Mars, from long habit, said nothing.
“Oh, it’s privileged, that’s right. Just between you and her. You wanna do her, Jumbo? Get you some white woman ass? Jump her bones? Used to be against the law, black man doing that to a white woman. Still should be. White girl don’t want no animal jumping her bones. Right?”
He jabbed Mars again in the small of the back.
Mars turned to look at him. “When I’m outta here, let’s have a drink, okay? I’ll look you up. We’ll hang out. Together.”
Reedy snorted and then stopped as the full import of Mars’s words hit him like a semi.
There were no more baton jabs on the way back to the cell.
CHAPTER
7
WHEN BOGART AND Jamison returned at 1:30 that afternoon, Decker had showered, shaved, and put on his other set of clothes: jeans, a flannel shirt under a sweater, and mud-stained boots on his feet. He had some dress clothes that he had purchased back in Burlington when he was pretending to be a lawyer, but they were dirty and at the bottom of his duffel.
Bogart was in a crisp suit, starched dress shirt with a collar tab, and paisley tie. Jamison was in slacks and jacket and a cream-colored shirt with what looked to be brand-new stylish strappy heels on her feet. Compared to Decker’s casual appearance, both looked ready to attend a wedding. But this was the best he could do, and they both seemed to appreciate that he’d made the effort.
“Ready?” said a smiling Bogart.
Decker nodded. He was holding the binder, which he’d read and memorized. As they walked to Bogart’s car he felt his stomach start to squirm a bit. Not from lack of food but from nerves.
The hitch with this whole arrangement was that Decker was not really comfortable dealing with other people. His hyperthymesia caused him to be aloof, awkward, and out of sorts in the company of others. He had no control over this. His mind had bent his personality to its will. It seemed strange to think about your brain as being separate from the rest of you, but with a mind like Decker’s it just seemed like the realistic thing to do.
He had known that joining a “team” would require him to work with others, but now that the time was upon them, he was starting to question his decision to come here.
Have I just royally screwed myself?
He got into the front seat of Bogart’s sedan and had to put it all the way back to accommodate his long legs. He used the full length of the seat belt to stretch across his gut. Jamison sat in the back behind Bogart, to give Decker as much room as possible.
“Can you tell me about the other team members?” asked Decker. “Alex told me a little about Davenport.”
“Lisa was brought on board because of her expertise dealing with psycho-and sociopaths. She’s very well known in her field and has written several books on the topic. She’ll be able to analyze for us the personalities and tendencies of people at the center of our investigations. Telling us what makes them tick. We have folks in the FBI who already do that, of course. But I think it’s a good idea to get fresh eyes on a case, outside the perspective of federal law enforcement.”
“Sounds like a workable theory,” noted Jamison.
“Then there’s another FBI agent, Todd Milligan. Todd’s in his midthirties. He’s a good field agent who competed for a slot on this team. He’s excited to get started.”
“And how does he feel about working with non–FBI agents?” asked Decker.
“There are no problems there,” replied Bogart. “Otherwise he would have been vetted out.”
Decker caught Jamison’s attention in the rearview. His expression indicated that he did not necessarily share Bogart’s confidence on that point.
Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of a brick building on the grounds of the Marine Corps Base Quantico, which also housed, among other things, the FBI Academy and lab and ViCAP.
As they climbed out of the car, Bogart buttoned his jacket and said, “ViCAP gave us space in their facility to use. We’ll also be operationally supported by them.”
“ViCAP—Violent Criminal Apprehension Program,” said Jamison.
Bogart nodded as he held the door open for them. “Formed in 1985. They’re a unit dealing with serial murders and other violent crimes usually of a sexual nature. They’re part of the Critical Incident Response Group.”
“Which is in turn part of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime,” noted Decker.
Bogart nodded again. “We have lots of organizational layers.”
“Maybe too many,” assessed Decker.
“Maybe,” said Bogart curtly.
They walked down a well-lighted corridor.
“So how does what we’re going to do differ from what ViCAP already does?” asked Jamison.
“ViCAP is really a central database that other law enforcement agencies, both state and federal, use to investigate cases in their jurisdictions. There are teams of FBI agents that also investigate cases on the ground, of course. But ours will be one of the first to utilize folks from outside the FBI to be part of such an operational team. It took some finagling and negotiation. I have to say there are some in the Bureau who are not supportive of what we’re doing, and think bringing in outsiders is a mistake. I hope to prove them wrong.”
Decker said, “Playing devil’s advocate, what if we prove them right?”
Bogart shrugged. “Then our funding is cut and we go off and do something else. And my career slams right into the ceiling.”
Jamison said firmly, “Then let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.”
They passed through a security checkpoint and then Bogart used his ID badge to open a door.
“Here we are,” he said gesturing them inside.
Before Decker passed through the doorway he felt the butterflies in his belly that he often had before stepping onto the gridiron. It was an unwieldy combination of nerves, adrenaline, and anticipation.
He had thought those days were long since over.
Obviously not.
Here we go.
He stepped into the room.
CHAPTER
8
DECKER’S GAZE SWEPT the space and took everything in like radar bouncing off hard objects.
Two people were there.
Lisa Davenport was to his right. She was in her late thirties, with light blonde hair cut short, a lean, attractive face, full lips, and sparkling blue eyes. Her body was long and athletic, the hips narrow, the shoulders symmetrically broad.
She smiled at Decker as his gaze passed over her.
Todd Milligan sat across the table from her. He was about six feet tall and a buck-eighty. Like Bogart he was very fit and looked like he could run forever without getting winded. His dark hair was cut military short, his brow naturally furrowed, his light brown eyes intense, his spine assuredly as straight as his striped tie. There was nothing inviting or welcoming about the man. He just looked permanently serious.
In front of each was a thick binder. Decker noted the myriad Post-it notes sticking out from the binder’s sides. Both Davenport and Milligan had evidently come prepared.
Bogart made the introductions and they all sat.
On the wall was a large-screen TV that neatly filled the space. Bogart fired up a laptop that sat in front of him and manipulated some keys. The TV screen came to life and they all focused on it.
Bogart said, “We currently have twenty cases lined up to look at. Of those we will be able to, realistically, focus on only one at a time. I’m going for quality, not quantity. The twenty cases you’ve been given have been whittled down from a far larger number using various internal filters.”
Milligan said in a firm, clear voice, “It seems to me that the Morillo case has a lot of potential. I have some angles for approaching it that I think are rock-solid.”
“Good to hear,” said Bogart. “But I wanted to go through a brief overview of each of the cases so we’re all starting from the same page.”