Decker shrugged. “I know, he’s bound to find it tempting. Still, there’s no guarantee he’ll take the risk.”
“No guarantee,” I agreed. “But there’s a chance. And if he’s out there waiting, and I don’t show up? I’ll have pissed away a golden opportunity. When will I ever have this much protection again? You’ve got, what, fifty, sixty guys out there?”
“More like two hundred,” he said, “once you count the FBI and TBI agents and UT police. Hell, you’ve got better security today than Obama had when he came to town.”
“Deck, that’s not your politics showing, is it?”
“I better take the Fifth on that.” He grinned slyly. “But you? It would be a real shame if we lost you.” From overhead came another roar, and I saw Decker’s eyes flicker as he put a hand to his ear to catch a transmission on his radio. “Okay, Doc, it’s halftime. Showtime.”
“But Daddy, I have to pee.”
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” THE PA SYSTEM BOOMED, “you’ve seen him featured on 60 Minutes and Cold Case Files. You’ve read about him in USA Today and the New York Times. Please welcome America’s top forensic scientist . . . the creator of the world-famous Body Farm . . . and now, the man who’s just been chosen as National Professor of the Year . . . the one, the only . . . Dr. Bill Brockton!”
Perhaps Decker was right—perhaps everyone in the stadium had come only for the game—but even so, the crowd did a commendable job of feigning enthusiasm, for as I stepped out of the dark access tunnel and lumbered, blinking and waddling, out to the sunlit center of the field, I could have sworn that all ninety thousand people rose to their feet, clapping and cheering. A good day to die, I told myself. Far worse ways to go.
I struggled up the steps of the platform that had been rolled to midfield, my bomb-suited legs as stiff as those of the Tin Man in need of his oil can. The provost welcomed me with a handshake and a huge, fake smile, then turned to the microphone and talked. And talked. And talked. Was he actually so fond of the sound of his own voice, or was he making sure Satterfield had plenty of time to line up a clean shot to the head? He talked so long, I found myself doing mental calculations: If Satterfield fired from one hundred yards away—say, from the top of the Jumbotron scoreboard, or the top of the press box, or the interior of a skybox, or the roof of the geology building—how long would it take the bullet to reach me, assuming it was traveling three thousand feet per second, which Deck had told me was the muzzle velocity of a high-powered rifle? Easy, I thought. A tenth of a second. And how much time between the arrival of the bullet and the arrival of the crack of the gunshot, which would travel at the considerably slower speed of sound, eleven hundred feet per second? Not quite two-tenths of a second. So if I were still alive and conscious for half a second after the bullet left the muzzle, I might—might—hear the sound of the shot that nailed me. But not if my brains are spattered all over the provost, I concluded.
Eventually, miraculously, the provost finished saying all he had to say, apparently, for he stepped forward, hoisted a loop of satin ribbon over my head, and hung a heavy medal on me.
But why was I still alive? And why was there no commotion—no shrieking from the spectators, no shouting on the platform, no fusillade of bullets from the SWAT officers—exploding around me? I surveyed the stadium, turning in a complete circle, seeking some sign of Satterfield. I stretched out my arms, raising them shoulder-high—the highest I could manage, within the confines of the bomb suit and vest. Here I am, I yelled wordlessly. Do it. Come on, damn you—do it.
The crowd—understandably misunderstanding my gesture, misreading it as a sign of exuberance, not frustration—went wild, woke from their provost-induced slumbers and erupted, cheering and stomping and bellowing their approval. I heard air horns and cowbells and whistles.
But still I did not hear a gunshot, and by the time I had rotated in two complete circles, seeing police galore, but no assassin, I knew that the plan had failed, that Satterfield had been too smart to take the bait. Bowing my head—not in modesty, but in defeat—I waved a feeble farewell, waddled down the platform steps, and lumbered off the field.
Decker met me just inside the access tunnel. Even in the semidarkness, I could read the mixture of disappointment and relief on his face.
“Deck, there’s good news and bad news,” I said. “The good news is, Satterfield didn’t kill me. The bad news is, he didn’t try.”
“Maybe we came on too strong, Doc, scared him off. Maybe we should’ve played it a little lower key. Blended into the crowd more, you know?”