sympathize with him at the bureau, it will be a woman. Me."

I saw the logic and nodded.

"And the rapists," she said. "A lot of the same pathology as the killers. They were some sweet guys, I tell you. I could just feel them sizing me up when I'd go in. I could tell they were trying to figure out how much time they'd have before the guard could get in. You know, whether they could take me before help came in. It really showed their pathology. They only thought in terms of help coming to save me, not that I might be able to defend myself. Save myself. They simply looked at all women as victims. As prey."

"You mean you talked to these people alone? No separation?"

"The interviews were informal, usually in a lawyer room. No separation but usually a hack hole. The protocol-"

"Hack hole?"

"A window one of the guards could watch through. The protocol called for two agents in all the interviews but in practice there were just too many of these guys. So most of the time, we'd go to a prison and split up. It was quicker that way. The interview rooms were always monitored but every now and then I'd get this creepy chill from some of those guys. Like I was alone. But I couldn't look up to see if the hack was watching because then the subject would look up and if he saw the hack wasn't looking, then… you know."

"Shit."

"Well, for some of the more violent offenders, my partner and I would do it together. Gordon or Bob or whoever was with me. But it was always faster when we split up and did separate interviews."

I imagined that if you spent a couple years doing those interviews you'd come away with some psychological baggage of your own. I wondered if that was what she had meant when she had talked about her marriage to Thorson.

"Did you wear the same clothes?" she asked.

"What?"

"You and your brother. You know, like you see some twins do."

"Oh, the matching stuff. No, thank God. My parents never pulled any of that with us."

"So who was the black sheep of the family? You or him?"

"Me, definitely. Sean was the saint and I was the sinner."

"And what are your sins?"

I looked at her.

"Too many to recount here."

"Really? Then what was the most saintly thing he ever did?"

As the smile dropped off my face at the memory that would be her answer, the plane banked sharply to the left, came out of it and started to climb. Rachel immediately forgot her question and leaned into the aisle so she could look toward the front. Presently I saw Backus coming down the aisle, his hands grabbing the bulkhead for balance. He signaled to Thompson to follow him and they both made their way back to us.

"What is it?" Rachel asked.

"We're diverting," Backus said. "I just got a call from Quantico. This morning the field office in Phoenix responded to our alert. One week ago a homicide detective was found dead in his home. It was supposed to be suicide but something was wrong. They've ruled it a homicide. Looks like the Poet made a mistake."

"Phoenix?"

"Yes, the freshest trail." He looked at his watch. "And we have to hurry. He's to be buried in four hours and I want to have a look at the body first."

Two government cars and four agents from the field office met us after the jet landed at Sky Harbor International in Phoenix. It was a warm day, compared to where we had come from, and we took our jackets off and carried them with our computer bags and overnighters. Thompson also carried a toolbox which contained his equipment. I rode with Walling and two agents named Matuzak and Mize, white guys who looked like they had less than ten years' experience combined. It was clear by their deferential treatment of Walling that they held the BSS unit in high esteem. They had either been briefed on the fact that I was a reporter or judged by my beard and hair that I was not an agent despite the FBI seal on my shirt. They paid little attention to me.

"Where are we going?" Walling asked as our gray nondescript Ford followed the gray nondescript Ford carrying Backus and Thompson out of the airport.

"Scottsdale Funeral Home," Mize said. He was in the front passenger seat while Matuzak drove. He looked at his watch. "Funeral is at two. Your man is probably going to have less than a half hour with the body before they'll have to suit him up and put him in the box for the show."

"Was it open casket?"

"Yeah, last night," Matuzak said. "He's already been embalmed and made up. I don't know what you're expecting."

"We're not expecting anything. We just want to look. I assume Agent Backus is being briefed up ahead of us. Do you two care to fill us in?"

"That's Robert Backus?" Mize said. "He looks so young."

"Robert Backus Junior."

"Oh." Mize made a face that seemed to show that he understood why such a young man was running the show. "Figures."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Rachel said. "He's got the name but he's also the hardest-working and most thorough agent I've ever worked with. He earned the position he has. It probably would have been easier for him, in fact, if he had a name like Mize. Now can one of you fill us in on what's going on?"

I saw Matuzak study her in the mirror. He then looked over at me and Rachel registered this.

"He's fine," she said. "He's got approval from the top to be here. He knows everything we do. You have a problem with that?"

"Not if you don't," Matuzak said. "John, you tell it."

Mize cleared his throat.

"Not a lot to fill in. We don't have a lot because we weren't invited in. But what we do know is they found this guy, name's William Orsulak, they found him in his house on Monday. Homicide cop. They figured he'd been dead at least three days. He was off Friday 'cause of comp time and the last time anybody remembered seeing him was Thursday night at a bar they all go to."