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10 X 12: 1-01-03 A serial bomber is loose in Atlanta, and Doggett and Reyes fear he may have accomplices - thousands of them... |
Pit de Resistance
Atlanta, Ga.
3:35 p.m.
Dec. 30
“Jesus, think you guys could maybe come back during Saturday
night rush?” Greg Marston asked, running his hand aggrievedly through his
thick brown hair. “I mean, you could come in and chat about rats while the
customers are gnawing on their rib tips and munching on cole slaw. Maybe
when some yutz calls the Health Department, we can all go looking for rat
shit together, make it an evening.”
“I don’t see nobody here,” the rail-thin man returned mildly,
glancing around the high-tone surroundings. Had to watch his tone – he couldn’t
afford to get 86ed by this candy-assed prick. “Look, it ain’t gonna take
long – I just got to change the trap.”
“My point is,” the assistant manager, an intentionally slim young man with
reddish highlights in his hair, said in an even, measured way that made the
Skinny Man want to kick his marshmallow ass into the next county. “My point
is that we’re in the middle of evening prep. You think all this dead flesh
barbecues itself? Oh, c’mon.”
The Skinny Man’s gut rolled at the mention of meat, but fortunately, the
self-absorbed young man didn’t notice the low gurgle. The queasy sensation
vaguely alarmed him: They were signaling him to focus, to get back to the
job.
Not
that he had any predisposition against
BBQ: The guys at the plant, black and white alike, had tucked into many a
plate of fatty, smoky ribs at The Big Shoe, a neighborhood hole-in-the-wall
with four tables and a yellowed plexiglass window behind which Elmo and his
brothers would lovingly rub the meat with seasonings
as if they were caressing a woman, turn the briskets and slabs in
ancient smoker ovens as they hummed soul or gospel, guffaw loudly at off-color
jokes muffled by the darkened plastic. The cashier, Elmo’s mama, wobbled
out periodically with plates of seared meat and greasily translucent fries
and greens and bread-and-butter. The men for 50 minutes or so would ignore
their pigmentation, their resentments, their preconceptions of the natural
order of society, and drown their sorrows in sweet tea and Elmo’s sweet yellow
BBQ sauce. None of that dressed-up ketchup the Yankees liked to destroy their
pork with.
“You coming?” the assistant manager snapped, bringing the Skinny Man abruptly
out of his reverie. What kind of BBQ joint was this, anyway?, he thought,
trailing after the athletic young man. The young man shoved open the kitchen
door, nearly sending it flapping back into the Skinny Man’s face. The huge,
fluorescently glaring room was crowded with men and women oblivious to their
intrusion. No thickly muscled men in fat-stained T-shirts and jeans, massaging
and marinating beef and pork and chicken; no humming or swapping of off-color
jokes. Instead, they bustled about the kitchen, whisking and chopping and
pureeing. The Skinny Man fought a wave of revulsion at the sharp “smells”
that assaulted him from all sides.
“Right here oughtta do it,” the Skinny Man suggested, identifying a relatively
low-traffic area used mainly for storage. He set his nylon bag down.
“OK, do your little thing, and don’t help yourself to any snacks, you know
what I mean?” the assistant manager scolded. “When you’re done, just retrace
your tracks, OK?” The young man went off to chirp at some guy cutting lettuce.
For a fleeting red second, the Skinny Man considered changing the settings
on the metal “rat trap” he now drew from his bag. He shuddered: Had he thought
that, or was it them? They didn’t care; they were like a pack of the wild
boars him and his daddy had stalked when he was a pup. It was all about survival,
and the rest was just what you did to keep the juices flowing.
He felt a sudden pain in the pit of his gut, and slid the box under a metal
rack. He at least imagined he could hear the tiny alarm clock inside the
“trap” ticking away the seconds, but even if it was his ears and not his
mind at work, the clean and efficient clattering of the “BBQ” chefs would
drown it out.
7:42 a.m.
Dec. 31
“Had a uncle butchered his own hogs,” Capt. Jerrold Bascombe
recalled, and Monica braced herself for the gruesome and gratuitous anecdote
she was certain he was about to relate.
It wasn’t so much the graphic nature of what the lanky Georgia cop was about
to say. The restaurant kitchen was virtually painted with the blood of the
horrifically flayed human being who’d been removed only a few hours earlier,
and Monica Reyes had seen more than her share of grisly crime scenes and
human bodies sliced, battered, charred, and mutilated beyond the average
person’s imagination.
“Would just take that knife, slide it under the hide, and, WHOOSH...” Bascombe
told Doggett, sweeping his arm in imitation of his iron-stomached uncle.
Doggett nodded, feigning bemusement. It was usually best to humor the local
cops, let them set the tone.
No, Monica had seen enough hellish carnage in her career with the Bureau
to fuel a thousand nightmares, and the bombing at Pit de Resistance was a
mere footnote in the Boschean gallery of her professional psyche.
“Long story short, that’s about what happened here,” Bascombe said. “Fucker
packed the thing with flooring nails, and when it went off, the vic was pretty
much shredded into pork rinds.”
She understood the graveyard humor, the need to objectify the broken bodies
and torn souls. It was how big men like Bascombe kept the scared boy locked
securely inside. Monica simply couldn’t separate the soul from the meat.
“Flooring nails?” Doggett’s eyebrow arched. “Isn’t that what they used back
in ’96, ’97? The abortion clinic, the Olympic Park, uh, that nightclub?”
“The nails, the dynamite, the eighth-inch steel plates, the D cells, the
whole shmear,” the captain yawned. “Don’t mean shit. All the schematics are
on the web, CNN site matter of fact, so any psycho asshole can get his groove
on. Same M.O. as in the other two.”
Monica glanced at the techs working the stylish dining room. Three bombings
in as many weeks, all in the Atlanta metro area, all highly improbable targets.
All well between midnight and 6 a.m., obviously intended to do extensive
damage but avert any deaths or injury. Until this time.
“Any idea yet why this man was here at 4:45 a.m.?” she inquired. “You say
he was a waiter? Why would he be here that late?”
Bascombe turned toward the agent. It was the first time she’d spoken since
they’d went through the introductions. “Well, the manager says he let this
Gerber, Sean Gerber, go yesterday. Caught him dealing out of the men’s room,
and threw his ass out. My guess is the guy came back to get his stash, maybe
take some silverware, petty cash for the road. Most likely had a copy of
the key.”
Monica nodded. “And you’re positive the letter’s from the same source?”
“We’ve been sitting on the contents and all the forensic details, so yeah.”
