Rage Against the Dying

Twenty-eight





I couldn’t blame Max for thinking I was holding something back, but I kept telling myself it was a long way from not reporting the van to actually killing the guy, and my story about hesitating before I called it in was plausible. Still, he would have to think that if I lied about one thing I might lie about others.

I had at least four days and probably more until the DNA tests were done, even if Max could discreetly pull some strings and bump my sample higher up in a long queue. But then the other trace would have to be analyzed, too, to make a match, and maybe there would be none placing me at the scene. One thing I could count on, Max would extend me the friendly courtesy of not voicing his suspicions to anyone until he had some solid evidence. I knew I could expect that from him.

For now I needed to focus on two things: finding where Peasil lived so I could make sure there wasn’t anything more linking me to him, like the photo and news clip I found in his van, and tracking down Coleman, partly because I was pissed at her for going off the radar the day before, but also to find out what she might have discovered that made her send me the cryptic e-mail BTW you were right! Sort of. Right about what? And if she had evidence, who was she going to present it to before Lynch made his plea twenty-four hours from now?

I was already in the downtown area, so I drove the couple of blocks from the medical examiner’s office to the Bureau. I pulled into the parking garage to keep the car at a temperature that would support life and took the stairs up to the sixth floor, partly for exercise and partly because I don’t like the thought of being surprised in an elevator. I told Maisie I was going to see Morrison, and she buzzed me through the door without calling him first. She wouldn’t do that with someone who hadn’t worked there as I did.

I asked someone in a cubicle where Coleman’s office was, went down the hallway, and found it open. No one seemed to be around so I spent a few seconds glancing around on her desk, in the top drawer, for something that seemed like an address book, or even a phone number scratched on a pad. In the course of doing that I bumped her computer and the screen saver appeared. Like any typical office worker, she had left it on.

Within a minute I had keyed Gerald Peasil’s license into the vehicle registration site and come up with his address. Not quick enough to get out without notice, though. Special Agent in Charge Roger Morrison walked into the office just as I was backing out of the site.

“Maisie said you were here to see me,” he said, and frowned at my hands hovering over the keyboard.

I slowly pulled my hands into my lap but didn’t bother to come up with a reason for asking to see him. “I actually came to see Agent Coleman,” I said.

“Why?”

Deciding pretended ignorance was the best plan for getting the information I needed, “I wanted to ask her a couple questions about Floyd Lynch and his involvement in the Route 66 murders.”

“You’ve been informed that Agent Coleman is off that case.”

I knew I might be getting her into hotter water than she already was, but I couldn’t stop myself now that I was face-to-face with Morrison. “You’re on dangerous ground, Roger. You’re accepting Lynch’s confession without a thorough investigation. You got questions that need answering.”

That pissed him off to a degree greater than his usual pissedness. He tried to make his chest big. “What information has Agent Coleman shared with you?”

I didn’t say anything, just showed him my best what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about face.

He paused, and his chest deflated a little. He was a little worried, I could tell by his hanging around and explaining. “I’m not sure why you’re asking or why I need to make this clear, but she violated protocol. I shifted her back to Fraud for the time being. She’s lucky I didn’t suspend her.”

“You’re not concerned about where she is? Did she really go to see her mother?”

Morrison scoffed. “Who gives a shit? Frankly I think she’s off licking her wounds, but this is the FBI, not group therapy. So take off your strap-on and get out of here before I have you arrested for using government property.”

Talking to Morrison reminded me of one of the many reasons I’d taken early retirement. I resorted to the sort of thing you can only say when you’re retired on full pension, and then only if you smile when you say it.

“I don’t need a strap-on, Roger. I took yours.”