Smith had already turned his attention to his computer system, so Remo motioned for Chiun to follow him out.
Chiun passed from the room, presenting his disdainful back to the emperor who had neither heeded his wisdom nor understood it.
Before closing the door, he allowed himself to peek back at Smith the Mad.
The Mad One was still intent upon his oracles, so Chiun closed the door with a nerve jangling jar.
No one ignored the Master of Sinanju without penalty. Not even the emperor of the wealthiest empire of the modern world.
Chapter 20
At FBI headquarters in Quantico, Virgina, Edward E. Eishied received a strange inter-Bureau e-mail message signed ASAC Smith.
He had heard of Assistant Special Agent in Charge Smith. He had never met him. But Smith was an FBI legend. It was said he was a retired agent given special investigative status by the director. It was also said the faceless Smith was really a cover for whoever sat in the director's chair, going back to the halcyon days of Hoover. J. Edgar, not Herbert.
No one knew for sure. But everyone knew that whether it was a cross e-mail message or the man's graham-cracker voice on the line, what Smith said went.
In this case, it was an e-mail. The text read, "Require psychological profiles on unknown subject. See attachment for details. Needed ASAP."
Eishied snapped to attention. This was his meat. He had worked every serial-killer case from Ted Bundy to the Unabomber and he had nailed the essentials of every psychological profile he ever undertook.
The weird part was Eishied knew of no case not already under active investigation.
He sat back, expecting to find details of some horrific new killer of the ritualistic type.
Instead, he read the incoming data and slowly slumped in his seat.
"This is a test," he muttered. "No, it's a joke."
But ASAC Smith had no reputation for humor. In fact, by reputation he was the most button-down SOB in the Bureau hierarchy.
Downloading the file, Eishied went at it. It was going to take some real brainpower to profile this guy. He picked up the telephone and speed-dialed the Chicago office.
"Ralph? Eishied here. I need your assist on something."
"I was just going to call you. I just received the weirdest request from no less than ASAC Smith himself."
"Does it involve killer bees?"
"Yeah. You on it?"
"Just downloaded the file into my machine. The question is, are we supposed to work together or independently?"
"My guess is that Smith's looking for every pristine angle."
"Okay, no communication until we turn in our reports.
"Good luck."
"Same to you," said Eishied, then hung up.
As he fired up his laser printer for generating a hard copy, Edward Eishied muttered, "I sure hope we come up with the same profile ...."
Chapter 21
Tammy Terrill had never seen anything like it.
"What is with you people?" she complained to the L.A. chief of detectives.
"We're not prepared to give a statement at this time," he returned.
"I gave my statement to you!"
"That's different. You're a witness. You're obligated to give your statement."
Tammy stared at the transcription of her statement, which lay on Chief of Detectives Thomas Gregg's desk, along with a pen so she could sign it. They were in a brightly lit interrogation room in the downtown L.A. police headquarters. It looked nothing like the interrogation rooms Tammy had seen on TV. It was too nice.
"If you don't give me an interview, I won't sign that," she warned.
Chief of Detectives Gregg eyed her with no flicker of emotion. He didn't look much like a cop, though he talked just like one. He was too tanned to be a cop, and his hair was too sun bleached. Even for a California cop.
"Gary, have Miss Terrill here held as a material witness."
"You can't do that!"
Gregg looked Tammy dead in the eye the way a bird looks at a worm. "We need a signed statement or we need you. What's it going to be, Miss Terrill?"
Tammy signed the statement. "This is under protest."
"Just spell your name right," Gregg said woodenly. They had all been like that, wooden and unemotional, when they had descended upon the L.A. County Morgue and sorted through the bodies.
Tammy had tried to get their theories on the case before they got too busy.
"We just got here," Gregg had said.
"I saw it all," Tammy told him. "It was killer bees. Ask him. He's big on bugs."
At that point, Dr. Wurmlinger introduced himself and threw cold water on Tammy's new lead. "I confess I have no explanation for what has happened here," he said in a helpless voice.
"Tell them it was killer bees. You know it was killer bees. I know it was killer bees. Just tell them."
Wurmlinger looked as lost as a termite on plastic. "The bee that stung them could not have killed them. Other than that, I am at a loss for an explanation," he said.
After that, Tammy and Wurmlinger were separated and taken downtown. There, Tammy told them everything she had seen to the point when Dr. Krombold had succumbed, finishing with, "It stung me, too, but I have the skull of a crockery pot, so I didn't die."
Chief of Detectives Gregg seemed unimpressed by any of it. He just asked methodical questions and expressed doubt only when Tammy failed to identify her cameraman by name.
"They're so...common," she explained. "Like they're pod people, or something."
Now, with her statement signed, Tammy was being released. Out in the corridor, she hunted up Wurmlinger. He was coming out of another interrogation room and looked as lost as a cockroach in an hourglass.
"Hi."
"Hello," he said dispiritedly.
"Time for our interview."
"The police asked me to make no public statement."
"I'm the media. We outrank the cops."
Wurmlinger shook his long head slowly. "I am sorry. I must return home. I have had a very trying day."
"It's about to become the greatest day of your life. Because you're about to become Fox News Network's resident bug expert."
"No."
"Just think of it!" Tammy said, throwing her arms wide. "Your face will be telecast from coast-to-coast. You'll be famous. You'll be asked to lecture. Hey, maybe you'll even get a date or two."
Wurmlinger winced. "Goodbye," he said, exiting the building.
Tammy watched him get into a cab and overheard him ask the driver to take him to the airport.
Tammy whistled up a cab and gave her driver the same instruction.
There was no way she was going to lose her story now.
WURMLINGER WAS so preoccupied that Tammy had no trouble trailing him to the American Airlines counter, where he offered his return ticket to a clerk.
After he left for his gate, she barged into line and accosted the same reservations clerk.
"I need to go where that tall drink of ugly is going."
"Brownsville, Texas."
"Right. Texas. I'm going there."
The reservations clerk cut her an open-ended return ticket to Brownsville, Texas, and Tammy loitered at an adjoining gate until the last boarding call came. She slipped aboard and took her seat without being noticed by Wurmlinger.
At Brownsville, she was one of the first off the plane, which put her in a position to grab a cab before Wurmlinger collected his luggage.
The cabbie wanted to know where she was going.
"Just get me out of the airport, and I'll get back to you," Tammy told him, snapping open her cell phone.
She dialed Clyde Smoot in New York.
"What is Dr. Wurmlinger's address again?"
"Didn't you find him?" Smoot asked.
"I'm on center stage in something bigger than 'X-Files.' Just give me the address, Clyde."
After it hit her ears, Tammy repeated it to the driver, and he gave the cab real gas.