She nodded again and walked to the plate glass window looking out on the
street. The maintenance people, the city workers, the fast food grunts were
putting the world into place for the white-collar nine-to-fivers. A short
laugh from the bar area drew her attention, and her gaze tracked to the mahogany-framed
mirror and the rows of multi-hued bottles.
“Seen a guy once, his head was torn clean off at the shoulders...” Monica
heard Bascombe begin.
She hastily tore her eyes from the bottles.
**
“So, ah, where were you?” Doggett finally inquired, keeping
his eyes on the unfamiliar Atlanta streets.
Monica looked up from the casefiles on the previous three bombings.
“What?”
“Just then, back there. You were about a million miles away.”
“Jet lag, I guess,” his partner smiled lamely.
The corner of Doggett’s lip quirked. “Didn’t know it worked
that way in the same time zone. C’mon, Monica? Tell old Dr. Phil here what’s
bugging you.”
“John,” she sighed.
“There, see? Was it so hard to open up?” Doggett spotted the
federal building. “All right, I’ll butt out. You never did tell me -- how
was Christmas vacation in the Rio Grande?”
Monica stared ahead for a moment. “Wonderful. My mom said I
should’ve brought you along. She thinks you’re half Clint Eastwood and half
Dennis Franz.”
“Frightening thought, at least for Clint,” Doggett muttered.
“So. You profiled this guy yet?”
“Or gal,” Monica scolded. “Don’t smirk – it’s not outside the
realm of possibility. I’m getting a kind of a vibe, like this is someone
acting out on a cause, rather than out of purely personal motivations.”
“What cause? We got a liquor store on the bad side of town,
a hotel ballroom downtown where a bunch of direct mail consultants were supposed
to meet, a campus coffee shop, and now this upscale Yuppie barbecue joint.
What’s the connection?”
“Well, let’s start with the common denominators,” Monica frowned.
“The composition of the bomb. The timing of the bombings – during off-hours,
indicating he or she probably didn’t intend to hurt anyone. He wanted to
cause damage, maybe a message? But to whom? And the letters.”
Doggett pulled into the underground parking garage, circling
to begin the ascent toward the out-of-towners’ spots. “The letters. All of
‘em delivered after the bombings from various collection points around town.”
“He’s being careful,” Monica suggested. Then she meditated
on the torn corpse at the restaurant. “Just not careful enough.”
**
The Bombing Task Force (the media hadn’t yet come up with a
sexy name for the serial crimes) was located on a floor recently vacated
by two agencies relocated to a shining new building in the burbs. The quarters
had been co-opted during an interim paint job, and Skinner was framed by
primed plaster as Doggett and Reyes entered the bustling room.
Kersh’s directive the day before had been suspiciously vague:
Monica’s profiling skills and Doggett’s rapport with the locals had been
cited as the grounds for drafting them onto the task force, but those skills
largely had fallen out of demand after they’d taken residence in the X-Files
dungeon. Monica felt certain there was some angle Kersh was holding back
– an oblique angle up the agents’ arcane alley.
Assistant Director Walter Skinner was studying a map pinpointing the pattern
of bombings. The muscular man directed the agents over with a single jerk
of his head.
“Bad?” Skinner asked.
“Whoa, yeah,” Doggett concurred.
“You think the vic was an accident, or has our guy graduated to murder now?”
Monica shook her head. “It may sound strange, but I think the bomber has
a conscience, even an ethical code. In one of the letters, he says ‘We’re
all a bunch of puppets.’ Not ‘you,’ or people in general. He includes himself
in that category. Serial types like the Unabomber often have an almost messianic
view of themselves, colossal egos and a background of education that makes
them disdain committing violence firsthand.
“This man, or woman, seems to feel a lack of personal control, control he
believes he somehow has surrendered to the bombing victims. But that makes
no sense in light of the businesses the bomber has targeted. Then there’s
the letters themselves. The syntax, the grammar point to an uneducated individual,
and the notepaper and the envelopes used have been IDed as brands sold exclusively
in dollar outlet stores. A very likely uneducated lower-income man. That
doesn’t fit the activist profile that seems to be emerging.”
“Activist?” Skinner’s brow arched. “Like Greenpeace, Friends of the Earth?”
Monica pursed her lips. “Well,
I think the bomber’s working solo, and I doubt he’s a professional terrorist.
The devices he’s used are almost carbon copies of the ’96-’97 Atlanta bombs
– probably got the idea from the Internet.”
“What might’ve set him off?” Skinner asked, an odd expression on his face.
“Very likely some kind of personal trauma – a divorce, a death of a close
family member, getting laid off from his job. He, or she, has come to blame
the victims – the businesses he bombs – for his situation.”
Skinner nodded slowly. “But you don’t know what that situation might be.”
Monica shook her head.
“Well, I didn’t want to influence your analysis, Agent,” Skinner said, pulling
his jacket from a nearby folding chair. “But I may be able to provide you
some insight. C’mon.”
Centers for Disease
Control
Atlanta
10:14 a.m.
“Atlanta P.D. figure he was sloppy the first time, didn’t stop
to think,” Carmen Muniz explained absently, tapping a series of keys at the
terminal to the rear of her cluttered lab. The microbiologist brought up
an image, at first ill-defined. “Gotta let it process. Sorry. Anyway, they
figure once he got to thinking more rationally – ha, rationally – he realized
he might be leaving important evidence.”
“Excuse me, Doc,” Doggett interjected politely, “but we just
got into town, and our comprehension level’s a little frazzled. Could you
kinda back it up a little?”
As technicians milled around her, Muniz laughed sheepishly.
“Sorry, absent-minded professor and all. It’s your bomber’s first letter
to the police. Actually, the envelope it came in. He licked the flap. The
bomber.”
“Holy shit,” Doggett murmured. “DNA. Course, we gotta get the
guy first for that to do any good. But, wait. Why’s the CDC involved in this?
This guy got the bubonic plague or something?”
“Nothing that mundane,” the scientist
said, turning to the monitor. Doggett and Monica looked to Skinner, who “There
we go. In addition to enough DNA to ID your man as, well, a man, we found
these.”
Monica leaned in. “Some kind of bacteria?”
