Two Graves

42

SUPERVISORY SPECIAL AGENT PETER S. JOYCE’S OFFICE WAS one of the more cluttered in the big building at 26 Federal Plaza. The shelves were filled with books about American history, the criminal justice system, and nautical lore; the walls were decorated with photos of his weather-beaten thirty-two-foot sloop, the Burden of Proof. Joyce’s desk, however, was completely bare, like the deck of a ship cleared for an approaching gale. The office’s lone window looked out into the Lower Manhattan night—Joyce was a confirmed night owl, and he always saved his most serious work of the day for the last.

There was a soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” Joyce said.

The door opened and Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast came in. He shut the door quietly behind him, then stepped forward and slipped into the single chair placed before Joyce’s desk.

Joyce felt a twinge of annoyance that the man had seated himself before being asked, but he covered it up. He had more important things to say.

“Agent Pendergast,” Joyce began. “In the three years since I was transferred to the New York field office, I’ve tolerated your, shall we say, unconventional behavior as an agent—often against the advice of others. I’ve run interference for you on more than one occasion, backed up your methods when others have wanted to call you on the carpet. I’ve done this for a variety of reasons. I’m not a stickler for protocol. I’m no lover of the FBI’s fondness for bureaucracy. I’m more interested in results—and you’ve rarely disappointed in that regard. You may be unconventional, but you’re damn effective. Your military experience is highly impressive—at least from what I’ve seen of the nonclassified reports in your folder. And there is an extremely complimentary appraisal in your folder, written by the late Michael Decker, one of the most decorated and honored agents in recent memory. I’ve frequently thought back to that appraisal when complaints of your behavior have crossed my desk.”

He sat forward, put his arms on the desk, and tented his fingers. “But now, Agent Pendergast, you’ve done something that I can’t ignore, and that I can’t tolerate. You have stepped way, way over the line.”

“Are you referring to Agent Gibbs’s formal complaint?” Pendergast asked.

If Joyce was surprised by this, he didn’t show it. “Only in part.” He hesitated. “I’m no friend of Agent Gibbs or the BSU. His assertions about your freelancing, your failure to coordinate, deviating from standard procedure, not being a team player, don’t really concern me.” He made a dismissive motion. “But his other charges are more serious. Your involving yourself in this case without waiting for official authorization, for example. You of all people should know that Gibbs is only on the case because the New York City police specifically asked for help from the BSU. You’re not affiliated with Behavioral Sciences—your business with this case is obscure, and your efforts to have yourself assigned to it have seriously ruffled some feathers around here. Yet even that, I might have been able to overlook—but I can’t overlook your most egregious infraction.”

“Which is?” Pendergast repeated.

“Withholding information of critical relevance to the case.”

“And may I ask what that information is?”

“That the Hotel Killer is your own son.”

Pendergast went rigid.

“Gibbs suspected you were withholding information, Agent Pendergast. The NYPD confirmed it. When they first heard you suspected your son to be the killer, early this afternoon, they did not take it seriously. They thought you were… well, non compos mentis. But of course they were duty-bound to follow up. Comparison of the Hotel Killer’s DNA with yours—which we have on file, as you know—has verified it.” Joyce sighed. “This information—information of absolutely crucial importance—you withheld from the investigation. There can be no possible justification. It not only looks bad, it is bad. This goes far beyond conflict of interest. It verges on a criminal charge of aiding and abetting.”

Pendergast did not reply. He looked back at Joyce, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Agent Pendergast, I have no idea how your son got involved in this, or why, or how you learned of it, or what you were planning to do about it. You’re clearly in an intolerable personal position, and for that you have my deepest sympathy. But let me be frank with you: your actions in this matter have been unethical at best and illegal at worst.”

Joyce let this hang in the air a long moment before continuing.

“As you know, when it comes to disciplinary action, we have a fixed bureaucracy in place. As a first-line supervisor, I can’t even give you a slap on the wrist. So I sent a report to the Office of the Special Agent in Charge–New York Division, detailing your offenses and recommending immediate termination.”

Another pause.

“The SAC’s office dropped it right back in my lap. They wouldn’t touch it. So this morning I resubmitted the report, this time to the Office of Professional Responsibility.”

Joyce sighed. He gave Pendergast a sidelong stare, as if trying to evaluate a Japanese puzzle box. “Ordinarily, the OPR boys would have been all over you like stink on shit. There would be interrogations, they’d be calling witnesses, a decision would be made, a punishment would come down. And you’d be put through the wringer while the process ground on. Instead, what happens? Within an hour, I get a response: ‘Thirty days off the street.’ ”

Joyce shook his head. “That’s it. Instead of five to ten in Leavenworth, you get thirty days off the street: a month without pay. And since your annual FBI salary is—what, a dollar-a-year honorarium?—I doubt that’s going to sting very much.” He raised a speculative eyebrow. “I don’t know who your guardian angel is, Special Agent Pendergast, but I’ll tell you this: you’re one charmed son of a bitch.”

The room fell into silence. At last, Joyce shifted in his chair. “Is there anything you’d like to add?”

Pendergast shook his head almost imperceptibly. “I would say you’ve articulated the situation admirably, Supervisory Special Agent Joyce.”

“In that case—take your thirty days. And stay far, far away from this case.” Turning away from Pendergast, Joyce plucked Cruising Boats Within Your Budget from a shelf behind him, placed it on his desk, and began to read.