“Since you put it that way,” I said, “thanks.”
In the privacy of the Suburban, I figured he’d tell me at least a bit about the raspy-voiced man, and about their argument, but he didn’t. Instead, during the brief drive, he asked about my research at the Body Farm, then quizzed me about a couple of prior cases I’d helped the Bureau with. It was obvious that he was redirecting the conversation away from the confrontation I had stumbled into. It was also, perhaps, a reminder that he had done his research, had read the Bureau’s file on me. It might even have been a subtle caution: If I wanted to keep working with the FBI, I should keep quiet about what I’d overheard tonight. As I thanked him for the lift and headed toward my room, I parsed the conversation—the things he’d said and the ones he hadn’t. Loose lips sink ships, I reminded myself. And maybe crash careers.
THE TROUBLE WITH GRADUATE ASSISTANTS, I’D noticed—well, one of the troubles—was their tendency to go gallivanting off every summer: for gainful employment, for adventurous travel, or for romance. My current assistant, Marty, was helping direct a student dig in Tuscany for three months, and judging by the letter and photos he’d sent in early June, he was getting both well paid and well laid. Not that I was envious.
What I was, though, was inconvenienced. I had a question that needed researching, but no time or tools to research it myself—and no helpful minion at my beck and call. So instead, despite the late hour, I called Kathleen.
It was only 8:45 in San Diego, but it was nearly midnight in Knoxville, and that meant Kathleen had probably been asleep for at least an hour. To my surprise, she answered on the second ring. Her voice sounded thick, but not sleepy.
“Hey,” I said, “is something wrong? Are you crying?”
“Oh, I am,” she sniffled, “but it’s just a movie I’m watching.” In the background, I heard voices and music. “Hang on, honey, let me pause it.” She laid the phone down with a rustle, then the background noise quieted. “You know I don’t sleep worth a hoot when you’re gone,” she said, “so I stopped at Blockbuster on the way home.”
“I’m jealous. What’d you get?”
“One of those chick flicks you wouldn’t take me to.”
“Silence of the Lambs?”
“Ha. Not quite. Shakespeare in Love.”
“I take it back,” I said. “I’m not a bit jealous.”
“Actually, you’d really like the scene where he’s in bed with Gwyneth Paltrow.”
She knew me well. “Well then,” I said, “when I get home, we can rent it again and fast-forward to that part.”
“Hmmph.” She sniffed again, and in the brief pause that followed, I could practically hear the gears in her mind shifting. “Why aren’t you asleep?” Her voice was laser sharp now, and despite the two thousand miles between us, I could almost feel her eyes searching mine. “You called me to say good night two hours ago. What’s happened?”
“I don’t know.” I told her about my accidental, disturbing eavesdropping at the IHOP. “I wish I understood what’s going on,” I said. “Not that I need to know everything, but . . .”
“But what?”
“But it feels like there’s stuff here—players and politics and agendas—that I don’t understand, stuff that could affect the investigation.”
“Affect it how?”
Suddenly I thought, Shit, what if my phone is tapped? A moment later I scolded myself, Don’t be paranoid. Who the hell would want to tap your phone? “I don’t know, Kath. That’s the frustrating thing—I don’t know enough to know what else I need to know. What is it Donald Rumsfeld calls this kind of thing?”
“God, don’t get me started on Rumsfeld,” she said. She had a point there—she despised the man, and the mere mention of his name sometimes set her off on a Rumsfeld rant. “But I believe ‘unknown unknowns’ is the gobbledygook term you’re thinking of.”
“That’s it,” I said. “I’m worried that the unknown unknowns here could affect this case in ways I can’t foresee or control. Distort it, undermine its objectivity or integrity. Here I am doing my thing, crawling around looking for teeth and bones. But I’ve got a bad feeling, like I’m wandering around in a minefield. One false step, and there goes a foot. Figuratively speaking. If I blow this case, Kathleen—the highest-profile case the Bureau has ever used me on? They’ll write me off, and for good.”
“Just do your best,” she said. “How many times have you worked with the FBI before this?”
“Four. No, five.”
“Any problems with them?”
“No. They’re the best. Of course.” I still felt fretful. “I wish Marty were around this summer. I’d get him to poke around a little.”