“That would be a rather extreme understatement, Agent,” Muniz
drawled. “what you’re looking at are Bifidobacterium longum and
Lactobacillus acidophilus. Under ordinary circumstances, these are beneficial
organisms that live in the human large intestine. Bifidobacterium
helps metabolism by competing with what we think of as ‘bad’ bacteria for
nutrients. Lactobacillus aids in nutrient reabsorption--” she regarded
Skinner and Doggett’s perplexed faces, Monica’s patient smile. “OK, well...Basically,
the waste products of human metabolism are transferred from the intestine
to the liver, and processed, so valuable nutrients can be returned to the
intestine. Without that process, and Lactobacillus’ contribution to
it, the body would lose significant amounts of estrogen, folic acid, Vitamin
B12, and Vitamin D products. Ever seen acidophilus milk in the supermarket
dairy case? It has Lactobacillus cultures to help digestion.”
“Hold up a second,” Doggett protested. “Our guts are full of bacteria?”
Muniz smiled without condescension. “Agent, it’s practically
like another planet inside your digestive system. More than 90 percent of
the average human excrement consists of dead bacteria shed by the body.”
“There’s some data I could have went the whole day without,”
Doggett winced. “So, if these things are swarming around in our intestines,
why is this a news bulletin?”
“Well, as you said, these bacteria are indigenous to the intestines,
and it’s very odd to find them in these number in human saliva. I suppose
that could be explained by a digestive disorder of some sort, but that’s
only one small anomaly. These aren’t just everyday Lactobacilli and
Bifidobacteria. They would appear to be mutant strains: Their structures
seem to be more advanced, and when we cultured samples, they exhibited rapidly
accelerated metabolic functions. If I were given to catchy media catch phrases,
I’d say these were superbacteria. Thank God the APD’s forensics guys had
a good eye.”
Monica stared soberly at the screen. “Is there a public health risk here?”
“I can’t imagine any real potential for human transmission
here, although I could imagine something like this in your system could cause
some significant metabolic concerns.”
“Such as?” Skinner challenged.
“You’ve got the wrong PhD., Agent,” Muniz shrugged. “But it
raise some issues, doesn’t it? Especially when you consider the other thing
we found.”
“Great,” Doggett muttered.
“There were some odd protein chains in the DNA samples we drew
– apparently external proteins introduced into the subject’s system. Possibly
a synthetic enzyme.”
“Synthetic?” Monica’s eyes widened. “You think that’s what
might have mutated these bacteria?”
Muniz crossed her arms. “I don’t know that I have enough to
make such a hypothesis. But a number of chemical compounds can spur the cellular
mutations we call cancer, and so it would seem possible either this enzyme
or some other chemical mutagen is responsible for this.”
“What’s that do to your profile, Agent Reyes?” Skinner
posed.
Hotel Renaissance
Atlanta
1:37 p.m.
The damage to the Red
Oak Ballroom had been repaired quickly after the Atlanta police had cleared
the bomb scene, and some sort of software convention was well underway at
the downtown Renaissance. Doggett and Reyes were jostled by casually dressed,
generally out-of-shape men and women whose names blared in Magic Marker on
their chests.
“If this man had somehow been poisoned, even experimented on,
that might explain his anger and feelings of helplessness, of being a puppet,”
Monica suggested as they passed the dark hotel bar and headed toward the
clearly marked corridor that housed the Renaissance’s administrative offices.
“But why would that piss him off at a liquor dealer and a bunch
of direct mail geeks, coffee addicts, and barbecue junkies?” Doggett asked.
“I don’t know, John. But I have a hunch that might clear things
up a bit.”
Doggett knew generally not to second-guess his partner’s intuitions,
and he fell silent as they located the manager’s receptionist and, after
a few minutes’ wait, were ushered into a plush, expensively furnished office
looking out on Atlanta’s striking skyscape.
Ron Frieders looked like he spent all his off-hour time playing
the local courses: He was slim, tightly muscled, and had a face under blow-dried
black hair that could have been sculpted from soft tan leather. “So they’ve
got the FBI in on this now, huh? Happy to hear that.” Frieders didn’t appear
nearly that happy, but he displayed artfully whitened teeth. “Anything we
can do to get this bastard. Ah, before he kills somebody else, that is.”
“Mr. Frieders, do you have the information we called about?”
Monica asked, beaming back.
A well-manicured hand unconsciously brushed back a stray strand
of hair as her warm smile momentarily halted the hotel manager. He pulled
out a sheaf of freshly photocopied documentation. “Of course. Our conventions
manager has kept a record of every major seminar, conference, and trade show
we’ve hosted over the last 10 years. Helps promote new business. I’m sure
you know that the Atlanta area is rapidly on its way to becoming another
Silicon Valley, as well as a major life sciences corridor. Now, you wanted
to know what was it, again?”
“If the direct mail convention
booked in the Red Oak Room the day after the bombing was originally scheduled
there, or if perhaps some other event had been scheduled and then canceled
or moved to another ballroom.”
“Hmm.” Frieders’ brow wrinkled, but he studied the itinerary
before him. Finally, he looked up, seemingly disappointed not to be able
to assist the attractive brunette. “Ah, I’m sorry, Agent Reyes, but the direct
mailers had been booked into that room for three weeks. We’re in something
of a slowdown period with the holidays and all, and so we haven’t had to
do much shuffling.”
Monica frowned, and then her eyes brightened. “Mr. Frieders,
are all your ballrooms and meeting rooms named after trees?”
“Yeah. A little ridiculous, considering we’re in the middle
of a major urban area, but who asks me--?”
“Do you have a Redwood Room, maybe a Black Oak Room?”
“We do have a Redwood Multimedia Room,” the manager piped up,
happy to be redeemed. Doggett suppressed a smirk.
“Were any meetings booked there the day after the bombing?”
His gray Visined eyes lowered once again to the close type
of the hotel agenda. “Yep. Pinck Pharmaceuticals Research and Development
Team. They must’ve had some kind of major AV presentation. That help?”
Monica turned her dental wattage
up a notch – Frieders had earned it. “Immensely.”
**
The smell, the stench hit him the minute he entered the co-op
store. It was an oppressive, sharp, metallic sensation: He knew by now it
wasn’t actually a smell, but something they transmitted into his head.
“Hey, you,” the clerk said, a thick, battered paperback dangling
from her hands. “We just got a fresh supply in, really great stuff.”
He nodded to the gaunt woman, willing her to return to whatever
goofy bullshit she was reading now. He wasn’t even certain she switched books
– probably started on the same page every morning, not even realizing it.
Sometimes, she’d start babbling – about some weird new religion
or global warming or the effect of meat on the body and soul. Little did
she know...
He made a bee-line to the rice bins, located the organic brown,
and began shoveling bag after bag, fighting the smell/sensation wafting from
the shelves and racks around him. His brain was filled with raging conflict
– the collision of his impulses and instincts and theirs’. He’d killed a
man this morning, or they did.
