“I don’t think so,” I said. “In fact, I don’t think ‘dashing’ is an option no matter how much time you give me. Why?”
“We’re holding a press conference on the steps of the Duncan Federal Building at two o’clock.”
“What? Why? And why such short notice?”
“As Bogart said inCasablanca, ‘Destiny has taken a hand.’”
“Huh?”
“The media’s gotten wind of a fatal shooting at the Body Farm,” he explained, “and somebody at KPD
or UT Hospital indicated that the FBI was involved. So we’re getting barraged by calls about that—but not just about that. We’re also getting grilled about allegations of fraud and misconduct at the Body Farm. So the SAC—the special agent in charge—talked to headquarters, and they agreed that it’s time to lay our cards on the table.”
I felt my breath catch as the implications sank in. “So this means we can finally tell Miranda what’s been going on? And the TBI?”
“We’re working on that now. Let us handle it. Just get yourself spiffed up and downtown.” He hung up without taking time to say good-bye.
THE FBI’S SKILL AT KEEPINGthings under wraps was matched—possibly even exceeded—by its knack for dramatically unveiling them, I decided shortly after the press conference began. The illegal trade in bodies and body parts was a nationwide criminal enterprise of titanic proportions, impenetrable secrets, and dire peril, according to the special agent in charge. Against all odds, he went on, the Bureau had managed to infiltrate this sinister plot and bring down its murderous mastermind, thanks to the brilliant strategy devised by one dedicated public servant. I glanced at Rankin, who’d masterminded the sting, glad that he was about to receive a pat on the back. But it wasn’t Rankin the SAC credited as the brains behind the sting—it was me. This new spin on events—the suggestion that I’d approached the FBI and offered to help, rather than having been dragged kicking and screaming into a role I hated—astonished me. I stared at Rankin, who grinned at me and winked, then gave me a big thumbs-up. After two or three urgings by the SAC and a couple of gentle pushes by Angela Price, I stepped forward to accept a handshake and a medal expressing the FBI’s gratitude for my service. I stammered a few words of appreciation in return, but I demurred when asked to tell the story of the sting. Without missing a beat, Rankin stepped forward and gave a brief account, one that greatly magnified my foresight and courage in the face of deadly peril and that also—blessedly—omitted any mention of strippers, compromising photos, and amputated arms. Rankin’s summary was followed, to my surprise, by glowing comments from TBI agent Steve Morgan and UT general counsel Amanda Whiting. During their comments I scanned and rescanned the faces of the small crowd gathered below the steps, hoping that Miranda might be there to hear such kind words about me. But, alas, she was not, and when the SAC stepped forward to say a few closing words, Rankin took the opportunity to tell me he’d been unable to reach Miranda. “I left her a voice mail and sent her an e-mail, but she seems to be off the grid,”
he said.
I nodded and thanked him for trying, but the disappointment still stung. As the event ended and the officials steered me toward the lobby of the Duncan Building, I heard a voice. “Dad.Dad! ” The television and newspaper reporters parted, and Jeff dashed up the steps, followed closely by Jenny and their boys, Tyler and Walker. Jeff threw his arms around me, and Jenny threw her arms around me, and the boys hurled themselves against me, shouting, “Grandpa Bill! Grandpa Bill! You’re a hero!”
We walked three blocks from the Duncan Building up to Gay Street, to the S&W Grand, an ornate art deco cafeteria from the 1930s. Shuttered and decaying for decades, the S&W had recently been lovingly and spectacularly restored to its former glory. We had a very late lunch—or a very early dinner, or a re ally big afternoon snack. The food was fine, but the ambience was better, and the company was the best part. Afterward, walking back to the parking garage beside Market Square, we ambled through Krutch Park, where dogwoods and redbuds and tulips were on the brink of blooming. As Jenny and the boys took turns jumping across the park’s small stream, Jeff led me to a bench and beckoned me to sit. He took my hand—the same hand he’d let go of that night at Panera. “That was childish of me to walk out on you,” he said, “and spiteful not to return your phone calls. I’m sorry. You raised me better than that. Please forgive me.”