“Welcome to the fray, Agent Kirby. I’m Special Agent Geoff Dahmer with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“That’s right,” Dane said and shook the man’s hand. His palm felt clammy and his fingers were as abnormally long as the rest of him. “Man, that’s a shit roll of the dice getting saddled with that name. I bet you caught a lot of hell as a kid.”
“I didn’t,” he said dryly. “There is no relation, I can assure you.” Dahmer spoke without a hint of humor in his voice. He had a mechanical sense about him that would’ve made Dane uneasy even if he didn’t have a man-eating serial killer’s name. Dane broke the dead-fish handshake and expected Dahmer to finally fill him in on what he was doing there, but the agent just turned around to face forward and said nothing. Dane looked at everyone in the car. They were all staring straight ahead, as if the whole interior of the SUV had been sucked clean of any form of personality. Dane felt like he was sitting in yet another vacuum—the first one, a plastic flying bubble, void of any comfort, and now this Men in Black piece-of-shit Chevy, void of any emotion. He was tempted to crack a cannibal joke but decided against it. Now wasn’t the time. He doubted this guy Dahmer would even get it. These guys took themselves seriously, and since the Feds had gone through all the trouble of laying out the red-carpet treatment to get him there, Dane figured he probably should, too. And besides, this guy, Dahmer, would most likely take it out on Charles, and Dane didn’t need that kind of ass-chewing when he got home from—whatever this was.
All the secrecy had begun to make Dane anxious. He thought about Ned, and how he had promised to bring him some cigarettes. He hadn’t seen the man in years, and already Dane had fed him a lie about being right behind him on the way to the station. He rubbed his sweaty palms across his shirt and pulled at a loose thread on the pocket. He’d managed to poke a hole in it. He yanked the piece of thread and twirled it between his fingers as he thought about Ned and a time that seemed like a hundred years ago. It took roughly another ten minutes of riding in silence before Dahmer finally started to lay it out.
“Agent Kirby, my men and I have been instructed by Assistant Director of Law Enforcement August O’Barr to personally escort you to the upcoming location.” He glanced over his glasses at the truck’s GPS. “ETA—five minutes.”
“Okay. I got that. But what exactly is this upcoming location?”
“A motel, a Days Inn to be specific. It’s the scene of an active homicide investigation that the local PD pulled us in on.”
Dane’s nerves still rattled. Nothing about this sounded right. “Any idea why this August guy wants me here, Agent Dahmer?”
“It’s Special Agent Dahmer, if you don’t mind, and in my presence, it’s also Assistant Director O’Barr, not August.”
Dane held his tongue. Instead he answered slowly. “Right. My bad.” He waited for Dahmer to continue. The senior agent turned around to face Dane and removed his glasses. Dahmer’s eyes were a cold, icy blue. Dane felt increasingly uneasy. At first, Dahmer didn’t say anything. He just seemed to be sizing Dane up. Dane understood. He was still decked out in his civilian fishing gear—tan Wrangler cargos and a light blue Hanes pocket tee with a big hole in the pocket. Dane raised his eyebrows and took another look at all the silent stone faces flanking him in the Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine. He was starting to get pissed.
“Look, Special Agent Dahmer, my boss, Charles—excuse me—Deputy Director Finnegan told me on the phone that someone would tell me what the hell is going on here before we got to where here is, and so far, no one has told me anything.” Dane looked over the seat at the GPS himself. “And now there’s a two-minute ETA. So do you think maybe you could stop with the eye-fucking, and tell the guy with no jurisdiction in the state of Florida—the guy who your boss asked you to go get—just what the hell I’m doing here?” Dane held his hands up and addressed the whole crew. “Or is this how y’all treat everybody that doesn’t shop at Men’s Wearhouse?” Dane thought he heard a faint chuckle out of Tweedledee on his right, but if he did, the blank look of obedience on the big Latino man’s face didn’t give him away. Dahmer eased himself further around in his seat.
“Eye-fucking,” he said, tasting the words. “I’ve never heard that phrase.”
“Well, I’d be happy to keep adding to your hillbilly vernacular, but seriously, what’s the deal?”
“I’ll let you see for yourself. We are almost there.”
“That’s it? That’s all I get?”
“Assistant Director O’Barr mentioned that he believes that your presence here can benefit this investigation and possibly lead to a swift resolution.”
“Well, Assistant Director O’Barr is wrong.”
Dahmer tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at Dane. “About your presence being required here? Because I believe he’s wrong as well.”
Dane thought about it. He wasn’t sure what to believe. He wasn’t sure about anything, except that Dahmer was an asshole. Dane settled back into the leather seat and crossed his arms. “This is bullshit.”
Dahmer’s patience was being tested. It amused Dane. “Do I have to remind you, Kirby, that I am your superior?”
“No man is my superior, Dahmer, but if you mean you got me in rank, then go ahead and write me up or do whatever it is y’all do. Knock yourself out. I don’t work for you. I’ve been a criminal investigator my whole adult life, and if this August fella called me out here, then it’s for a damn good reason. So maybe you should cut the shit, and remember who’s driving who, here.” The cab of the SUV went dead silent, and that time Dane was positive he got a smile out of Tweedledee. The driver took another left off the main road and pulled into the entrance of the Days Inn motel.
“We’ll continue this conversation soon, Kirby.”
“Can’t wait, Geoff.” The SUV circled the lot and came to a stop just outside the yellow plastic caution tape cordoning off a small portion of the first floor of the motel. Dane gnawed his lip and waited for Tweedledee to get out first, and then slid out of the truck behind him. He saw a thin older man, in a brown suit that hung off him the way it would a coat hanger, lift himself off the hood of an ’89 Oldsmobile, and despite his light weight, the car looked like it rose up a few inches under him when he stood.
August O’Barr was clearly in his sixties and looked every bit of it. He was tall and thin as a zipper on a pair of Levi’s. He kept his hair bristle-short in a military-style cut that had most likely gone gray ages ago, but O’Barr dyed it brown, and apparently dyed it himself, so it had an unnatural faux-auburn color to it that made him look a bit ridiculous. Dane assumed he was too far up the food chain for anyone to ever bring it up to his face and that his subordinates probably laughed at him behind his back. O’Barr stuck a finger in his mouth and whistled, then motioned for Dane to join him at the car. Dane headed toward him, but Tweedledee grabbed his arm to stop him.
“That was good stuff back there, with Dahmer. He’s an asshole.” He held out his hand for Dane to shake.
Dane took it. “Thanks,” he said.