by Jeff Miller
“It’s early, Dag.” He rubbed his eyes.
“I’ve got to head down to Quantico.”
Mike walked to his dresser and picked up his keys. “C’mon, D.”
She grabbed the keys from his hand and tossed them onto the bed. “Go back to sleep. I’ll run home.”
“You’re crazy, Dag. That’s twelve miles.”
“It’s barely eight.” She kissed his lips and led him back to bed. “Get some more sleep. You’ve got to teach a class today.”
“Let me drive you,” he offered, as he slid back under the covers. “Let me drive you,” he muttered again, falling back asleep.
They had traded keys a week earlier, and Dagny used hers to lock the door when she left. She took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air. And then she ran.
CHAPTER 11
February 27—Quantico, Virginia
The Professor leaned against the front of his desk. “The FBI defines terror as the unlawful use of force or violence against persons or property to intimidate or coerce a government, the civilian population, or any segment thereof, in furtherance of political or social objectives. So was the BTK killer a terrorist? Agent Davis?”
“Arguably, he had a social objective—namely, for society to fear him. It’s why he sent letters to the police and to the papers,” Brent said.
“If self-aggrandizement is a social objective,” Dagny interjected, “then I’m afraid an awful lot of crimes are going to fall within our definition of terrorism. It’s not unusual for serial killers to seek recognition. The Zodiac killer sent numerous letters to the media. Jack the Ripper sent a letter to authorities bragging about his crimes. I think that we should expect a criminal to have an objective beyond his own gratification before we call him a terrorist.”
The Professor smiled. “So Agent Gray, you’re willing to let the definition depend upon the way madmen define their cause?”
“Aren’t all crimes judged by the mind-set of the criminal, Professor? Doesn’t the commission of a crime itself require a mens rea?”
“Ah, the lawyer has made her appearance.” This got a hearty laugh from Brent and a chuckle from Walton. No one else was paying attention.
“You’re right, though,” the Professor continued. “We do define crimes by the mind-set of the criminal—at trial. But when you’re in the field, you’re not worried about reasonable doubt, are you? Your job is to prevent crimes. Aren’t niceties like state of mind better left to juries?”
“Sure, Professor, but aren’t we just playing a definitional game? Regardless of whether a criminal meets our definition of a terrorist, we want to catch him. His motive is irrelevant.”
“Right, in part,” the Professor barked. “We want to catch him, regardless of his motive. But obviously, his motive is not irrelevant to us. And why is that, Agent Gray? Why do we care about his motive?”
The Socratic game reminded Dagny of law school. “Motive only matters if it can help us catch him. If we know his motive, we can anticipate his next move.”
The Professor grabbed a marker and began writing on the dry-erase board, saying the words as he wrote them. “The WHAT. The WHO. The WHERE. The WHY.” He threw the marker to the ground and smacked the word WHAT with his hand. “You show up at a crime scene and do your work, and you’ve got the WHAT. A dead body. Missing money. Whatever. From that point on, everything is about the WHO and the WHERE,” he said, hitting the words with his hand again for emphasis. “If you figure out who did it and where he is, then your case is closed. The WHY only matters if it helps you get the WHO or WHERE. And that’s the only reason that motive matters. Agent Davis made a decent case for the BTK killer being a terrorist. But the question is irrelevant. You might not even know if an act is intended to create terror until you’re well into the investigation. So why are we even talking about this? Agent Walton?”
“Ummm...”
“No ummms!”
“Because you want us to remember that crime is crime—and that the FBI may be making a mistake by segregating counterterrorism from other investigative units. Because we need to approach each crime without preconceived notions.”
“More or less, Mr. Walton. In any event, I’m hungry, so let’s break for lunch.”
The Professor gathered his books and hobbled to the door. “Agent Gray, if you would care to join me, I’d like to discuss a matter.”
He’d never before extended such an invitation to anyone in the class. “Of course, Professor.” Dagny returned the puzzled looks of her classmates with a shrug and followed the Professor down the hallway. He moved slowly, and Dagny found it difficult to match her pace to his.
