The Bishop

by Steven James

  “If they ever make eye-rolling an Olympic sport,” I’d told her, “you’d be a gold medalist.”

  “How clever,” she’d mumbled. “Do you write your own material or do you hire out?”

  I’d opened my mouth to respond but couldn’t come up with anything witty on the spot, and that seemed to please her.

  I’d decided to ignore her black fingernail polish but did ask her to kindly dress up a little, and rather than her typical black tights or ripped jeans, she’d grudgingly put on a wrap-around skirt and a long sleeve charcoal button-down shirt that hid the line of two-inch scars on her right arm that bore witness to her self-inflicting stage.

  Leather and hemp bracelets encircled her left wrist, a few steel rings hugged her fingers.

  Paradoxically, this girl who couldn’t care less about being cool had managed to define her own avant-garde style—Bohemian light goth. A free spirit, whip-smart, and cute in a slyly sarcastic way, she’d become the person I cared about more than anyone else in the world, now that my wife Christie was gone.

  I took the exit and Tessa looked my way. “You promise we’re not going to drive past the—”

  “Don’t worry.” I knew what she was referring to. We’d talked about it earlier. “We won’t be anywhere near it.”

  Silence.

  “I promise.” I took a sip of the coffee she’d bought for me twenty minutes ago at an indie coffee shop on the outskirts of DC.

  “Okay.”

  The FBI Academy had recently started a body farm on the east side of the property, similar to the famous Tennessee Forensic Anthropology Research Facility in Knoxville, Tennessee.

  So now, in a back corner of the campus, dozens of corpses lay in various states of decay. Some in car trunks, others in shallow graves, others in streams or ponds, others in shadowed forests or sunny meadows—all positioned to give us an opportunity to study how decomposition rates, insect activity, and scavenger-initiated disarticulation vary for different means of body disposal. A real-world way to advance the field of forensic taphonomy—the science of understanding how dead organisms decay over time.

  Even though I’d never had any intention of taking Tessa there, it’d been her biggest concern ever since I invited her to attend tonight’s panel discussion.

  I sipped at the coffee, and this time she watched me carefully.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “The coffee.”

  “I’m not going to do this, Tessa.”

  “Admit it. I got you this time.”

  “I don’t have to prove any—”

  “You have no idea what kind of coffee it is.”

  I took another sip. “Yes, I do.”

  “Now you’re stalling.”

  “Let’s see. Full-bodied and smooth. Low-toned with expansive acidity. Complex flavor. Slightly earthy, a hint of dried figs and a deep, velvety complexion—Sumatra. I’m guessing shade-grown, the Jagong region along the northern tip of the island.” I took another sip. “You put some cinnamon in it to confuse me.”

  She said nothing.

  “Well?”

  “You need to get a life.”

  4

  Christie and I had met in the spring, married in the fall, and only nine weeks after the wedding, she found the lump in her breast. She passed away before the one year anniversary of the day we met.

  Tessa had grown up without ever meeting her father, and, regrettably, things had been strained between us from the start. Then after Christie died, it only got worse.

  In time, though, Tessa and I started to feel comfortable around each other, even close—until a few weeks ago when she stumbled across her mother’s diary and discovered that her biological father was alive and well and living off the grid in the mountains of Wyoming.

  Her real father.

  At first when she’d asked to meet him, I’d been hesitant to say yes, but of course I couldn’t deny her the chance to meet her dad. So, we’d visited him, and despite my reservations, Paul Lansing seemed like a good man. Reclusive and private but hard-working and honest. A sculptor, a carpenter, a man who preferred living off the land. Paul and Tessa seemed to hit it off, and meeting him had only served to make things more complicated between Tessa and me.

  Some people might have questioned my decision to do a background check on him, but as her legal guardian, more than anything in the world I wanted Tessa to be safe. As Calvin used to say, “Truth is not afraid of scrutiny.” So, if Paul had nothing to hide, he had nothing to fear.

  Paul’s record was spotless, maybe a little too spotless, so I remained somewhat uneasy about him. Until we knew more, I decided to let Tessa email him, as long as I reviewed her emails first to make sure nothing personal—a phone number, address, or anything about my job—inadvertently made their way into the messages. Tessa didn’t like it, but until I knew for sure I could trust him, I wasn’t going to take any chances.

