smoking, thinking about your son. Then you hear something. What is it exactly?”
“Like someone was there, behind one of the temporary buildings, real close, not more than a half dozen feet away. I remember thinking, now what the hell is that? I even called out, ‘Who’s there?’ ”
“The sound was only six feet away?”
“Not more than ten feet, that’s for sure. You saw the construction there, right? Nearly right against the building. Yeah, real close.”
“How long was it after you heard the noise that you were struck on the head?”
“Not more than a couple of seconds. Like I said, I turned really fast when I heard it, came right to attention, you know? Drew my gun and everything. And just when I turned, I got smashed on the back of my head.”
Sherlock said, “Do you think there were two people there, Officer Biggs? One to distract you, make you turn toward the noise, the other person behind you?”
The man’s eyes closed again. Savich said, “That’s right, try to feel it again, try to remember exactly what you were thinking, hearing. Okay, you’re standing there, Officer Biggs, you’re alert, you’re listening. You’re at attention.”
In a defeated voice filled with despair, Officer Biggs whispered, “Now that I really concentrate on it, I think it was one guy, Agent Savich. Maybe he tossed something to make me look in one direction, to distract me.”
Sherlock stroked her fingers down to close them over his hand.
“I think I would have felt it if there’d been two of them—I’ve got real good instincts for stuff like that, real sharp senses. But he still got me, still laid me flat.”
“Thank you, Officer Biggs. We’ll be speaking to you again, but not until you’re feeling better. You rest. You’ve given us excellent information.”
“Did Marshal Halpern know anything? What does she think of all this?”
Sherlock said, “She hopes that you’re better soon. She asked us to tell you she’ll be coming to see you shortly. Special Agent Frank Halley is speaking with her now. She’ll let you know if she has any other ideas about this.”
“She’s been a good boss, doesn’t take grief from any of the guards. I hope she doesn’t fire my ass.”
Sherlock nodded to the guard stationed outside Officer Biggs’s room. She said as they walked down the quiet hospital corridor, “He’ll have to live with this for the rest of his life.”
“Yes. And I’ll bet you he’ll never smoke another cigarette.”
They passed Glyna Biggs in the waiting room, nodded to her, tried to look reassuring, and continued on their way.
“Now,” Savich said, “it’s back to headquarters. I have no doubt that Agent Frank Halley will be ready to take my head off for being assigned over him on this.”
They left the huge complex, heads down against the blowing snow, and walked to the parking lot. Once in his Porsche, Savich turned the heater on high. Sherlock said, as she pulled off her gloves, “Frank will get over it. It’s what Director Mueller wants.” She grinned, patted his arm. “I’ll tell him that we’re the best. Then you can invite him to the gym.”
Savich grinned at her, controlled a sudden skid in the snow that would have slid them into a fire hydrant. “The thing is, Frank is good. I’m counting on him for his input. But he’s old school, believes in rank and seniority, regardless.”
Sherlock eyed an SUV negotiating a corner some twenty feet ahead of them, and thought about the turf wars. Most of the old guard had retired in recent years. Under the leadership of Director Mueller, the FBI had reevaluated, reassigned, and refocused itself, placing anti-terrorism and homeland security squarely at the top of its priorities. All agencies had been ordered by the President to communicate, to work together and share information—a concept that was finally catching on. But there were egos and old rivalries at play, so the going could still be tough.
Director Mueller was
“Like someone was there, behind one of the temporary buildings, real close, not more than a half dozen feet away. I remember thinking, now what the hell is that? I even called out, ‘Who’s there?’ ”
“The sound was only six feet away?”
“Not more than ten feet, that’s for sure. You saw the construction there, right? Nearly right against the building. Yeah, real close.”
“How long was it after you heard the noise that you were struck on the head?”
“Not more than a couple of seconds. Like I said, I turned really fast when I heard it, came right to attention, you know? Drew my gun and everything. And just when I turned, I got smashed on the back of my head.”
Sherlock said, “Do you think there were two people there, Officer Biggs? One to distract you, make you turn toward the noise, the other person behind you?”
The man’s eyes closed again. Savich said, “That’s right, try to feel it again, try to remember exactly what you were thinking, hearing. Okay, you’re standing there, Officer Biggs, you’re alert, you’re listening. You’re at attention.”
In a defeated voice filled with despair, Officer Biggs whispered, “Now that I really concentrate on it, I think it was one guy, Agent Savich. Maybe he tossed something to make me look in one direction, to distract me.”
Sherlock stroked her fingers down to close them over his hand.
“I think I would have felt it if there’d been two of them—I’ve got real good instincts for stuff like that, real sharp senses. But he still got me, still laid me flat.”
“Thank you, Officer Biggs. We’ll be speaking to you again, but not until you’re feeling better. You rest. You’ve given us excellent information.”
“Did Marshal Halpern know anything? What does she think of all this?”
Sherlock said, “She hopes that you’re better soon. She asked us to tell you she’ll be coming to see you shortly. Special Agent Frank Halley is speaking with her now. She’ll let you know if she has any other ideas about this.”
“She’s been a good boss, doesn’t take grief from any of the guards. I hope she doesn’t fire my ass.”
Sherlock nodded to the guard stationed outside Officer Biggs’s room. She said as they walked down the quiet hospital corridor, “He’ll have to live with this for the rest of his life.”
“Yes. And I’ll bet you he’ll never smoke another cigarette.”
They passed Glyna Biggs in the waiting room, nodded to her, tried to look reassuring, and continued on their way.
“Now,” Savich said, “it’s back to headquarters. I have no doubt that Agent Frank Halley will be ready to take my head off for being assigned over him on this.”
They left the huge complex, heads down against the blowing snow, and walked to the parking lot. Once in his Porsche, Savich turned the heater on high. Sherlock said, as she pulled off her gloves, “Frank will get over it. It’s what Director Mueller wants.” She grinned, patted his arm. “I’ll tell him that we’re the best. Then you can invite him to the gym.”
Savich grinned at her, controlled a sudden skid in the snow that would have slid them into a fire hydrant. “The thing is, Frank is good. I’m counting on him for his input. But he’s old school, believes in rank and seniority, regardless.”
Sherlock eyed an SUV negotiating a corner some twenty feet ahead of them, and thought about the turf wars. Most of the old guard had retired in recent years. Under the leadership of Director Mueller, the FBI had reevaluated, reassigned, and refocused itself, placing anti-terrorism and homeland security squarely at the top of its priorities. All agencies had been ordered by the President to communicate, to work together and share information—a concept that was finally catching on. But there were egos and old rivalries at play, so the going could still be tough.
Director Mueller was
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