which apparently has been paid to e-mail my ad to dozens of prisoners 'seeking a new friend.' Look at me. I'm a groupie."
Quincy shut the case file and sat down grimly. All eyes were still on him, but he had nothing more to add. This was his life. Now it had been violated. Phone call after phone call, message after message promising a slow, tortured death. He could not remember the last time he had slept.
At least the Bureau was taking the situation seriously. A small case team had been assembled in Everett 's office. A younger man with a mop of sandy brown hair, Special Agent Randy Jackson, represented the Technical Services Division, in charge of wiretapping. From NCAVC were Special Agent Glenda Rodman, an older woman with a penchant for severe gray suits, and Special Agent Albert Montgomery, whose bloodshot eyes and hound-dog face already made Quincy uncomfortable. The agent had either taken a red-eye flight last night, or he'd been drinking heavily. Perhaps both. Then again, who was Quincy, with his own wan features, to judge?
"For the record, who has access to your personal telephone number?" Everett asked, while Special Agent Rodman sat up straighter and positioned her pen over her yellow legal pad of notes.
"My family," Quincy replied immediately. "Some professionals, including fellow agents and members of law enforcement. Some friends. I've included as complete a list as possible in my notes. In all honesty, I've had that number for the past five years, and even I was surprised by how many people now have it."
"You've worked over two hundred and ninety-six active cases," Glenda spoke up.
Quincy nodded. Frankly, he was surprised the number was not higher. As profilers served a consulting role, each routinely juggled over one hundred cases at a time.
"That's a lot of people who may feel they have the right to be unhappy with you."
"Assuming they ever knew I was involved." Quincy shrugged. "Be honest, Glenda. For a fair amount of our cases, we receive a request by phone, get the case file by mail, and return our report via fax or FedEx. In those incidents, I have a hard time believing, the perpetrator's focus ever leaves the local homicide detectives who actively work the case."
"So weeding out those cases…" she prodded.
Quincy did the math in his head. "Maybe fifty-six convicted inmates."
"What about open cases?"
Quincy shook his head. "I haven't worked an active case in six years."
"Last year," she began.
He said quietly, "Henry Hawkins is dead."
Montgomery leaned forward, his elbows resting on the knees of his rumpled pants. The fluorescent light flickered, jaundicing his jowls, and Quincy found himself pondering the agent's presence once again. Montgomery 's expression was sullen, almost as if he was here against his will, and yet what kind of agent begrudged helping a fellow agent in trouble? That hardly boded well.
"Aren't we putting the cart before the horse?" Montgomery grumbled. "You got a bunch of calls. Whoopdee doo."
Special Agent in Charge Everett replied sternly, "The fact that an agent's personal telephone number was disseminated to over twenty correctional facilities is whoopdee doo. We don't need any more whoopdee doo than that."
Montgomery turned to the SAC. Quincy thought the disheveled agent would quit while he was ahead; he was wrong. "Bullshit," Montgomery snapped, making them all blink. "If this was something personal, if this was someone
serious,
the instigator would do more than pass along a private number to a bunch of schmucks behind bars. He'd visit the house. Or he'd arrange for someone else to visit the house. Phone calls? This is fucking child's play."
Everett 's face darkened. A thirty-year veteran of the Bureau, he was a throwback to the days when an FBI agent dressed, spoke, and carried himself a certain way. Agents were the good guys, the last bastion of protection against gangsters, bank robbers, and child moles-ters. Agents did not arrive on the job in wrinkled
Quincy shut the case file and sat down grimly. All eyes were still on him, but he had nothing more to add. This was his life. Now it had been violated. Phone call after phone call, message after message promising a slow, tortured death. He could not remember the last time he had slept.
At least the Bureau was taking the situation seriously. A small case team had been assembled in Everett 's office. A younger man with a mop of sandy brown hair, Special Agent Randy Jackson, represented the Technical Services Division, in charge of wiretapping. From NCAVC were Special Agent Glenda Rodman, an older woman with a penchant for severe gray suits, and Special Agent Albert Montgomery, whose bloodshot eyes and hound-dog face already made Quincy uncomfortable. The agent had either taken a red-eye flight last night, or he'd been drinking heavily. Perhaps both. Then again, who was Quincy, with his own wan features, to judge?
"For the record, who has access to your personal telephone number?" Everett asked, while Special Agent Rodman sat up straighter and positioned her pen over her yellow legal pad of notes.
"My family," Quincy replied immediately. "Some professionals, including fellow agents and members of law enforcement. Some friends. I've included as complete a list as possible in my notes. In all honesty, I've had that number for the past five years, and even I was surprised by how many people now have it."
"You've worked over two hundred and ninety-six active cases," Glenda spoke up.
Quincy nodded. Frankly, he was surprised the number was not higher. As profilers served a consulting role, each routinely juggled over one hundred cases at a time.
"That's a lot of people who may feel they have the right to be unhappy with you."
"Assuming they ever knew I was involved." Quincy shrugged. "Be honest, Glenda. For a fair amount of our cases, we receive a request by phone, get the case file by mail, and return our report via fax or FedEx. In those incidents, I have a hard time believing, the perpetrator's focus ever leaves the local homicide detectives who actively work the case."
"So weeding out those cases…" she prodded.
Quincy did the math in his head. "Maybe fifty-six convicted inmates."
"What about open cases?"
Quincy shook his head. "I haven't worked an active case in six years."
"Last year," she began.
He said quietly, "Henry Hawkins is dead."
Montgomery leaned forward, his elbows resting on the knees of his rumpled pants. The fluorescent light flickered, jaundicing his jowls, and Quincy found himself pondering the agent's presence once again. Montgomery 's expression was sullen, almost as if he was here against his will, and yet what kind of agent begrudged helping a fellow agent in trouble? That hardly boded well.
"Aren't we putting the cart before the horse?" Montgomery grumbled. "You got a bunch of calls. Whoopdee doo."
Special Agent in Charge Everett replied sternly, "The fact that an agent's personal telephone number was disseminated to over twenty correctional facilities is whoopdee doo. We don't need any more whoopdee doo than that."
Montgomery turned to the SAC. Quincy thought the disheveled agent would quit while he was ahead; he was wrong. "Bullshit," Montgomery snapped, making them all blink. "If this was something personal, if this was someone
serious,
the instigator would do more than pass along a private number to a bunch of schmucks behind bars. He'd visit the house. Or he'd arrange for someone else to visit the house. Phone calls? This is fucking child's play."
Everett 's face darkened. A thirty-year veteran of the Bureau, he was a throwback to the days when an FBI agent dressed, spoke, and carried himself a certain way. Agents were the good guys, the last bastion of protection against gangsters, bank robbers, and child moles-ters. Agents did not arrive on the job in wrinkled
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