They took the stairs to an even lower level, wandering under dim, flickering lights, past clanking pipes and boilers, to a thick metal door with a yellow Post-it note affixed to it. It read “McDougal.”
“My office,” he sneered, pushing the door open.
“This feels like a Terry Gilliam movie,” Dagny said.
“I don’t know who that is.”
Inside, the concrete walls of the ten-by-ten cell were bare. The Professor’s metal desk was covered by stacks of books, as was much of the floor. The shelves behind the desk were filled with brown Redwelds, overflowing with file folders and papers. Two framed photographs stood on the top shelf. Dagny guessed that the woman standing against the rail of a ship in the picture on the left was Mrs. McDougal. The picture on the right showed J. Edgar Hoover presenting a medal to a young, strong, tall agent. Was it the Professor? Dagny didn’t believe it was possible. Sure, people shrink, but that much?
“Have a seat,” McDougal said.
Dagny removed a stack of books from the chair opposite the desk and sat down. The Professor opened a small refrigerator next to the bookshelf and withdrew two brown paper sacks. He tossed one to Dagny.
“I brought you lunch.”
“Oh, thanks, but actually—”
“Don’t be rude.”
The bag contained a turkey sandwich on rye bread and a bag of baked Lay’s potato chips. She took a bite of the sandwich. “Thank you.”
The Professor opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bag of Cheetos. “Our program ends in two weeks, and Frank Cooper wants to send you back to New York to work the Milano case—full time, seven days a week, through capture and trial. The detail could last a year or more.”
“Oh.”
The Professor tore open the Cheetos bag, and most of the contents fell onto his desk. “You don’t sound enthusiastic.”
“It’s a good case. It’s just...”
“Yes?”
“The Milanos of the world kill each other. I didn’t sign up to save gangsters from one another. I wanted to help—”
“Regular folk? Innocent civilians and the like. That’s why you’ve been teaching yourself Arabic?”
“Yes.” Dagny knew there were ten thousand FBI agents, and only fifty of them spoke Arabic. “It’s coming, slowly.”
“So I assume you’d eventually like to do counterterrorism work, whatever that means,” the Professor mumbled, his mouth full of Cheetos.
“I think so.”
“Ninety percent of terrorism cases these days are plots the Bureau concocts to entrap Muslim kids.”
“But then there’s that ten percent,” she said.
He nodded. “I understand you’re seeing someone. Perhaps you’d like to stay in DC for now?”
How did he know about Mike? She’d never mentioned him to anyone in the Bureau.
“If possible.” Not long ago, Dagny wouldn’t have cared.
“Well, I have a proposal.” The Professor swept the remaining Cheetos into the desk drawer. “I need a research and writing assistant for a few months. If you work for me, you’ll have plenty of time to continue your Arabic studies—even enroll in a course if you’d like. Working for me won’t help your career, but learning Arabic will. We’d work at my home in Arlington. And when we’re done, we can see about getting you reassigned somewhere that lets you pro
tect the regular folk from the ten percent.”
It was intriguing. Stay with Mike, learn Arabic, figure out her life.
“You can do this?”
“I talked to Cooper last night.”
“And he agreed?”
“He doesn’t want to lose you, but I have a little sway,” the Professor replied. It’s good to know the president, Dagny thought. But then why was he stuck on the boiler-room floor? “I try to pick my battles,” he replied, reading her mind. “One more thing. Cooper told me about March fifteenth. You still have to hit the target. That’s part of the deal. You understand? I need you healthy, too.”
She nodded. That’s why he had forced lunch on her.
“So does this interest you?”
It seemed almost too perfect. “Very much.”
“Then we have an arrangement.” He leaned over the desk and shook her hand, oblivious to the orange dust that coated his fingers. “Now you can go do your run, if that’s what you’d like. But take the rest of your lunch with you.”
Dagny grabbed the remaining half of her sandwich. At the door, she turned. “Professor, what are we working on?”
“My memoirs,” he said. “Until something interesting comes along.”
