The Bishop

  “I didn’t know you had any pets, Margaret.”

  “Now you do.”

  I decided to offer her a small olive branch. “Well, like I said, he’s a good-looking dog.”

  Doehring appeared at the doorway, started for the stage.

  She closed the briefcase authoritatively. “He’s a purebred.”

  Of course he was.

  Doehring, who’d always reminded me of the X-Men character Wolverine, minus the mutant beard, pounded up the steps to join us.

  After twenty years on the force, he had a reputation for being street-smart, blunt, and as tough as nails, but he was also the father of two little girls—seven and four. And from what I’d seen, they had him wrapped around their little fingers. A quintessential cop in all the best ways, Doehring and I had worked together a number of times over the years, and even though we didn’t always see eye-to-eye, I liked him. He knew how to work a case and how to bring it to completion.

  “Pat. I heard about Werjonic.” He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry.” There was genuine sympathy in his voice.

  “Thanks.”

  “He was a good man.”

  “Yes. He was.”

  For a moment he let the words, the grief, sift through the air, then he greeted Margaret. “EAD Wellington.”

  “Lieutenant. Thank you for not being late.”

  “You too,” he said.

  We shared a look, an almost-smile, then he took a seat. I set my phone to vibrate, slid it into my pocket, and Margaret clacked over to the podium to get the seminar underway.

  6

  “Good evening,” she said. “I’m Executive Assistant Director Margaret Wellington, and I’d like to begin by thanking you for your attendance this evening. As you know, emerging research is reshaping the way criminal investigations are structured and carried out. Tonight we will be discussing the integration of technology into criminal investigations in the twenty-first century.”

  A pause. “We are honored to have Washington DC Metro Police Lieutenant Doehring with us.” She gave him a nod. “And Patrick Bowers, one of the Bureau’s most experienced criminologists. I’m sure you’ll find his insights scintillating.”

  Her comment about my scintillating insights was completely devoid of sarcasm, which in itself seemed to be a new and novel form of sarcasm.

  “Tonight promises to be an engaging and thought-provoking discussion.” She added a few more opening comments and announcements, then gave Lieutenant Doehring the floor.

  Doehring took the podium and began describing ways in which the Washington DC law enforcement community was implementing the use of cell phones equipped with touch screens that also scanned fingerprints so that suspects’ prints can be run through AFIS within seconds of apprehension.

  Currently, the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, a little-known branch of the defense department that I consult with on behalf of the FBI, had given me the prototype of a new phone, still in development, that included the function Doehring had just mentioned, as well as defense satellite mapping capabilities and a 3-D hologram projector for mapping and analyzing crime scene locations. Amazing stuff.

  Doehring listed advancements in using microwave emitters for non-lethal crowd dispersal, Israeli-developed guns that can shoot around corners, ways to x-ray crowds to determine if armed assailants are present, three-dimensional orthodigital photographs to help with bite-mark analysis, and so on—all devices we’d been using at the Bureau for the last several years.

  “However,” he said, “you can have all the high-tech gadgets in the world, but unless you stick to time-tested, proven investigative procedures, you’ll come up short every time. Good investigations always focus on uncovering the perp’s motive, means, and opportunity.”

  And this is where our views began to diverge.

  I don’t look for any of the above.

  And I definitely do not use the word perp.

  Doehring went on to detail a few cases that had “gotten bogged down in technology” until “good old-fashioned gut instincts” broke the case wide open. I sensed his tone shifting, becoming slightly antagonistic. From where I sat on the stage, I could see the attendees’ faces, and most of the people appeared to agree with him that the classic approach was best.

  Great. That would make my job so much easier.

  Twenty minutes passed, Margaret encouraging Lieutenant Doehring, occasionally asking for my input, never questioning his assertions. I was careful to keep my comments focused on the valid points Doehring was making. No sense diminishing his authority in the eyes of the attendees.

  At last he finished, and Margaret turned to me and said simply, “Agent Bowers.”

  My turn to use the podium. “Well.” The mic squealed and I backed away from it, tried again. “Recent advances in technology have allowed us to utilize geospatial intelligence, or GEOINT, from the defense department’s satellite array and apply it to law enforcement. By analyzing the locations related to serial offenses and studying the timing, location, and progression of the crimes, we can work backward to find the most likely location of the offender’s home base, a geographic region we typically refer to as the hot zone.”

  “A geoprofile,” Margaret interjected, possibly with a slight note of derision, it was hard to tell.

  “That’s right.” Before I moved into the technical aspects and algorithms, or demonstrated my cell phone’s geospatial hologram capabilities, I needed to lay out some theoretical groundwork. “Geospatial investigation builds on research in environmental criminology, sociology, routine activity theory, crime scene analysis, and environmental psychology, and is based on four basic principles concerning criminal behavior.”

  Blank faces in the audience.

  Fantastic opening there, Pat. You’ve got ’em in the palm of your hand.