“You like broccoli?” He groaned. “Dude, you really
need some fresh veggies. You’re like gray, man, and your aura sucks. We got
some really cool broccoli yesterday. No pesticides, no chemical fertilizers,
no gamma rays. Just good old vitamins and chlorophyll. All you gotta do is
just kinda cut off the bad parts.”
He continued to scoop. He’d done more reading since they’d
done it to him than he had in nearly his entire adult life. She wouldn’t
have looked at any of the studies on naturally occurring carcinogens and
mycotoxins – would’ve viewed them as propaganda to divert her from the evil
only man could wreak. Things like broccoli, mushrooms, beer – that was the
greatest sacrifice for him, giving up his Budweiser. He’d known he had a
problem long before they’d come along, but even going to a Braves game had
become too much to bear, that sick, yeasty odor overlaid with the coppery
smell of death.
They’d become his mother and keeper. No more juicy Big Macs,
no more salty fries, no more nachos dripping with cheese and sour cream and...
His stomach convulsed, and his knees buckled. Brown rice scattered
in a fan before him.
“Oh, shit, man,” she sighed sympathetically. “I gotta charge
you for that.”
**
“I remember when you got real Idaho potatoes with your burger,”
Doggett groused, displaying one of the sweet potato strings they’d delivered
with his sandwich. He knocked the endive leaf from the face of the burger,
kept the yellow tomato slice, and closed the multi-grain bun with a sigh.
“Yams are full of potassium, and I’m sure that bun is the least
objectionable thing you’ve put in your stomach in a month,” Monica responded
with fond exasperation. “It’s called eating healthy, John, and it may just
keep you hunting extraterrestrials and serial killers for the next 40 years.”
“Ah, that’s just your Bifidobacteria talking,” Doggett
snorted.
She laughed, shaking her head.
“So, what does this do to your profile?” he asked, glancing
at the passers-by in the lobby. “You know, even when the FDA comes back with
that information, you could be dealing with hundreds of possibles.”
Monica nodded as she lifted a forkful of Caesar salad to her
mouth. “I know it’s a longshot. But it fits with my earlier profile: Economically
strapped enough to find the idea of a few hundred dollars for a clinical
trial attractive, not overly concerned about the risk of taking an experimental
pharmaceutical. Whatever happened to him has left him feeling out of control.
Maybe the bombings are his reaction to that feeling, or maybe he believes
his actions are beyond his control.
“A lot of clinical test subjects are students, trying to make
a few bucks or a few points with a professor. My guess is we can eliminate
them. Our bomber sounds, I don’t know, older, somehow.”
“That’s scientific,” Doggett smiled, taking a bite out of his
burger. “But, yeah, I think you’re right. Hey, plus, don’t they give some
of the people in those trials fake pills? You know, the...the control group.
We can eliminate the controls, right?”
“Sure,” Monica responded, absently.
“Oh, by the way, Bascombe invited us to some departmental New
Year’s Eve bash tonight,” Doggett informed his partner. “What do you say?
Want to usher in 2003 with a bunch of sweaty, drunk cops? You could borrow
my Kevlar body armor.”
Monica’s smile seemed suddenly forced. “Sounds great, John.
I did promise an old college friend I’d stop by for a couple of drinks and
some reminiscing. Maybe I can drop by the party a little later.”
Doggett looked at her curiously. “Yeah, sure. You want me to
pick you up from your friend’s? I mean, it’s easy to overdo it a little on
New Year’s, and you don’t know the cabbies in this town.”
“What are you saying, John?” Monica asked, the smile still
on her face but her eyes sharp.
He held up a palm. “Nothing, Monica. Just thought I’d save
you some cab fare, is all.”
“I’ll be fine, thanks,” Monica said serenely, and Doggett silently
returned to his burger and “French fries.”
Atlanta Federal Building
3:06 p.m.
“Jesus, I scarcely even noticed the guy,” Gregory Marston sighed,
shaking his thick head of hair. “God, to think I was that close to the Bomber.”
For the fifth time since the APD had brought the Pit de Resistance’
assistant manager to the task force office, Skinner didn’t bother to remind
Marston that the lion’s share of the tragedy at the barbecue bistro belonged
to the former salad chef who’d been ripped apart by a swarm of finishing
nails. After his shift the previous night, the assistant manager and his
girlfriend had unplugged the phone for an evening of amorous adventure, and
he’d learned of Gerber’s death only after a couple of Atlanta police detectives
came knocking at his girlfriend’s loft door.
“Did you recognize the name of the exterminating firm the man
was supposed to be working for?” Doggett queried.
“Oh, yeah, sure – it was Kill-Mor,” Marston said. “That’s our
firm; most of the restaurants downtown use them. That’s why I didn’t think
too much of the guy showing up without Jim – the owner – letting me know.
He was wearing the uniform and everything. And he sure smelled, oh, chemically.”
Monica’s head tilted. “Chemically?”
“Yeah, he had a real sharp chemical-type smell to him. Reminded
me of something, but I can’t think what. ‘Spose it was just whatever he uses
to kill the vermin. Except...” Marston paused, frowning.
“Except if he was the bomber, he’s probably not what he said
he was,” Doggett finished. “Wonder if you’d mind sitting down with one of
our agents? He’s got an Identikit – we use it to piece together the facial
features--”
“I watch CSI,” the assistant manager sighed, his chair
squeaking back.
“Doesn’t everybody?” Doggett rumbled as the young man disappeared
around a corner. “So what do you think? This ‘exterminator’ guy sounds about
as good as anything we’ve got so far. And Marston said he left some kind
of box in the kitchen.”
“It’s easy enough to check,” Skinner murmured. “I’m sure this
Kill-Mor company would have some record of a service call to the restaurant.
If the exterminator was an impostor, you think maybe that’s how he got into
the other businesses?”
“Like Chesterton’s
postman,” Monica suggested. She smiled sheepishly as she registered the look
of benignly confused encouragement from her coworkers. “G.K. Chesterton,
an early 19th Century mystery writer. In one of his stories, the
murderer disguised himself as a postman – a person no one would’ve noticed
much, if at all, like a custodian or a busboy today. As a result, the witnesses
couldn’t identify any viable suspect in the murder. It even sort of fits
into the profile – a man with relatively low self-esteem who views himself,
or maybe even wants to be viewed, as invisible, perhaps as subservient to
his victims.”
“If this guy’s a ringer, then where’d he get the uniform?”
Skinner posed, lowering himself onto the chair Marston had vacated.