She nodded and started down the hallway past the clattering pipes. As the metal door swung shut behind her, she heard the Professor yell once more, “Eat the rest of the sandwich, Dagny!”
She smiled.
CHAPTER 12
March 1—Cincinnati, Ohio
Cynthia Johnson frowned. It was a boring day.
She leaned against the counter and twirled her red locks. Down on the floor, the latest issue of Us Weekly peeked out the top of the twenty-eight-year-old’s purse, teasing her. The magazine was folded in half, so only “erlake” and “ansson” showed. There was a single security camera in the lobby, and she knew Mr. Waxton studied the footage to make sure they were working. Once, he’d caught a teller flipping through a Vanity Fair and docked her pay for each minute she’d spent reading. When the woman had been caught a second time, she’d been fired. So Us Weekly stayed in Cynthia’s purse.
Because Maxine Campbell’s car wouldn’t start, there were only two tellers working the morning shift at Waxton Savings and Loan. Even down a teller, it hadn’t been busy. Two hours, six customers, and nothing else to do but listen to the clock tick. Tick. Tick. Fifty-nine minutes until lunch.
“I’m bored to tears, dearie,” Reggie Closter said. Four feet tall and four feet wide, she was an elderly cube. Cynthia hated her throaty, smoke-torn voice, and she really hated being called “dearie.”
“I know, Reggie. I’m bored, too.”
There were two glass offices in the front of the bank. One was empty; Roy Fielder sat in the other. He had short curly hair and a head that widened from top to bottom, providing ample room for the biggest smile Cynthia had ever seen. Cynthia had gotten to know him a bit, and wanted to know him a bit more, even if he was a little young for her. She wondered why Roy was wasting time working in this rinky-dink savings and loan instead of a prestigious bank like Fifth Third or Citibank. Heck, a piggy bank was more prestigious than Waxton Savings and Loan.
Roy was on the phone. Cynthia couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he seemed pretty excited. When he hung up, he grabbed his coat and briefcase and bounded out of his office.
“I’m off to Dayton.”
“What’s in Dayton?” Cynthia asked.
“Big loan. Maybe very big. If I can get it.”
“Great.” Cynthia shrugged. “More money for Mr. Waxton.”
“Well, it’s his bank,” Reggie interjected. “Who do you think signs our checks? Santy Claus?”
Cynthia ignored her. “Coming back?” she asked Roy.
“Oh, yeah. Probably by four.”
As the door closed behind Roy, Cynthia turned to Reggie and seethed, “You know, Reggie, you don’t have to invite yourself into every conversation.”
“He wasn’t talking to you. He was just talking generally.”
“He was too talking to me.” Cynthia leaned against the counter again. Fifty-five minutes until lunch.
“I’m going outside for a smoke.”
“Yeah,” Cynthia looked at her watch. “I guess it’s been ten minutes.”
With Reggie gone, Us Weekly was tempting. Maybe she could just sneak a quick peek. She was reaching for the magazine when a large, heavyset woman entered. Most of the bank’s customers were elderly folks who had banked with Waxton for most of their lives, so it was unusual to see a fresh face. Fresh face was a generous description for this woman, though. She had a heavy brow, a bar-fight nose, and saggy cheeks caked in rouge. Her green ensemble was more tent than dress. She wore white gloves and carried a large canvas purse.
“Can I help you?” Cynthia asked.
The woman responded with a man’s voice. “I have a gun, and I need you to put your hands on top of the counter, and not to say a word.” It was a deep, soothing voice, but Cynthia was still hyperventilating when she put her hands on the counter. “If you do exactly as I say, everything will be fine.” His saggy cheeks were beginning to tear away from his face—it was a mask of some kind, made of putty and makeup, like they’d wear at the theater. “Do you understand me?”
Yes.
“Answer me!” That wasn’t soothing. It was angry. Violent.
“Yes.”
“I’m going to come around and watch you open both drawers. At no time should either of your hands go anywhere near the right side of the drawers. You are not to trigger the alarm.”