  I took a breath. “First, even though it seems self-evident, all crimes occur in a specific place at a specific time; nearly all are committed in locations with which the offender is familiar, or along the pathways between these areas. Understanding those geospa-tial and temporal aspects of the crime leads us to a better understanding of the offender’s travel patterns and cognitive map of his surroundings.”

  Even though she was near the back, I noticed Tessa yawn.

  It might have been a subtle joke. I couldn’t tell.

  “Essentially, the distribution and timing of the crimes show us how the criminal understands and interacts with his environment,” I explained. “Secondly, despite conventional wisdom that many crimes occur randomly, most of the current research supports the conclusion that people commit crimes only after a series of rational decisions shaped by environmental cues.”

  I paused, and Margaret asked me, cordially enough, to clarify the decision-making process I was referring to.

  “Well, an offender’s past, familiarity with the region, desire for seclusion during the abduction or attack, awareness of and availability of exit routes, and a lack of visible law enforcement presence all affect his choices regarding the commission of his crime. Offenders choose the time and location of their crimes in order to avoid apprehension.”

  “In other words,” Margaret interjected, “their motive is to get away with it?”

  Oh.

  That was clever.

  With one tiny comment she’d found a way to agree with me while bringing up my biggest pet peeve—motive. I glanced at her. She was smiling in a Margarety way.

  “Yes.” Follow up on that later, just get through the four points for now. “Thirdly, offenders attempt to save time and money, put in the least amount of effort for the most possible benefit. This affects the routes they take to and from—”

  One of the eight doors on the right side of the auditorium edged open. Even though most of the attendees didn’t seem to notice, the movement caught my attention. A woman entered. Naturally beautiful face. Frizzily curled red hair. Coy smile. Wearing a dark green National Academy polo shirt.

  I did a double ta
ke.

  It couldn’t possibly be her.

  But it was.

  Detective Cheyenne Warren from Denver.

  A National Academy shirt? That doesn’t make sense. She’s—

  Cheyenne gave me a slightly embarrassed look for interrupting, then held up her palms in a small sign of surrender, mouthed the word “Sorry,” and headed for the nearest seat.

  Margaret cleared her throat slightly, jarring me back to the discussion. “Agent Bowers? You were saying? Motives?”

  Motives? Was I . . . ?

  I struggled to regain my train of thought, but Cheyenne’s smile had at least momentarily derailed it.

  Over the last year I’d served on a joint violent crimes task force with the Denver PD, and Cheyenne and I had worked seven cases together. From the start, we’d both been attracted to each other, no question about that, but first my grief over Christie’s death and then my relationship with one of the profilers here at Quantico had kept us from dating.

  Then last month, when Lien-hua and I broke up, Cheyenne hadn’t been shy in letting me know how she felt about me. However, at the time I realized that seeing her would have been, at least initially, a way of dealing with the breakup, and I couldn’t stand the thought of using her, so I’d pulled away even though I knew it had hurt her.

  But that was more than three weeks ago.

  And now here she was.

  Back to the discussion, Pat.

  “Yes. I . . .”

  Something about offenders . . . space and time . . .

  Ah yes.

  I wasn’t sure if it was my exact point, but it was close enough: “So, while offenders might act, and in many cases, think, in aberrant or deviant ways, they’re not fundamentally different from the rest of us. They’re not monsters. They’re human beings who understand and interact with their environments in the same ways all human beings do. So . . .”

  Cheyenne had taken a seat in the fifth row and was now watching me attentively, pen in hand. I found it hard not to stare at her.

  “Fourthly—”

  My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. There’d been enough interruptions already, so I ignored it, but noticed that both Margaret and Lieutenant Doehring were glancing down, Margaret at the phone that sat on the table beside her legal pad, Doehring at his belt.

  The fact that all three of us were being paged simultaneously could not possibly be a good sign. Doehring pulled out his phone while Margaret discreetly tapped the screen of hers. I eased mine from my pocket, but I kept my eyes on the audience. “As I was saying, the fourth premise is—”

  “Excuse me, Agent Bowers.” Margaret abruptly set her phone down and bent toward her mic. “I’m very sorry about this, everyone, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to end our discussion prematurely tonight.”

  I read the text message on my phone: a body had been found in a primate research facility in DC. The message included an address on South Capital Street but no other specifics.

  But what caught my attention was the sender’s name: FBI Director Rodale, a man who didn’t get involved in cases unless they were related to national security or involved a nationwide manhunt or unusually high media coverage.

  After her terse announcement, Margaret promptly rose and headed toward the hallway.

  Since she was the executive assistant director, I wondered if her text had contained more details than mine had. Before I left for the scene I wanted as much information as possible, so I quickly gathered my things and went to find her before she slipped away.

  7

  I caught up with Margaret just down the hall, near the entrance to the Gerbil Tube that led to the admin building.

  “Margaret,” I called. She kept walking.

  “Wait.”

  She didn’t turn.

  “Executive Assistant Director Wellington.”

  She stopped. Looked over her shoulder. Eyed me.

