Bad Monkeys

white room (iii)

“WHAT’S THE PROBLEM THIS TIME?” she asks. “Did I screw up the body count?”

“No, your description of the scene in Benjamin Loomis’s basement was accurate,” the doctor says. “And there are details in your account, such as the fact that Deeds was shot in the arm, that were never released to the press. So it’s plausible you were there, or at least spoke to someone who was.”

“But…?”

“But, there’s no evidence to support the rest of your story. If Julius Deeds was a vicious gangster, you seem to be the only person who knew about it. There’s no record he was ever indicted for murder; no record of anyone committing an arson-homicide of the kind you say he was charged with; no record, either, of the beating you claim you received at his hands.”

“Back up a second. You’re telling me Deeds didn’t have a rap sheet?”

“He was a criminal, all right, just not a violent one. He had a long history of petty drug offenses, including one early charge for theft of a doctor’s prescription pad. The prescription pad theft happened while he was an intern at Saint Francis Memorial Hospital, studying to be an oncologist.”

“No, you’re mixed up. The oncology student, that was—”

“Your dealer friend Ganesh, yes. Of whom there’s also no record. Or none that I could find: I wasn’t sure if Ganesh was a first or last name, or an alias.”

“I’m not sure either,” she says, “but I didn’t just imagine him. Hey, I bought dope from the guy for years.”

“Well if Ganesh is a real person, Jane, can you explain how Julius Deeds ended up with his biography? Or is that another Nod problem?”

“No, it’s not a Nod problem.” She frowns. “It’s Catering.”

“Catering?”

“Organization counterintelligence. They must know I’m talking to you.”

“The organization altered the police records?”

“Somebody did. And I know how this is going to sound, but if it is Catering? You can forget about fact-checking my story anymore.”

“I see. That’s a rather convenient development, isn’t it?”

“Oh yeah, it’s very convenient, having you think I’m full of shit…”

“Why ‘Catering’? That’s a strange name for a counterintelligence division.”

“They do a lot of logistics work,” she explains. “One way the organization keeps itself off the radar is by not having a fixed headquarters. Cost-Benefits, the whole bureaucracy, it’s constantly moving around, and Catering are like the movers. They scout new locations, pack and set up equipment, and provide transport for personnel. And as sort of a natural extension of that, they’re also in charge of meetings and special events: scheduling, security, hors d’oeuvres, whatever.”

“So if you needed to arrange a rendezvous with another operative, you’d contact Catering.”

“Right.”

“And how does that work? Is there a number you call?”

“No number. You just pick up a phone and start talking.”

“Operators are standing by?”

“Unless the phone’s in an insecure location. Then you just get a dial tone and look stupid.”

“All right,” says the doctor. “Let’s get back to your story. Once you’d been accepted into the organization, I assume you underwent some sort of training regimen…”

“They call it Probate. Training is part of it, but also they’re still testing you, making sure it wasn’t a mistake to offer you the job. They team you with a senior operative called a Probate officer, and you’re given a Probate assignment, which is like a standard op but more complicated, with more ways to screw up.”

“What was your Probate assignment?”

“A guy named Arlo Dexter.”

“Another serial killer?”

“More like a serial maimer. His thing was explosive booby-traps: he’d take, like, a Scooby-Doo toothpaste dispenser, fill it with black powder, ball bearings, and a motion trigger, and leave it on a store shelf for someone to pick up. He hadn’t actually killed anyone yet, but he was definitely working his way up to it—and then, right before the organization stepped in, he met some people who wanted to leapfrog him straight to mass murder.”

“You stopped him?”

“No.” She frowns again. “I was supposed to, but it went wrong.”

“What happened?”

“He saw me coming.”