The man walked around the counter, keeping his gun pointed at Cynthia. He nodded toward the drawer and she opened it. The man held his purse open, and she transferred the cash to the bag. “Bottom, too,” he said.
Each teller had two drawers, one on top of the other. Cynthia turned a key in the bottom drawer and popped it open, then loaded the money into the man’s bag. “Top drawer of that one,” he said, motioning to Reggie’s drawer. Only the bottom drawer required a key, and he knew it.
Cynthia emptied the bills into the man’s bag. “Don’t cry,” he said. “This isn’t about you.” She hadn’t realized she was crying.
The door chimed. Cynthia looked up and saw Reggie walking back into the bank. “What the—”
The man shot his gun at Reggie, shattering the glass door behind her. Reggie dove through the doorframe and the mostly shattered glass, screaming as she fell on the concrete sidewalk in front of the bank.
The man grabbed Cynthia’s wrist, kicked open the door to the back hallway, and dragged her along. At the end of the hallway, he kicked in a door marked CHESLEY WAXTON in black block letters, then yanked Cynthia inside. Mr. Waxton wasn’t there. Maybe he had escaped to the back parking lot, Cynthia hoped.
The man fired a shot into the bookshelf behind the desk. “Get up, Waxton!” The bald, spotted tip of Waxton’s head rose from behind the desk. Like Cynthia, he was crying. The man motioned for him to stand and then tugged Cynthia by her wrist toward her boss, before placing the barrel of his gun against Waxton’s head.
“The sins of the angels remain with them in heaven,” the man intoned. “The sins of the angels remain with them in heaven. Say it to me.”
“Wha-wha-what?”
“Say it back to me!” He pushed the gun harder into Waxton’s temple.
Waxton squeaked, “The sins of the angels remain with them in heaven?”
“Not as a question!”
Waxton was dripping with sweat. “The sins of the angels remain with them in heaven.”
“Again.”
“The sins of the angels remain with them in heaven.”
“This is important, so don’t forget it.” The man shoved Waxton to the ground, then let go of Cynthia’s arm and pointed to the floor.
Cynthia joined Waxton on the floor, and the man walked over to the bookshelves behind the desk. She watched him reach for the autographed baseball resting in a glass sphere, suspended b
y a stem over a wood base. It was Waxton’s prized possession. The man opened the sphere, removed the baseball, and tossed it in his bag with the money. Then he set a small white card inside the sphere so that it stood on its short end. He turned toward Cynthia, and she twisted her face back toward the ground, afraid to make eye contact with him. The man walked over to Waxton and dug his heel into his back. “One more time.”
“The sins of the angels remain with them in heaven.”
“Exactly.” The man sprinted to the door, fired two more shots into the bookcase, and disappeared.
Cynthia began to shiver. A sheen of sweat covered her arms and face, and the air from the vent felt cold. She was lost in the sound of her breath when she heard a car engine fire. He was leaving.
Cynthia sat up, and Mr. Waxton crawled over to her and hugged her tightly. Silently, Cynthia regretted every bad thought she’d ever had about the man. A few minutes later, Reggie appeared in the doorway. Her dress was torn in several places, and her arm was bleeding. She held a lit cigarette in her hand, and in her throaty snarl, she croaked, “That woman was a real bitch, wasn’t she?”
As awful as the day had been, this made Cynthia laugh. “It was a man, Reggie.”
“Well, she’s gone—whatever she is.”
Waxton let go of Cynthia and lifted himself up by the edge of his desk. He seemed a little embarrassed by the hug. Cynthia looked at the empty glass sphere, then turned to Mr. Waxton. “He took your ball.”
In the past few minutes, she had seen Waxton afraid and nervous and even embarrassed, but for the first time he flashed despair. “My ball?” He started to cry again. “We have a vault here, for Christ’s sake. Why the ball?”
While Waxton cried, Cynthia looked inside the glass sphere to the card the man had left behind.
THIS IS MY FIFTH CRIME.
MY NEXT WILL BE BIGGER.
Cynthia Johnson couldn’t help but smile. It was not a boring day.
