Then there had been the classes taught by the Belts.
Suits were the upper echelon. Some of them were old agents who had been there and done that. Too many, though, were overgrown Belts. A Belt was like a Chairborne Commando in the Army. They were the agents who had somehow managed to never work outside the Beltway. Oh, they might have gone as far as Quantico, but that was about it. They had no field experience other than an initial tour.
But my God, did they know how to run an investigation. They were investigating supermen, one and all. They had every answer, just ask them. And ask the Suits, all of whom they knew by name. You clearly got the impression that the FBI Director did not shit without their fully prepared Action Report on Shitting Methodology. And make sure that form 493-628-QX is filled out fully.
Kurt had barely managed to survive the classes given by the Belts. He’d dealt with Belts before. Every department had them. You just had to learn to live with them because killing them forced you to fill out even more paperwork. And there were so many, you’d never get any real work done.
On the other hand, the shooting instructors were pretty good. They believed in the FBI Way of shooting. But when Kurt proved that the Kurt Spornberger Way of the Gun was going to get him through the qualifications, they’d left him alone. The hand-to-hand stuff, well…
It had taken him quite some time to convince them that he Did Not Want to move to Quantico to be a HTH instructor. Seriously. He had a house in Chicago, he liked Chicago, he did not like Virginia and he didn’t want to live in Virginia. He understood that the FBI meant he’d move at some point. But the idea had been to get local guys working local areas. Not get local guys to come teach HTH. I’m sorry about the arm.
He’d graduated from Quantico with fair marks, really high on shooting, investigation techniques and hand-to- hand-pretty high from the Been There Done That instructors, pretty marginal from the Belts. Any BTDT Supervisory Special Agent who looked at the results was going to be able to parse it. Good field agent, not a natural diplomat.
The last week of Academy, the postings came out. He was unsurprised to find that at least two of the natural Belts in the class were going to DC. Most of the rest weren’t untoward, either, except that they were actually posting the one Native American they had to a reservation. Of course, the guy was a Cherokee and they were sending him to a Hopi reservation in Arizona, but at least they were trying.
Then he got to “Spornberger, Kurt M.”
Chattanooga, TN.
The whole effing idea had been to recruit guys for their local knowledge, and where did they send the guy from Chicago?
Chattanooga. What, it started with a “Ch” so it had to be the same place? Belt thinking in a nutshell.
Fucking Chattanooga. Goodbye, Lake Michigan, hello…Tennessee River? He could hear the echo of banjoes just saying it. Goodbye kielbasa, hello…What the fuck did they eat in Tennessee, anyway? Grits…God almighty, he’d be forced to eat grits. And…chitlins…Oh…God…
Over the last couple of years he’d come to terms with living in the wilderness. Chattanooga wasn’t awful. Some of the local cops, with whom he’d quickly established a close relationship since his own BTDT came across fast, even insisted that they’d never live anywhere else. He’d tried to explain the inherent superiority of the only truly civilized city on Earth, but they just couldn’t comprehend it. It was probably something in the water.
But he survived. Someday, he was assured, he could get transferred back to the center of the universe, the city with broad shoulders. They just wanted him to get accustomed to working with other areas. “Think of it as broadening,” his Supervisor had explained.
“Morning, Kurt,” Supervisory Special Agent Garson said as the agent entered the office. “How’s case nine- forty-eight?”
“I don’t think these guys have got a record,” Kurt said, sitting down and spreading his legs out. “We picked up one pretty clear print, but it wasn’t on file. And the way they move, I’d say military background. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve put in a request for access to the military database of fingerprints, but you know how sticky they can be. They’re going to want to know which guy, and we don’t have that yet.”
“Well, I may have to transfer it,” Garson said, sighing. “We have a change of status on another case. A series of cases. The Madness cases.”
“Oh?” Kurt said, neutrally. Everybody in the office, everyone in the area, knew about the Madness cases. Technically a series of unrelated cases, they’d gotten tossed together because while the MOs and perps were different, the patterns were remarkably similar. In seven separate cases, otherwise more-or-less normal people had suddenly gone bat-shit nuts. Violently psychotic. They’d gone crazy, started attacking people around them, in one case partially cannibalizing a victim, and had never gotten their act back together. All seven were in long-term psychiatric holding, and the doctors couldn’t do more than dope them to the gills with antipsychotics.
“A consultant attached to the overall investigation has been injured,” Garson said carefully. “I was asked to find someone to assist the replacement. In your files there is reference to an unusual murder investigation you were involved in in Chicago. The South Side Cult Murders.”
“Yes, sir,” Kurt said, trying not to wince. The reality was, he had to get out of Chicago PD because of his final report on those murders. He’d been the guy who cracked the case, but putting in your report that you’d seen “a shadow” leave the body of the perp after he was shot and killed in the raid…Well, if Kurt had played it off and put it down to “combat fatigue,” it would have been one thing. But sticking by his statement and what he was sure he’d seen with his own damned eyes…
“What I’m about to explain to you his highly classified,” the Supervisory Special Agent said, interlacing his fingers and leaning forward. “Codeword Sierra Charlie. Sierra Charlie stands for Special Circumstances.”
Barb was used to the stares. It wasn’t that pretty women didn’t work for the FBI. It was that she was unusually pretty, and that attracted attention. Once upon a time, that had been a big thing for her. These days she found it to be a pain. And it was only getting worse.
The bag over her shoulder with the black cat head poking out of it, said cat looking around with interest, didn’t help.
She really didn’t care at the moment. “Focused” didn’t begin to cover it. Laser beams were lazy compared to Barb.
“Barbara Everette, Foundation for Love and Universal Faith, to see Supervisory Special Agent Garson,” she said in one sharp rush.
The rent-a-cop manning the security station couldn’t seem to get past the various views. He shifted from her face to the chest to the cat then back to the face, and his mouth opened.
“Do I have to repeat myself?” Barb asked.
“Uh…ma’am, you’re on the list,” the guard said, finally looking at his computer screen. “But cats aren’t allowed…”
“Fine,” Barb said, switching to command tone and whipping a copy of her affidavit out of the bag. “I’m crazy. Under the Americans with Disabilities Act, the cat comes with me. I need him or I get all upset. This isn’t upset. This is firm. You don’t want to see upset. Just call SSA Garson and tell him I’m here. Is that simple enough for you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the guard said, picking up the phone.
“Hubba, hubba, hubba,” Special Agent Spornberger said at the sight of the woman. He was watching her through the glass of the supervisor’s office, and it was apparent she hadn’t seen him yet.
“Let me remind you of the department’s policy on sexual harassment, Kurt,” SSA Garson said, sighing.
“Understood, sir,” Kurt said, wonderingly. “But she’s stacked like a brick shi-”
“I get the point, Agent Spornberger,” Garson snapped. “Now can it.”
“SSA Garson,” Barb said professionally as she strode into the room. “I’m Mrs. Barbara Everette.”
“Mrs. Everette,” Garson said, standing up and shaking her hand. “This is Special Agent Spornberger. He will be assisting you on this investigation. He has…previous experience outside the Bureau and has been briefed in on SC investigations.”
“Hello,” Barbara said, extending her hand.
“Nice cat,” Kurt replied, shaking it. He slowed in his shaking and then shifted his grip.
“If you want me to put you on your knees, Special Agent, continue,” Barbara snapped, shifting her own.
