Coffey felt his smile broaden. This was good; this was the moment of humiliation against a hated rival that most people only dreamed about.
“Remarkable work, Spencer. May I call you Spencer? Peerless, I might even say.”
Coffey waited for the confession he was now certain was coming. The poor bastard thought flattering him would gain some sympathy. That’s what they all did: Oh, you’re so clever to have caught me. He gestured behind his back for Rabiner to move closer with the recorder, not to miss a word. The beauty of it was, Pendergast was only digging his own grave deeper. There would be no mercy, even with a confession: not for the man responsible for murdering a top FBI agent. A confession would shave ten years off his death-penalty appeals—that was all.
“I’ve been lucky enough to witness some of your work in person. For example, your performance during that harrowing night of the museum massacre many years ago, manning the mobile command station. That was truly unforgettable.”
Coffey felt a stirring of unease. He didn’t remember much from that awful night—to be truthful, it hadn’t been his best moment. But then, maybe he was just being too hard on himself, as usual.
“I remember that night vividly,” Pendergast went on. “You were in the thick of it, nerves of steel, barking orders.”
Coffey shifted. He wished the man would get on with the confession. This was getting a bit maudlin. Pathetic how quickly the man had been reduced to groveling.
“I felt bad about what happened afterward. You didn’t deserve that reassignment to Waco. It wasn’t fair. And then, when you mistook that teenager carrying home a prize catfish for a Branch Davidian terrorist with an RPG—well, that could have happened to anybody. Luckily, your first shot missed and your partner was able to tackle you before you squeezed off a second—although perhaps the teenager was in little danger, since I understand you came in dead last in your Firearms Training Unit at the Academy.”
The segue had happened so smoothly, Pendergast’s tone of voice never varying from its whining submissiveness, that it took Coffey a moment to realize the effusive praise had morphed into something else. The stifled snicker of the guard stung him to the quick.
“I happened upon a Bureau study of the Waco field office while it was under your benevolent leadership. It seems your office enjoyed being at the top of several lists. For example, the smallest number of cases successfully closed for three years running. The largest number of agents requesting transfers. The most internal investigations for incompetence or ethics violations. One could argue that your being transferred back to New York could not have come at a more convenient time. So nice to have an ex-U.S. senator for a father-in-law, Spencer, is it not?”
Coffey turned to Rabiner and said, as calmly as possible, “Turn it off.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pendergast didn’t pause, although his voice changed in tone to cool sarcasm. “How’s the PTSD treatment coming, by the way? I understand they’ve got a new approach that works wonders.”
Coffey gestured to the guard and said, with an effort at detachment, “I can see that further questioning of the prisoner is pointless. Open the door, please.”
Even as the guard outside fumbled with the door, Pendergast continued speaking.
“On another note, knowing your love of great literature, I recommend to you Shakespeare’s marvelous comedy Much Ado About Nothing. Particularly the character of Constable Dogberry. You could learn much from him, Spencer. Much.”
The cell door opened. Coffey glanced at the two guards, their expressions studiously neutral. Then, straightening his back, he proceeded down the corridor toward the solitary confinement security doors, Rabiner and the guards following in silence.
* * *
It took almost ten minutes of walking through endless corridors to reach Imhof’s office, located in a sunny corner of the administrative building. By that time, some of the color had returned to Coffey’s face.
“Wait outside,” he told Rabiner, then marched stiffly past the obnoxious secretary, entered Imhof’s office, and shut the door.
“How did it—?” Imhof began, but fell silent when he saw Coffey’s face.
“Put him back in yard 4,” Coffey said. “Tomorrow.”
Surprise blossomed on the warden’s face. “Agent Coffey, when I mentioned that earlier, it was suggested merely as a threat. If you put him back there, they’ll kill him.”
“Social conflicts among prisoners are their business, not ours. You assigned this prisoner to exercise in yard 4, and yard 4 is where he will stay. To move him now would be to let him win.”