“Chemicals,” Doggett breathed. “Before Kersh sent us down here,
I was planning on going to a New Year’s party an ex-Marine buddy of mine
was throwing.”
Monica suppressed a smile. She had planned to attend the event
with Doggett. She’d both anticipated and, for no reasons associated with
her partner and friend, dreaded.
“Anyway,” Doggett continued, “when I picked up my stuff for
the party at the dry cleaner’s, it had that faint chemical smell to it, you
know, from the cleaning fluids. Well, if Marston picked up the smell from
this guy as strong as he says, then what if the bomber works in a dry cleaning
plant? I mean, where better to get access to somebody’s work uniform. He
sneaks it out, does his business, and gets the uniform back into the mix
in plenty of time to eliminate any trace evidence and return it to its owner.”
“Yes,” Monica whispered. “We should go back to the witnesses,
see if they can remember any service people, vendors, or the like that may
have come before the bombings. He’d have to use more than one uniform to
set the bombs to avoid raising suspicion with his bosses, so it could be
virtually any kind of ‘postman.’”
Skinner caught the eye of a young agent several desks away,
who’d been working on a box of Popeye’s Chicken. The agent sprinted over.
“Probst, right? I want you to call Kill-Mor exterminators – that’s here in
town – and get a line on any employees who have companies uniforms in for
dry cleaning. Get every name, both employee and cleaner’s. Oh, and sizes.”
“Huh?” the agent asked brilliantly.
“Uniform sizes. Might help us get a description of the bomber. That’s yesterday,
got it, Agent?”
Already flogging himself for his unimpressive response, the agent nodded
curtly and fled. Doggett smiled; Skinner was “on,” and wouldn’t have cared
had the agent drooled on his shoes.
Another agent, an older woman in jeans and a blue linen jacket, materialized,
carrying a sheaf of paper.
“A.D. Skinner?” she asked in a think Georgia accent, ignoring Doggett and
Reyes. “These are all the clinical and pharmaceutical trials in the Atlanta
region for the last five years – FDA can go back further if you need. Several
of the trials were for menopausal and other products, women subjects only,
so I’ve yellowed those. But I was thinking, sir, what if our guy had a wife,
a mother, whatever, had some kind of adverse pharmaceutical side-effect,
so you might want to just scan those, too.
“Paid trials are checked in blue, gastro-enterological trials – products
for ulcers, colitis, that kind of thing – in red. I’ve included subject age,
and where possible, current local addresses and contact numbers. Employers,
where possible. I’m working up an overlay, subject addresses to bomb sites.”
“Any dry cleaners, people who work for dry cleaners?” Skinner inquired.
She stared at the ceiling for less than five seconds. “Page 3, I think –
no, page 4.”
“Thanks, Uchtmann,” the assistant director drawled. “That’s good wo—” But
the agent had pivoted and marched off before he could complete the commendation.
“I like her,” Doggett commented.
**
“Bingo,” Monica announced, cradling her phone. “The liquor
store owner says a delivery man from a beer distributor stopped in the day
before his explosion to set up a promotional display. A standard cardboard
standup of a NASCAR driver on a case of beer; the bomb may have been hidden
inside the mock beer case. My guess is the bomber lifted the standup from
a store or bar or maybe from a dumpster. Guy had a uniform ”
“And the assistant manager at the coffee shop remembered a
FedEx delivery right before closing,” Doggett supplied, feet up on the folding
banquet table between them. “Guy got there just as he was getting ready to
lock up, so he put the package on the back counter for the next morning.
Thought it was funny the guy would be on his route that late, but you put
a uniform on a man, I guess he gets automatic credibility.”
Monica leaned forward, clasping her fingers. “At the Renaissance,
all he would’ve had to do was put on a cook’s or busboy’s or custodial uniform
and blend in. I’m sure the big hotels have major turnaround – so much so,
the regular staff probably doesn’t always recognize their own coworkers.”
“OK, so we’ll get Marston’s sketch over to the liquor store,
the coffee shop, and the Renaissance.” Doggett tapped the lists before him.
“Plus, I may have a candidate – one William Renzler, 47, lives here in town.
Was paid $600 to participate in a clinical trial back last April, and get
this: Pinck Pharmaceuticals sponsored the trial. In fact, they’re based in
Atlanta.”
“The same company meeting at the Renaissance,” Monica said
slowly. “I’ll have to check, but I think Mulder and Scully had a case involving
Pinck several years ago. What kind of trial was it?”
Doggett leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. “A
new medication to ‘improve metabolization of digestive nutrients.’ You think
maybe our pals Bifidobacterium and Lactobacillus may have been
involved? Renzler was listed as unemployed – probably would’ve sold his left
nut to science to make the rent at that point. And the piece de resistance?
Of the 21 exterminators with Kill-Mor’s Atlanta office, only two reported
currently having uniforms in for cleaning. One was a woman. And the company’s
got a discount with Southern Pride Cleaners, a local chain. Want to go to
the cleaner’s?”
“How about hitting Pinck Pharmaceuticals
first?” Monica asked.
“You think maybe they’re the primary target? That the rest
of this is all a smokescreen?”
His partner looked intently across the table. “I think it’s
more complicated than that. I have a theory, but I’d like to confirm a few
things before I pitch it to the task force.”
**
Ginny was astonished to see her father standing beyond the
screen door. Dad had never cared for her husband, Tad, thought he was a weaselly
paper-pusher, and their contact had grown more infrequent over the last few
years. She visited him down at that old rathole he’d moved to after the plant
laid him off last winter, but he ventured into her suburban neck of the woods
during only the major holidays.
“Thought you were working today, Dad,” the large woman puzzled
as she ushered her alarmingly thin father in.
“Emerson said he didn’t need me the rest of the week, the tight
old bastard,” he grunted, settling onto the mauve couch across from Tad’s
pricey blue La-Z-Boy. Ginny appeared to have become even fatter since he’d
seen her last. He felt the familiar mix of nausea and envy. He thought about
all the things he’d had to give up over the last several months – he’d done
enough studying up to know the risks the rest of the world assumed were marginal
and largely theoretical, but They wouldn’t let him get away with shit. “Been
thinkin’ about quittin’ him anyway.”
Ginny sighed disapprovingly. “I know it’s a shit job, Dad,
especially compared to the plant, but you think I like cleanin’ up old folks
down to the hospital? Just stick it out for a while, and maybe I can get
you on the night crew.”
