“This one,” McCaskey replied, touching the left side of his chest.
Hood looked wistfully at McCaskey. He had not intended to discuss the new situation with his staff just yet. But maybe it was time. He shut the door of the Tank and returned to the conference table. He sat beside McCaskey.
“What if I told you that Op-Center’s triggers had changed?” Hood asked.
“Changed how?”
“What if the only way the National Crisis Management Center can survive is by catering to partisan interests? By handling crises as before, but also by executing domestic black-ops activities?”
“Paul, what the hell are you talking about?” McCaskey asked. “What else happened that I don’t know about?”
“We were hit with a different kind of bombshell,” Hood told him. “It seems the president and Senator Debenport have decided that the USF represents a threat to this nation. They have requested that we use Op-Center and this investigation to stop Senator Orr.”
“Are they insane?” McCaskey yelled. “This isn’t the 1950s. I’d rather shut the door than—”
“Than do what, Darrell?” Hood asked. “Spy on Americans? The FBI and CIA do it all the time.”
“With one difference,” McCaskey said. “Reasonable suspicion. We cannot use the investigation to impede a Constitutionally protected process.”
“The problem is, we can,” Hood replied. “It’s a legitimate investigation—”
“Of a homicide. What you are suggesting is a completely different beast. It isn’t ethical, Paul.”
“Tell me which is the greater morality,” Hood asked. “Do we let ourselves get squeezed a little so we can continue doing good in other areas? Or do we put up a Going Out of Business sign with our pride intact, allowing God knows how many crises to slip by Homeland Security?”
“That’s an old argument, Paul. Does a commander sacrifice one life to save ten? What do you do for the greatest good?”
“It’s an old argument because there is no clear-cut answer,” Hood said.
“Sure there is. If you have to think about something in order to justify it, the thing is probably wrong.”
“No,” Hood insisted. “Sometimes you have to think about things because your initial instinct is to run. That’s fear, not courage.”
“That’s rationalization.”
“That’s reality,” Hood countered. “A reality in which Americans do fight Americans, whether we like it or not. Tell me, where does Darrell McCaskey end up if he walks out of here or the CIOC shuts us down? Back at the Bureau? At the Company, where national security is the meal and morality is the garnish? All you would be doing somewhere else is losing yourself in the system. The corruption would still be there. You just would not be able to see it.”
McCaskey said nothing.
“We had it good,” Hood said. “Maybe too good to last.”
“We could tell them no.”
“Sure. And do you think Debenport would get us funding to replace the equipment we lost?”
McCaskey just stared at his old friend. “I hear what you’re saying, Paul, but — forgive me — it still sounds like sophistry. I’m disappointed the president even put you in this position, after all you’ve done for him.”
“He has his bosses, too. Every job has you shovel some shit. In this case, at least, we can still do our job. Maybe even better than before, because more money will be available to us.”
“At what price, though?” McCaskey asked.
“Compromise,” Hood said.
McCaskey shook his head. “I don’t think I can go along with this.”
“That’s your choice,” Hood said. He was sad but not surprised to hear that. “But it explains what I said before about dying. When I was at the White House this morning, I listened to Senator Debenport’s bloody damn deal. I left, I had a long think, and I made my choice. But it cost me, Darrell. A part of my soul died before that electromagnetic pulse bomb was even detonated.”
McCaskey looked as though his grip on the last rung had slipped. This was not how he had planned his life, how he ran his life.
“May I make a suggestion?” Hood asked.
“Please.”
“Continue the work you were doing for the reasons you were doing it. We can worry about the rest of it later.”
“Self-deception,” McCaskey said.
“Will you feel better if a killer and possibly a bomber gets away?” Hood asked with uncharitable bluntness.
“That’s a helluva choice,” McCaskey said, his voice low, his eyes flat.
“Maybe it’s just old age, but I can’t remember a time when options were easy or clear.”
McCaskey nodded gravely. “We agree on that, at least.”
“I’ll take it,” Hood said with the hint of a smile.
“What I do not understand is how the hell we got here, Paul. Mike is gone, the building has been gutted, our integrity is no longer impervious. Even you would have to admit that.”
“I do,” Hood replied sadly.
Integrity had always been the center’s hallmark. Integrity had also been Paul Hood’s personal hallmark. Now, even if he draped an albatross around his neck and preached virtue like the Ancient Mariner, Hood would never have that quality again. What upset him more than the deal with Debenport was the fact that he had not seen this coming. He thought he was smarter than that.
“I’ll have to get back to you on how we got here,” Hood said. “Right now, I’m more concerned about where we are going and who is coming along. Can I count on you?”
“I’ll finish what I started,” McCaskey said.
“That’s all I need. Thanks.”
McCaskey headed toward the door. “I told Mike I would wait to hear from him before leaning any more on Orr and Link,” he said. “In the meantime, I’m going to see if the Metro Police have anything. They’ve been concentrating their efforts on the second murder.”
Hood nodded. “Thanks again,” he added.
“Sure,” McCaskey said.
The former FBI agent left, and Hood was alone once more. Alone in the Tank, the brain of Op-Center encased in its electromagnetically protected skull. Alone while his staff struggled to put the other organs together again. There was one, however, that Hood wondered if they would ever be able to retrieve. The one they needed almost as much as the brain: the heart.
THIRTY-SIX
Darrell McCaskey picked up two things on his way to the Metro Police. The first was a cheeseburger. The second was his wife.
Maria had not asked to be involved in the investigation. But McCaskey knew she enjoyed getting her hands dirty, and in his mind this was as dirty as things got. Politics and murder. As old as Genesis. McCaskey did not tell her about Hood’s conversation with Debenport. It was important that he convey the information objectively. He wanted her opinion, not her reaction to his own upset.
The murders were being investigated by the Metro Police First District Substation at 500 E Street SW. Lieutenant Robert Howell was leading the Focused Mission Unit, which consisted of four sergeants on loan from homicide.
McCaskey had phoned ahead. Howell said he would still be at the stationhouse when they arrived. He greeted the McCaskeys in his small, clean, second-floor office. The men had spoken on the phone the day before, after District Commander Charlie Alterman agreed to let Op-Center run the Wilson investigation. That meant Howell got to keep the case, which otherwise would have shifted from FMU to Homicide. The murder of Lawless was added to the FMU “dig,” as they referred to forensics investigations, since the team had already been fielded.
There were photos of his parents and himself and framed diplomas from the Florida State University School of Criminology on the office wall. McCaskey was not surprised. The thirty-something lieutenant looked like a “college cop,” as they used to call them in the FBI. He was a lean, clean-cut, tightly wound man with short red hair and deep-set eyes. His voice had the hint of a Southern accent. His white shirt was heavily starched so it did not wrinkle. Wrinkles suggested perspiration, and perspiration suggested worry or insecurity. Those were conditions that schooled detectives were taught to avoid. Howell did not sit until Maria had been seated. He was polite. That did not mean he would be cooperative. McCaskey had made his team look foolish and also had stolen their assignment.