CHAPTER FOUR
“See the Boss.”
Kurt snorted at the post-it on his computer monitor and then crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash. Special Agent Kurt Spornberger had been an FBI agent for barely two years, but he wasn’t exactly a newb.
He’d been a street officer with Chicago PD for three years before moving to investigations and had worked his way up to Homicide before being recruited by the Bureau. The Bureau was, at the time, going through one of its periodic reevaluations, and some bright consultant had noticed that many investigations that the Bureau had been credited with solving could better be credited to local LEOs. It just made sense in many ways. Bureau agents rarely spent enough time in any one area to really develop relations with the local informants. They didn’t spend their early careers working the streets of a city. They often didn’t really get the zeitgeist of the local culture. Local law enforcement officers—at least the good ones—did.
The suggestion of the overpaid consultant was taken to heart by at least one member of senior management in DC, and the order had come down from on high: Recruit some local guys. Kurt had good relations with the local office. After he turned up a critical lead in a local serial-murder case, an eyewitness to an abduction who just happened to be a street whore who would have never talked with a Fibbie, the local Supervisory Special Agent had recommended him. He had the requisite four-year degree, albeit in anthropology, not pre-law or criminal justice, and he had a good rep. He was a little less “STRAC” than the Bureau normally hired, another way of saying he didn’t look like he had a ten-foot spike jammed up his ass, but the idea was to look at different cultures and everyone agreed Kurt Spornberger was “different culture.”
But he had an interesting time at the FBI academy. Some of the classes were taught by agents who had “been there, done that.” You could tell by the look. These were guys who had spent decades looking at bare scraps of evidence, trying to find that one word buried in billions that would pop the perps, turn up the terrorists, break the bank-robbery team.
Those instructors looked him in the eye, looked at his record, listened to his answers and then nodded. He might be a greenie to the Bureau, but he wasn’t green. They’d brought him in on some techniques he hadn’t known and let him slide through the stuff that was rookie material without being assholes. He got along with the Old Guys.
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.
“Tao-ki?” Kurt asked, withdrawing his hand.
“Yes,” Barbara replied, wrinkling her brow.
“Bù dào huáng hé xīn bù sǐ.”
“Bù dào huáng hé xīn bù sĭ.”
“Tiānshēng wŏ cái bì yŏuyòng,” Barbara said, smiling thinly.
“I think I’m in love?” Kurt said, his eyes wide.
“Note the ‘Mrs.,’ Agent Spornberger,” Barbara said, tartly. “And I am a servant of the Lord Jesus Christ, who, forgiveness or not, looks poorly upon extramarital affairs. So put your dick back in your pants and your tongue back in your head or I’ll rip both off and feed them to you.”
“I’m sort of new to the bureau,” Kurt said, puzzled. “Was that sexual harassment?”
“No, that was her promising to kick your ass, Agent Spornberger,” Garson said, trying not to grin. “But the question I have to ask, Mrs. Everette, is, can you work with him? Because this is, alas, Kurt. We’ve been trying to potty train him for the last couple of years and so far it’s had no effect.”
“The problem is not ‘can I work with him,’ but ;can he survive,’” Barbara said, sighing. She sat down and laid Lazarus’s bag on her lap, letting the cat out to sniff around the room. “In these investigations, legally or not, the truth is that the Bureau agent is the innocent bystander. The civilian, in other words. We have to work with the Bureau and local law enforcement agencies, but we’d rather not. Because while the casualty rate of our agents is high, the casualty rate of the agents we’re assigned is higher. Agent Spornberger, you clearly have some martial-arts skills, and you’re old enough you may have some street skills. But this is a different kind of street and you are no more powerful than a baby on it. Can you face the fact that there may come a time when I tell you to run away as fast as you can, and if you don’t, you’re going to die? And probably have your soul ripped out and taken straight to hell?”
“Well, ma’am,” Kurt said, grinning uneasily. “You clearly have some martial-arts skills, but…”
“That’s the problem,” Barb said, looking at Garson. “The ‘but…’ That, right there, is almost sure to get him killed no matter what I do. Because there is no ‘but.’ Special Agent, are you a Believer in any religion? What religion are you?”
“Catholic, ma’am,” Kurt said. “I mean, I’m sort of Catholic. I haven’t been to confession in…”
“Then you are totally unprotected,” Barb said. “It’s like going on a drug raid without a vest. Or a gun. Or backup. Even if whatever we’re dealing with can be deflected by a cross, for example, you have to believe in the cross and be in touch with your God. And your God has got to believe in you. Otherwise, you’re totally and completely scr…unprotected, Agent Spornberger. With what we may be up against, it may be necessary for me to kill you, Agent Spornberger. If you cannot, when the time is right, follow my instructions to the letter. And I don’t think that you can.”
“Mrs. Everette, if you wish, I’ll replace him,” Garson said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.
“Do you have any other agents with experience in the paranormal?” Barb asked, looking Spornberger up and down.
“None,” Garson said. “Including me. I’ve been briefed on SC, I’m aware of some of the reports, the stories. But I can’t say that I’m totally convinced.”
“And the same would be the case with any green agent,” Barb said, sighing. “They just can’t believe. Okay, tough guy, you’re the one that’s seen a ghost. I’ll leave it up to you.”
“It wasn’t a ghost,” Kurt said. “It was a shadow. I’m not sure what it was, but I…I got this feeling it wasn’t a ghost.”
“Demon, then,” Barb said. “Tell me about it later. I need to get briefed in. Who’s doing it?”
“Spornberger,” Garson said. “He’s got all the reports. Note that we only have the attack on your agent to indicate that there is anything to the SC designation. That and the fact that the case is just so damned weird.”
“Well, I know the area’s not a total dry hole,” Barb said. “I can feel the…currents? Whatever. But it’s possible the attack on Janea wasn’t related to the investigation. We have enemies of our own. However, we’ll just try to follow up on her leads and see where it takes us.”
* * *
“What’s the paranormal read on this?” Kurt asked as he sat down in the secure conference room.
“I’m not a paranormal expert,” Barb said. “But I’ve got some people to do the research. And the short answer is there isn’t one. Have you ever heard of Kali?”
“I’ve been studying oriental martial arts since I was in high school,” Kurt said dryly. “And by extension the Orient. Yes, I’ve heard of Kali. Hindu death goddess, right?”
“More complicated than that,” Barb said, biting her lip. “Also a goddess of fertility and childbirth. And murder. Life and death, alpha and omega. The point being that there are references to worshippers being used as avatars of Kali, taken by her and turned into killing machines. But even the…deep references, if you will, the studies that assume the existence of the goddess, indicate most of those killers were using drugs to simulate the effect. And Kali, being what Christians recognize as a demon, is tightly bound by the Fall. Even though God gave the world to Satan, the greater demons and demonesses, ancient gods in most cases, are tightly bound. Freeing them, even drawing upon their essence, requires powerful rites which have not been used in this case. So it’s not a possession by Kali or another greater demon. And according to the initial report Janea turned in, none of them show current signs of possession. They have been…sensitized to the supernatural. But they may have been sensitives to begin with.”
“In short, you have no clue what is going on,” Kurt said.
“No,” Barb admitted. “But that’s why I’m here. But we’ve got one piece of evidence we didn’t have before. Someone attacked Janea mystically. That makes it personal.”