“No,” he snapped. He’d always had that fierce, old-fashioned
southern dignity – Tad once had remarked on the irony of his father-in-law
having surrendered that dignity to the Southern Pride Cleaners. Ginny didn’t
get his point, but nodded appreciatively as she did every time she felt out
of her conversational depth. “I don’t want to argue with you, Baby. I just
came here to see you, let you know how proud I am of what you’ve made out
of yourself.”
Ginny looked alarmed. “Dad? What’s up? Are you all right? You
ain’t sick, are you?”
“Never better, Baby,” he responded, fighting off his irritation
at the idea that he had to be dying to express his love for his little girl.
It was no lie. Despite his dramatically reduced weight and his spartan dietary
habits, he was in probably the best health he’d ever “enjoyed”: He’d given
up Camels, Bud, red meat, cheese sticks and hot wings, Mickey D’s and Wendy’s
Frosties, and virtually everything else that had defined William Renzler
until a few short months ago. They had decreed it.
“Well, you’re scaring me, Daddy,” Ginny quavered. “It sounds
like you’re fixing to leave us or worse. Let’s sit down and talk about it
– I got some of that turtle cheesecake you liked so much at Christmas, and
I can micro some of this morning’s coffee for you.”
The very thought of either made him feel like puking. They
made him feel like puking, more accurately. “I ain’t stayin’, Baby. I just
want to tell you a few things. You gotta start takin’ care of yourself –
quite shovin’ every piece of crap down your gullet you can fit there.”
Ginny looked like she’d been slapped with a two-by-four. Her
over-made-up eyes welled up.
“Stop that,” he rasped. “I’m tellin’ you this cause I love
you, Baby. You’re gonna kill yourself, you don’t start eatin’ right and picklin’
your system with those wine coolers and suckin’ on those coffin nails.” In
fact, the stench of nicotine and pork fat and chocolate already was filling
the room, like cyanide gas in a death chamber. He swallowed and went on.
“I know I been a miserable daddy to you, Baby, workin’ ‘til all hours every
night and comin’ home drunk every Saturday night and getting’ you hooked
on those cancer sticks. I’ve done some terrible things to you and your momma,
and some things you don’t even know about. About all I can do for you any
more is to tell you to get off that lard ass of yours’, waddle on down to
the Weight Watchers department at the Red Lion, and start goin’ to the Y
twice or three times a week. At least try to push yourself away from the
table every once in a while. I don’t wanna have to bury you in no piano case
like that fella we saw on the TV.”
She was sobbing now, and despite his agony at having so deeply
wounded his only child, he was repulsed by the convulsions of flabby flesh
it set off.
“Anyway,” he mumbled, rising from the chair, “that’s about
it.”
5:35 p.m.
Pinck Pharmaceuticals turned out to have a level of security
equaled only by Quantico, and Doggett and Reyes’ Bureau credentials meant
about as much as Agent Doggett’s Sears Craftsman Card. Fortunately, Lyman
Van Es had cleared the way, and so the journey through the Pinck labyrinth
seemed arduous rather than interminable. Three escorts and five passcodes
later, the agents sat in a spacious conference room, reflected in a pink
Italian marble tabletop and flanked by South American masks.
Finally, one of the huge Georgia pine doors swung open, and
a pair of men entered. “I am incredibly sorry,” Van Es said briskly by way
of greeting. He was a tall man, prematurely silver-haired, and decked out
in an immaculately tailored tux. “You couldn’t conceive of the details we
have to clear before the end of the year. Plus, I’m meeting my wife in an
hour or so for dinner before the company New Year’s soiree at the downtown
Hilton.”
The CEO eased a chair from under the table and gracefully lowered
himself into it, barely disturbing the lines of his suit. The chunky man
who dropped in behind him was nowhere near as sauve or svelte, and his tux
bagged at strategic points. “This is Paul Dwyer, chief counsel with Pinck
Pharmaceuticals,” Van Es tossed off. “We may be discussing some proprietary
issues, and Paul insisted on attending this meeting. However, I want you
to know that we intend to cooperate to the maximum extent possible with your
investigation.”
Doggett swallowed a smirk. “Good to know. We just want to ask
you a few questions about a clinical trial your company conducted last spring.”
“Yes. Nutraxis. That was the working name for the product.
The trials went quite well, as I remember, and the FDA is poised to sign
off. However, we have refocused our corporate direction somewhat, and we’ve
postponed Nutraxis’ introduction until at least 2004. I’d ask you to keep
that to yourself – info like that would drive the market crazy. The company’s
been through its ups and downs over the years.”
“So I’ve read,” Doggett said. “You had a shakeup back in, what,
’95, ’96? Some kind of prison quarantine, some South American virus or something?”
“Or something,” Van Es smiled. “I came on board after that
little episode. After you called, I talked to the principal researcher on
Nutraxis, and he assured me the trials were purely pro forma. No side effects,
no abnormalities, 100 percent efficacy in 91 percent of subjects. The technology
will be a major boon for the elderly, children with nutritional deficiencies,
Third World populations who have to derive the maximum nutritive benefit
from scarce food resources.”
“You must have a major investment in it, huh?” Doggett asked.
“You have a point, Agent?” Dwyer challenged smoothly. “Because
there seems to be a certain accusatory tone to your inquiries.”
“Paul, Agents Doggett and Reyes are simply trying to catch
this lunatic bomber,” Van Es sighed. “FDA has all our test data, and I’m
certain Paul can make it available to you. Right, Paul?”
“With the proper warrants, certainly,” the attorney murmured.
“Is the name William Renzler at all familiar to you?” Monica
interjected.
Van Es looked to Dwyer questioningly. Dwyer shrugged.
“Anything else, agents?” the CEO asked. “Otherwise, I’ll see
you – or not – next year.”
**
“No-good sumbitch just didn’t show up this mornin’,” Mal Emerson
raged, nudging his tinted glasses up his bulbous nose as he plucked a bagged
skirt from an overhead conveyor. The portly man limped a few yards and scanned
the tag stapled to a bag holding a black blazer. “Useta be a good worker,
always on time, never complained. Then he went goofy on me.”
Monica was getting slightly light-headed from the dry cleaning
fumes. “Goofy, how, Mr. Emerson.”
“Well, he went on that crazy diet. Looked like a scarecrow,
all that rabbit food he ate. And he started talkin’ weird to the customers,
how they shouldn’t smoke or drink or eat the shit they eat. I mean, Jesus,
everything’ll kill you, right? No sense in makin’ yourself all nuts over
it, right?” Emerson belched.
“Did he leave anything behind?” she asked.