  “A primate research lab?” As I joined her, I noticed Tessa at the far end of the hallway, picking her way toward me through the already forming crowd. “Why are we getting involved in this? Is it on federal property?”

  “No, Agent Bowers, it is not.” I waited for her to elaborate, and at last she said, “A body was found.”

  “I know that much, Margaret. But why would Rodale—”

  “Because”—her voice was both hushed and laced with urgency—“the victim is Congressman Fischer’s daughter.”

  “What?” Now she had my attention.

  “House minority leader. From Virginia. Democrat. First District.”

  “I know who he is.” I was processing the implications. Quantico is located in Congressman Fischer’s district, and he’d been outspoken lately on shrinking the size of the FBI by up to 20 percent because of what he called “bureaucratic redundancy.” He favored “a more progressive approach to curbing criminal behavior,” although he’d never specified exactly what he meant by that.

  Congress’s budget debates had been going on all week on Capitol Hill, and since Fischer’s brother had been the vice president during the last administration, the congressman had clout and connections, and the last I heard he was gaining support for slashing the Bureau’s funding. Needless to say, he was not the most popular political figure around the Academy at the moment.

  She looked at her watch. “I have two calls to make. Director Rodale reassigned Agent Hawkins to this case, so he’ll meet you at the scene. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  Normally, Margaret would work the strings on something like this from behind her desk, but with the inevitable media firestorm, I had a feeling she might see this as a chance to gain some political or administrative clout by being present at the scene near those television cameras.

  She turned on her heels, strode away, and a moment later Tessa arrived by my side.

  Obviously, I couldn’t take her with me to the crime scene, but the house where we were staying for the summer was in the opposite direction, so I didn’t have time to take her back there either.

  I decided I could drop her off at a coffee shop or mall on the way. Not ideal, since I could be wrapped up for hours, but at the moment no better options popped to mind.

  “C’mon.” I placed my hand gently on her shoulder and guided her toward a side door to the parking lot. “It’s time to go.”

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  There was no sense trying to hide it. “It’s not good.”

  It looked like she was going to ask more questions, but she remained silent. We’d nearly made it to the exit when I heard footsteps behind me. The sound of someone running.

  I turned.

  “Pat.” Cheyenne jogged toward us. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I wish,” I said, and I meant it. She was one of the best detectives I’d ever met. For a moment I thought of the Bureau’s Joint Op program of involving National Academy students in ongoing cases—both to train them and learn from them—but a pile of paperwork that would take hours to fill out stood in the way.

  I wanted to ask her how she’d managed to wrangle her way into the National Academy, which typically involves a six-month application process, but that conversation could wait. I did, however, add, “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “I’m surprised to be here,” she replied ambiguously. The three of us reached the door. I pushed it open as Cheyenne nodded to Tessa and said warmly, “Ms. Ellis.”

  “Detective Warren.” A hint of confusion. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Denver?”

  “I had some personal leave coming, and they had a last-minute opening in the National Academy.”

  The explanation was thin, making me even more curious.

  The three of us stepped into the cloud-darkened evening.

  Large round raindrops were plunking onto the pavement. Thunder rumbled overhead. The storm had arrived.

  “Tessa,” I said. “Let me talk to Detective Warren for a second.” I tossed her the car keys. “I’ll be right there.”
r />   After a glance at Cheyenne and then at me, Tessa went on ahead.

  “Listen,” I said. “Things are—”

  “I know you need to go.” Cheyenne cut me off. “I’ll explain everything later.”

  I accepted that. “This looks like it might be messy.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. Fischer’s daughter.”

  “How did you—?”

  Using her body to shield her phone from the rain, she held it up so I could see the screen. A video of a newscaster doing a remote in downtown DC was playing. Beside the reporter was the photo of an attractive woman in her early twenties. The name beneath it read: Mollie Fischer. “CNN, FOX, and CNS News are already there. Live feed on the Internet.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Lightning slithered and crackled across the sky, and Cheyenne’s eyes flicked toward it. “She was only twenty-two.” Her voice was soft and sad and I didn’t know how to respond. After a small moment she gestured toward Tessa, who was climbing into the car to get out of the intensifying rain. “You’re not taking her with you, are you?”

  “I’ll drop her off somewhere on the way.”

  Cheyenne and I started toward my car. “I can take her back to your place for you.”

  “No, it’s okay. We’ll—”

  “Pat.” Cheyenne laid her hand on my forearm. “You read too much into things. I just want to help. Just as a friend. Honestly.”

  She was right; I was seeing ulterior motives in her offer and it bugged me that she’d nailed it. I felt a little embarrassed and yet slightly flattered that she could read me so easily.

  Cheyenne removed her hand, waited for my reply.

  Just let her help.

  “Honestly, if you could take her home, that would be great.”

  “Great.”

  We jogged toward the car, and I opened the passenger-side door. “Raven, Detective Warren is going to give you a ride back to the house.”

  With Tessa’s insatiable curiosity I expected her to ask to come along to the crime scene, which she did. “You know I can’t do that,” I countered. “Besides, there’s a dead body there and you might see—”