2
The special agent’s name was Walker Canfield, and Gregor Demarkian hated him on sight. Bennis had gone off somewhere in the building. Since this was an official meeting, and there was no possible way to designate her as anything but an ordinary suspect, they had to maintain at least a pretense of protecting their information, even if they knew Gregor would tell her at least some of it as soon as he got back into her car. Bennis didn’t seem to mind. There was a plate of doughnuts and a coffee machine in a little room on the same corridor with the conference room. Officers and administrative personnel used it when they had a few minutes to relax in the middle of the day. Bennis walked into that, took the only available chair—a metal folding chair with a wooden seat that looked like it had been treated to sneak attacks from a buzz saw—and took out her book and her glasses. Gregor gave her a long wistful look before he allowed himself to be swept up by the official investigators. He had spent more than twenty years of his life in meetings like this one. It wasn’t until he retired and moved to Cavanaugh Street that he realized how much they bored him.
Marty Tackner, Frank Margiotti’s partner, turned out to be an African-American who looked eerily like Sidney Poitier playing Mr. Tibbs, right down to the three-piece pinstripe suit. He also looked out of sorts and something beyond fed up. Frank introduced them. Marty nodded. Then Marty and Frank both looked at the other man in the room. That was when Gregor realized they were all in for trouble. He had spent twenty years of his life in the Bureau. He knew special agents. This one gave every indication of being the kind Gregor had always found most useless both when he was in the field and when he was working as an administrator. He had complete and utter disdain for local law enforcement. He thought he knew more about policing than the battle-scarred veterans of inner-city gang warfare. He went by the book, and if the book was wrong he’d never know it, because he’d never consider the possibility that he should have done things differently than exactly the way he had been taught at Quantico. He had no instincts. He came close to having no personality. Gregor couldn’t help thinking of the line from Men in Black:We in the FBI have no sense of humor that we know of.
“This is special agent Walker Canfield of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Frank Margiotti said, sounding as if he’d been coached.
Gregor had to work hard not to wince at the name. Walker Canfield: a kid who’d been born in the Midwest to a mother who had desperately wanted to send him East to college, but hadn’t had the money. Walker Canfield was holding out his hand. Gregor took it.
“Mr. Demarkian,” Canfield said. “I asked around about you in Washington. You’ve got quite a reputation.”
“Do I?”
“Jack Houseman said to say hello.”
“I hope he’s well,” Gregor said.
Walker Canfield shrugged. “It’s because of him you’re here. It’s highly unusual, calling in a civilian to consult on a case like this. Apparently the locals do it all the time, but it’s not how we operate in the Bureau. But you know that.”
“I also know that the Bureau doesn’t investigate much in the way of murder,” Gregor said. “National parks, Indian reservations, maybe the assassination of a federal official—but none of that covers in this case. So what are you doing here?”
Canfield blinked. “Lending a hand to local law enforcement.”
“Uh, huh. Lending them a hand in what?”
“In the investigation.” Canfield rubbed the flat of his hand against the side of his face. Good, Gregor thought. I’ve got him nervous.
“In the investigation of what?” Gregor asked him.
Canfield was now visibly squirming. “In the investigation of the murder. The Bureau helps local law enforcement with murders. You know that. You headed up a whole department that does that. You invented it.”
“The Behavioral Sciences Department provides a clearinghouse for information in serial-killer cases with known or possible interstate implications. Do you expect that the person who killed Tony Ross is a serial killer?”
“It’s the interstate implications. That’s what it is,” Canfield said. “Anthony van Wyck Ross was an important man. We think the killer, uh, left the scene and then left the state.”
“And that’s enough for the Bureau to assign a special agent full-time to the investigation? And only one?”
Canfield started rubbing his hands together. “This is a big case. Local law enforcement needs all the help it can get. The director felt—”
“Bullshit,” Gregor said pleasantly. “I had lunch with the director not two months ago. He’s sane.” Gregor turned around and looked at Frank Margiotti and Marty Tackner. They were standing so still they were barely breathing. Gregor knew they were both fascinated and a little smug. He could just imagine how Walker Canfield had been behaving since he got here. “Would you mind?” Gregor asked Frank and Marty. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Canfield here in private.”