“C’mon,” the bald man jerked his pink head. Toward the back
of the huge room was a row of coathooks. Emerson pointed to a cheap beige
windbreaker with smudged sleeves and an unusual button pinned to one of the
lapels. Doggett drew a pen from his pocket, hooked the jacket under the collar,
and draped it over his arm.
“So what’s the deal?” Emerson asked. “You think Bill’s the
bomber?”
Monica didn’t answer.
“Dumb sumbitch,” the dry cleaner grunted.
**
It was dark by the time Doggett, Reyes, Skinner, Capt. Bascombe,
and a couple of APD uniforms converged on the third floor of William Renzler’s
dilapidated apartment house. The hall smelt of dead cat, and Homer Simpson
was disciplining Bart behind Renzler’s scarred door.
Doggett flanked the door to the left, Skinner to the right.
Doggett’s hand reached out and rapped on the wood. “Mr. Renzler, this is
the Atlanta Police Department and the FBI. Would you please come to the door?”
Marge intervened in Homer and Bart’s altercation. Skinner nodded,
and the Atlanta police captain lifted his right leg. The leg pistoned sharply,
and Renzler’s apartment door flew inward.
The Simpsons were alone in the living room, flipping occasionally
on an old console TV. The rug was worn to the nap in several spots, and a
table in the corner was piled with papers and several boxes. Doggett, holstering
his weapon, moved across the carpet and bent to read the label pasted to
the side of the top box. “Captain, finishing nails.” Then he stopped dead.
Skinner and Reyes’ eyes followed Doggett’s to a small digital
clock in the opposite corner. It rested on top of a roughly shoebox-sized
metal box.
21...20...19...18...
“Everybody out, NOW!!” Skinner roared, sweeping his agents
along. “Bascombe, get the other tenants out of here!!”
They barely hit the street before the building rocked with
the explosion. The cops shoved the scattered tenants to the wall as Renzler’s
windows blew out and hundreds of metal projectiles showered the sidewalk
and street...
Atlanta Federal Building
7:28 p.m.
“Renzler’s daughter said he stopped by this afternoon and suggested
he’d done some terrible thing,” Skinner related. “She said the conversation
had a tone of finality to it. My concern is that Renzler may be planning
one last big suicidal blast. The death this morning may have driven him over
the edge.
“By the way, the daughter said Renzler lost his job at a local
chemical solvents plant last February after nearly 15 years. That may have
been your traumatic event that ultimately triggered all this, Agent Reyes.
Then he came out of this pharmaceutical trial with some kind of health problem.
That explains the bomb at the hotel, but I still don’t get his motivation
for the others. You have any thoughts to share, Agent?”
Monica blinked wearily and straightened in her folding chair.
“John said something at lunch today that made me start thinking about that.
I was teasing him about his dietary habits, and he told me it was my Bifidobacterium
talking. What if Renzler felt he was out of control because he actually
was? What if the pharmaceutical trial caused his digestive bacteria to evolve,
to function more efficiently? Instead of merely making better use of the
food Renzler ate, his bacteria began to regulate what he ate, ‘warning’ him
about foods that could harm his system, even only slightly. Sort of like
the way a dog or cat knows what plants not to eat. Maybe his body even reacted
violently when he was exposed to potentially harmful foods, cigarettes, alcohol,
caffeine.”
“What?” Doggett breathed. “You’re saying a bunch of germs made
him blow up that rib joint, the coffee shop, the liquor store?”
She turned to her partner. “We know the bacteria have moved
beyond his intestines. What if they’ve become an integral part of Renzler’s
system, like some kind of symbiotic organism? Could they have influenced
his behavior, even his thoughts?”
Doggett’s brow rose. “C’mon, Monica...”
“We can theorize after the APD locates Renzler,” Skinner interrupted,
rising from his chair and cracking his knuckles. “You two have had a rough
day, and you’ve done some excellent investigative work. I want you to knock
off, have some bubbly, usher in the new year. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir,” Doggett saluted, grabbing Monica’s arm and directing
her toward the hallway. “It’s after 7:30. You want a ride to your friend’s
place?”
Monica yawned and smiled. “No
thanks, John. I’ll take a cab, and meet you later at Bascombe’s party. OK?”
Doggett regarded her curiously.
“It’s no trouble, really.”
“See you later, John,” she said as her heels echoed down the
hall.
**
“I have what you might call a very high-pressure career, and
over the last two years, the pressure has been piling up. I’ve been trusted
with secrets no human being should know, and I’ve seen and heard things that...Well,
I’ve seen and heard things.
“I’ve always felt I was a spiritual person – I suppose that’s
why I came here tonight, the ‘higher power’ thing. My father was a very hard
worker, lots of nights and overtime, but he always made sure we all made
it to church every Sunday morning. My faith in forces beyond our understanding
has guided me all my life. But lately, I’ve found out things that’ve really
pulled the carpet out from under me. I’ve begun to wonder if everything I’ve
based my beliefs on is some rationalization to help me, to help all of us
feel we’re somehow special or significant. That we have some control. That
we’re more than just a collection of organisms crawling chaotically over
the Earth.
“Given the realization we may not, I’ve started drinking just
a little more each day to feel more in control, or maybe just to tune out
the idea I wasn’t. It hasn’t affected my work, yet, and my part--, my coworkers
haven’t caught on that there’s a problem. In my line of work, you don’t show
weakness, especially not now. That’s
why I never had the nerve to come here until I was out of town, where I wouldn’t
risk running into anyone I knew.
“I guess it all came to a head over Christmas, with my family
down in Texas. My Uncle Manuel was always the rock of the family, the one
who’d negotiate the peace between the brothers and sisters, who’d slip a
few dollars to a cousin who was on hard times. I always looked up to my uncle
because of his control. Well, I found out last week that that control was
one more illusion. Uncle Manny died in November of complications from cirrhosis,
and my mother told me he’d been drinking, not-so-secretly, for years. The
role of peacemaker, of family conscience, of the rock apparently took its
toll on him. Of course, it doesn’t make me think any the less of him, but
it makes me wonder how much control any of us can have. And if we don’t have
control, and if there’s nothing out there controlling us from just spinning
out, from destroying it all, then what do I have to hold onto?”
Monica smiled. “Sorry, I guess I’m babbling. Thanks for listening,
and, ah, happy new year.”
“Thanks, Monica – we appreciate you sharing and being with
us tonight,” the chapter president, chairman, leader, whatever, murmured.
