BC sat patiently, his eyes focused on the portrait of Jack Kennedy that hung directly above and behind the director, its plain wooden frame outlined by a larger pale rectangle, as if to say that the new president had a long way to go before he filled the space Dwight Eisenhower had vacated three years ago. BC had looked at this picture, or copies of it, countless times before, but now he found himself zeroing in on the private twinkle in the eyes, the too-wide parting of the lips, the eager, almost hungry set of the mouth: this was a lover’s face, not a politician’s. Marilyn Monroe. Mary Meyer. Who knew who else? And who knew what they were slipping into his drinks?
“—have no choice but to remove Special Agent Querrey from active service while his continued career in law enforcement is reevaluated. He will be placed on extended leave, with pay, until such time as we can decide what, if any, his role at the Bureau should be.” Hoover looked up from his desk. “I want you to know I take no pleasure in this decision, Agent Querrey. You showed exceptional promise early in your career, but it takes more than intelligence to be an officer of this Bureau. But who knows? Perhaps, with time, and with a certain amount of soul- searching on your part, you can be rehabilitated.”
Rehabilitated, BC thought. As though he were a drug addict. As though he’d asked to be promoted from Behavioral Profiling to COINTELPRO. The Review Committee’s findings were hardly a surprise to him, and he felt no great desire to fight them. This case wasn’t the Bureau’s responsibility. It was his. Nevertheless, he thought he owed it to his career—and his conscience—to speak for the record.
“Three bodies left that cottage, Director Hoover.” BC didn’t bother mentioning his suspicion that Chandler and Naz were still alive, figuring that was the kind of circle-within-a-circle detail that would only make his account seem that much more far-fetched.
Hoover sighed. He closed the manila folder that contained the twenty or thirty sheets of paper that summed up BC’s career, and, for the first time, looked at his disgraced agent. Four decades in office had erased any vestige of an inner self from the director’s face, until only the public servant remained. The Bureau had replaced Hoover’s blood with paper and his imagination with indexes, engulfing his once-lean features in a gelatinous form that seemed held together by the buttons of his shirt and the knot of his tie. His pale, almost neckless face spilled over the collar of his gray suit like foam spewing from the tip of a science-project volcano. His eyes blinked out of two folds of skin like myopic camera shutters. His voice was as impersonal as clacking typewriter keys. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes tiredly, put his glasses back on. Then:
“Have I ever told you the story of Amenwah, Agent Querrey?”
“Amenwah was an ancient Egyptian who lived during the time of the Ramesside dynasty, more than thirty centuries ago. He was accused of the most heinous of all crimes: stealing sacred artifacts from the tomb of Pharaoh himself. Because the objects in question couldn’t be located, however, he was acquitted. Three thousand years later, when his tomb was excavated by modern archaeologists, the objects he’d been accused of stealing were found inside his own burial chamber. No crime goes unsolved forever, Agent Querrey. It might not be you who figures out what happened at Millbrook, but justice always wins in the end.”
“Who will stop him from killing again?” BC said.
For a moment the director just sat there, not quite looking at him. Then, sighing slightly, he pushed his portly body out of his chair, buttoned his jacket, then turned and opened the curtains behind his desk. The view across Pennsylvania Avenue was of an old beaux arts theater, shuttered now, its sign removed, leaving it nameless and empty. It seemed to BC that the director gazed at the sight almost lovingly, his breath moving deeply in and out of his sagging belly, which strained at the button of his suit.
“The General Services Administration has just purchased this site for a dedicated FBI building. The initial plans call for nearly three million square feet of floor space to house over seven thousand employees. I’m sure one of them will be up to the challenge.”
BC stared at the smudged outline left by the theater’s sign. QUER—no. ORPH.
He sat up with a start.
“They won’t name it after you, you know.”
“Pardon—”
“You have to die first,” BC said, and the viciousness in his voice shocked him. “They won’t name it after you while you’re alive. You’ll never see the fruits of your labor.”
Hoover’s cheek twitched. BC didn’t know what that meant, but he decided to take it as a victory.
“Associate Director Tolson will show you out of the building. I’d ask you to surrender your weapon to him before you leave.”
At first he pretended it was just another night. He took the Metro to Takoma Station, went first to his boxing gym, did a half hour of calisthenics and another half hour on the bag, then accepted an invitation to spar with a high school boy in training for the Golden Gloves. He showered at the gym as he normally did, but then, instead of wearing his flannels home, found himself changing back into his suit. Even as he buckled his belt and knotted his tie and adjusted his (empty) shoulder holster, he didn’t acknowledge what he was doing. Didn’t ask himself why he strode past his house to the end of the block, didn’t allow himself to wonder what the neighbors would think if they saw him walking up the sidewalk to the home of Gerry and Jenny Burton. Gerry Burton worked in the Department of Justice Building as an electrician, after all; there were any number of reasons why Special Agent Querrey might need to speak to him. He was a member of both the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers and the American Federation of Government Employees, and he worked third shift to boot; as a consequence he earned nearly 25 percent more than BC did, despite the fact that he went to work in a pair of greasy coveralls.
The Burtons’ home had been a carriage house until the owners converted it into a rental property, and as such was the smallest building on the block. BC’s mother, who had engaged in the respectable practice of taking in boarders to make ends meet before BC started working, always said the conversion marked the beginning of the end of the neighborhood, although what she was really referring to was the fact that Gerry Burton—and his wife, Jenny, for that matter—were Negro.
BC didn’t let himself think about that either.
Jenny Burton answered the door, a baby on her hip, two others screaming in the room behind her.
“Oh, hi, Mr., um, Query?”
“Please,” BC said, then added something that would have made his mother turn over in her grave. “Call me