  It wasn’t clear to me what role he wanted to play in her life, but ever since that trip to Wyoming I’d noticed a crack forming in the foundation of my relationship with Tessa. The past had climbed into our lives and wedged itself between us.

  “You’re glad to be back, aren’t you?” she asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  I glanced at her.

  “For the last couple weeks. Teaching this inter-session thing.” She pointed to the sign at the entrance to Quantico. “You’re glad to be back here, at the Academy.”

  “For the summer; it’s just for the summer.”

  “I know.”

  A pause.

  “Why do you say that—that I’m glad to be back?”

  “You’re easy to read.”

  Currently we live in Denver, having moved from New York City after her mother’s death. Now, as I answered her question, I opted for the nickname I’d affectionately given her last year. “Yes, Raven, it feels like I’m coming home.”

  She was quiet then, and I wondered whether she was thinking about Denver, or New York, or possibly one of the small towns in Minnesota where she’d lived as a child.

  “That’s good,” she said simply.

  I had the urge to ask her what felt like home to her, but I wondered if it might somehow relate to her finding her dad, so I held back and she quietly unfolded the newspaper to finish her puzzle while I pulled into the line of cars waiting to be cleared to enter the Marine Base.

  Washington DC

  Astrid and Brad stepped into the security office of the primate research facility they’d chosen for tonight’s game. The timing of the shift change had worked in their favor. They’d drugged the security guard, so except for the gorillas and monkeys, they had the place to themselves.

  This game, over the next three days, would be the most thrilling, the most satisfying game of all.

  Brad’s game.

  Already Astrid could feel the excitement this night would bring, the glorious surge of power filling her, releasing her, preparing her for the passion they would share with each other later in their bedroom.

  Brad was reconnecting the security camera console’s router.

  “I’m almost done,” he said softly.

  “How long?”

  “Five minutes, max.”

  One of the Marines held up his palm, motioning for us to stop.

  I handed my credentials to him through my open window. “Evening, Sergeant Hastings,” I said. “Good to see you again.”

  “Dr. Bowers.” He took only a quick glance at my ID and verified the plates on my car. Despite the stoic look on his face, I heard warmth in his voice. “What’s it been, sir? A year?”

  Sergeant Eric Hastings was in his early twenties. Caramel eyes. Short blond hair. Probably less than 6 percent body fat.

  This was the first time this summer I’d seen him, and the first time I’d brought Tessa to an Academy function. “Almost. And when are you going to just call me Pat like everyone else?”

  A small grin. “When I’m not in this unifor
m, sir.”

  Tessa was handing her driver’s license to me, trying not to stare at Eric, but her eyes betrayed her. I accepted my creds from Eric, gave him Tessa’s license.

  He leaned over to compare her face to her license. He took his time. “Ma’am,” he said respectfully.

  “Hey,” she said. I could tell she was searching for the proper way to address him. “Sergeant . . . sir.”

  His scrutiny seemed to bring out her shyness, and she lowered her eyes. Demure. It made her even cuter than usual, and I was suddenly anxious to get going. At last he handed her license back to us. “Welcome to Quantico, ma’am.”

  “It’s Tessa,” she said, a little too loudly in reply.

  Tessa felt like smacking herself in the head. Hard.

  Okay, first, you’re like totally gawking at the guy and then you tell him your name right after he’s been studying your driver’s license? Brilliant, Tessa Bernice Ellis. Just brilliant.

  As Patrick pulled forward, she stared out the car’s side window and tried to distract herself from thinking about the cute sergeant and the ditzy impression she’d left him with.

  It didn’t work.

  Patrick didn’t like her seeing older guys.

  And now, she caught herself wondering what her dad would think—her real dad.

  She knew it wasn’t fair, comparing the two men like that, but ever since she’d met Paul, she’d found herself doing it more and more.

  And in her imagination, Patrick was having a hard time measuring up.

  Everything had become so confusing.

  And oh, then there was this, another thing she’d been doing that was guaranteed to screw things up between her and Patrick—in addition to the emails he knew about, she’d been secretly emailing Paul on her own almost every day.

  She didn’t do it to purposely dis her stepdad, it’s just that there were things she needed to ask her dad, things she didn’t feel comfortable asking with Patrick looking over her shoulder. However, the emails had become a fractious little secret that she was keeping from the one person she didn’t ever want to deceive.

  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.

  5

  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 m
y 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.”