Monica wasn’t yet certain what the hierarchy was here, and she was astonished
she’d responded when called upon. “On that note, let’s take five. Coffee
and I believe some of Kendra’s famous tollhouse cookies are in the back of
the room.”
As she made her way back toward the aluminum urn, several of
what she assumed to be regulars patted her on the shoulder, murmured approval
and encouragement, or simply smiled their support. She glanced at the doorway;
the man there didn’t attempt to duck into the church basement corridor, but
he looked concerned and somewhat ashamed. Monica’s acknowledgment was minimal,
and she moved onto the refreshment table.
“I liked what you had to say back there, ma’ma.” Monica released
the spigot of the coffee dispenser and looked at the extremely thin man before
her. He was middle-aged and showed the healing creases of a former life of
hard living.
“Monica,” she finally corrected him when she found her voice.
“Bill,” the emaciated man responded unsmilingly, offering his
hand. As his arm rose, she caught a whiff of pungent chemicals.
“I know, Mr. Renzler,” Monica murmured. His brow rose, but
he didn’t release her fingers for another second. “I’m an FBI agent, sir
– I’ve been looking for you.”
“Well, looks as though you’ve found me.”
“You’re a member. You left your windbreaker at Southern Pride,
and it had an Alcoholics Anonymous pin on it.”
“Six-month pin,” William Renzler said without pride. “Don’t
‘spose I really earned it. They haven’t let me touch a drop since last spring.
They want to keep me alive; that’s their only job, I guess. Anything might
hurt ‘em, They see to it I steer clear of it. You talk about no control,
ma’am, I guess I’m Jerry Lewis’s poster kid.”
Monica navigated him away from the approaching throng. “Did
they make you do it? Plant those bombs?”
Renzler’s eyes didn’t blink. “I don’t know no more where they
leave off. That’s why I came here tonight. I wanted to get in touch with
that higher power you was talking about, just one last time. Shit, didn’t
have anything else to do tonight. Already been to one party.”
Monica inhaled sharply. “Pinck Pharmaceuticals? At the Hilton?”
she whispered.
“Got to show them I still got a little control left,” Renzler
explained. “Got to show them this puppet’s still holding the strings.” He
reached under his coat, and Monica caught a glimpse of the Hilton logo on
the pocket of his sports shirt. The gun came up quickly into her stomach.
“I’m sorry, but they have to know what it’s like to have no control.”
“Renzler!” Doggett shouted. “Put it down!” Monica’s partner
was five feet behind the bomber. Renzler’s gun hand held steady.
“Yep,” he said, sadly, “I guess this puppet’s still holding
the strings. Happy New Year, Monica – one day at a time, hear?”
“Bill,” Monica croaked as Renzler turned the gun into his own
abdomen...
9:39 p.m.
Atlanta First United
Methodist Church
“They caught it with 16 minutes to spare,” Kersh informed Doggett
and Reyes as he pocketed his cell phone. The deputy director had arrived
in town a few hours earlier to check the task force’s status, and now, he
regarded the two agents with his customary suspicion. “You two hadn’t been
here tonight, there’d be a ballroom full of ground round and tuxedo swatches.”
Kersh glanced at the lake of blood soaking into the church
carpet several yards away. The CDC had commandeered its collection. “Which
brings me to ask just how you two came to be here tonight. John?”
Doggett shrugged. “Just a wildass hunch. Monica noticed an
AA pin on the jacket Renzler left at his job, and put it together with that
liquor store being his first target. He was sewing up loose ends – his daughter,
shredding his apartment – and we thought there was maybe a chance in a million
he’d show up here tonight.”
“At this one particular AA meeting,” Kersh commented, eyes
as stone-cold as usual. He inspected the pair. “A fascinating coincidence.
I’ll be interested to see your reports on this incident.”
After the deputy director departed, Monica looked up from her
folding chair. “That wasn’t necessary, John.”
Doggett placed a hand on her shoulder. “It wasn’t just for
you, Monica. Kersh would use any excuse he could to hobble the X-Files.”
“No, John,” Monica shook her head soberly. “I mean your showing
up here tonight. You’re my partner, my confidante, my best friend. You’ve
been there for me, and you have no idea what that means.”
“But...”
“But there are things you have to accept as mine alone to handle.
This is one. We have to know where the boundaries are, John.”
Doggett was silent.
“At the same time, I realize my problem potentially affects
us both,” Monica said. “I may need more strength than I’m capable of right
now, more faith, John.”
Doggett smiled down. “I guess Bascombe’s bash is probably not
a good idea tonight, huh?”
“Probably not,” Monica laughed, before her shoulders began
to shake uncontrollably...
11:57 p.m.
With the exception of college basketball, the History Channel,
and the occasional Ken Burns documentary on PBS, Walter Skinner was no huge
fan of the broadcast media. But each New Year’s Eve, wherever he was, Skinner
found a set and watched Dick Clark, the seemingly ageless god of passages
and rock music, mark one more year in time. It was a poignantly human constant
in a world that the assistant director perhaps more than anyone else saw
as edging toward some precipice.
Kersh had shown up at the church where Doggett and Reyes had “apprehended”
the late William Renzler, and with uncharacteristic charity released him
to enjoy what remained of his New Year’s. As Dick Clark congregated with
revelers in Times Square, he felt an itch of annoyance at the ringing phone
on the hotel nightstand.
“Sir, Special Agent Angela Uchtmann,” a familiar honeyed voice peppered with
iron filings intoned. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you at this late hour,
but I discovered an error in my report to you this afternoon. Involving the
suspect Renzler.”
Clark was laughing, muted, his head rearing back as the 2003 ball dangled
overhead. “Agent Uchtmann, I appreciate your thoroughness, but the case is
resolved, and I’m sure we all make mistakes from time to time. You should
be celebrating New Year’s.”
“I have,” she drawled blankly. “I pride myself on my efficiency, and when
I’m guilty of sloppy work, I like to clear the decks and take my medicine.”
Skinner suppressed a sigh. “Fire away, Agent.”
“Well, I had told you I had eliminated all control subjects from the pharmaceutical
trials we were investigating. My eyes must have blurred or something, which
is no excuse for my oversight, but I made a misidentification.”
The assistant director sat up in the bed as Clark lip-synched the New Year’s
countdown. “What precisely are you saying, Agent?”
“Renzler,” Uchtmann said. “He was one of the control subjects who received
sugar pills in the Pinck Pharmaceuticals trial. He was never administered
any medications.” She paused. “Sir?”
“Happy New Year, Agent,” Skinner muttered as he fumbled the handset back
onto the phone and a wild cacophony of horns blared on the street...