tried to figure out if he was warm
because of his black suit coat or because he’d been abruptly called into Treft’s
office. Normally the brown-eyed and six-foot-two-inch-tall former high school
quarterback wasn’t rattled easily, but there was something about his boss that
unnerved him.
Treft was
overweight and balding and had the most crooked teeth Beckholm had ever seen.
Rumors of his retirement had floated around the office for the past few weeks.
If they were true, Beckholm didn’t mind. He only saw the man about once a month,
and most of those sightings occurred when they passed each other in the hall or
in the men’s room. Until he’d received the phone call, Beckholm wondered if his
boss had forgotten about him.
“Beckholm,”
Treft said, still not looking up at him, “how many times have you been in my
office since you were hired?”
“Four times,
including today.” Beckholm knew to be quick with his responses.
“And how long
have you been working for me?”
“Almost a year.”
Treft signed
his name one last time and set down his pen. He gathered the sheets together in
a stack, stuffed them into an interoffice confidential envelope, and finally turned
his attention to Beckholm. “That’s why I like you. No bullshit. You just do
your job; you do it well. Best of all, I don’t have to deal with any screwups
like the one that just cost me two weeks in meetings and two days of
paperwork.”
The praise
surprised Beckholm, especially given that Treft was in a bad mood. Beckholm had
heard what happened. While searching for a fugitive, two of Treft’s agents had
inadvertently discovered a massive drug processing laboratory in a densely
populated residential area. Shots were exchanged, and the laboratory caught on
fire. The explosion broke windows several blocks away. Thirty-two people were
hospitalized, and six died, including an undercover DEA agent.
Treft leaned
back and rubbed his eyes. “Almost a year, huh? I’ve been here twenty-six years,
and I’ve been in this position for the last ten, but I started where you did.
The politics of this job never cease to amaze me.”
One of
Beckholm’s coworkers had told him Treft had “burned too many bridges to be able
to go any higher.”
Treft leaned
forward, resting his arms on his desk. “The president has asked the director to
have someone within the bureau investigate the Wittenbel plane crash. It seems
the president’s daughter is a big fan of Ms. Wittenbel. The director passed it
to me, and I’m giving it to you. Now the main investigation is in the FAA’s
hands, not ours. The FAA likes to take their time with every detail before
reporting their findings. Your job is to report your own findings by Friday of
this week when the director will be meeting the president for lunch. That is
your deadline. I don’t want you working on anything else until then. Do you
follow me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks to our
most recent event, the director hates my guts, which is why we’ve been given
this crappy little assignment. I need this to go well. Do you understand me?”
Beckholm nodded.
“I don’t care if
you have to interview every last one of Wittenbel’s family, friends, or dog-shit-picker-uppers,
you do it!” Treft pointed at Beckholm. “Do whatever you have to do to finish
that report by Friday. Call me if you need clearance.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me make
myself clear on this next point.” Treft’s forefinger stabbed the envelope of
paperwork in front of him. “It is not public knowledge that we are involved
with this case. The media will be covering the Wittenbel crash like flies on
shit. I do not want you in front of any cameras or giving any interviews. If I
see or hear anything in the news that says FBI and Wittenbel in the same
sentence, you’ll be at the bottom of my shit pile. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who is that
friend you’ve worked with before, the one in records?”
“You mean Agent
because of his black suit coat or because he’d been abruptly called into Treft’s
office. Normally the brown-eyed and six-foot-two-inch-tall former high school
quarterback wasn’t rattled easily, but there was something about his boss that
unnerved him.
Treft was
overweight and balding and had the most crooked teeth Beckholm had ever seen.
Rumors of his retirement had floated around the office for the past few weeks.
If they were true, Beckholm didn’t mind. He only saw the man about once a month,
and most of those sightings occurred when they passed each other in the hall or
in the men’s room. Until he’d received the phone call, Beckholm wondered if his
boss had forgotten about him.
“Beckholm,”
Treft said, still not looking up at him, “how many times have you been in my
office since you were hired?”
“Four times,
including today.” Beckholm knew to be quick with his responses.
“And how long
have you been working for me?”
“Almost a year.”
Treft signed
his name one last time and set down his pen. He gathered the sheets together in
a stack, stuffed them into an interoffice confidential envelope, and finally turned
his attention to Beckholm. “That’s why I like you. No bullshit. You just do
your job; you do it well. Best of all, I don’t have to deal with any screwups
like the one that just cost me two weeks in meetings and two days of
paperwork.”
The praise
surprised Beckholm, especially given that Treft was in a bad mood. Beckholm had
heard what happened. While searching for a fugitive, two of Treft’s agents had
inadvertently discovered a massive drug processing laboratory in a densely
populated residential area. Shots were exchanged, and the laboratory caught on
fire. The explosion broke windows several blocks away. Thirty-two people were
hospitalized, and six died, including an undercover DEA agent.
Treft leaned
back and rubbed his eyes. “Almost a year, huh? I’ve been here twenty-six years,
and I’ve been in this position for the last ten, but I started where you did.
The politics of this job never cease to amaze me.”
One of
Beckholm’s coworkers had told him Treft had “burned too many bridges to be able
to go any higher.”
Treft leaned
forward, resting his arms on his desk. “The president has asked the director to
have someone within the bureau investigate the Wittenbel plane crash. It seems
the president’s daughter is a big fan of Ms. Wittenbel. The director passed it
to me, and I’m giving it to you. Now the main investigation is in the FAA’s
hands, not ours. The FAA likes to take their time with every detail before
reporting their findings. Your job is to report your own findings by Friday of
this week when the director will be meeting the president for lunch. That is
your deadline. I don’t want you working on anything else until then. Do you
follow me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks to our
most recent event, the director hates my guts, which is why we’ve been given
this crappy little assignment. I need this to go well. Do you understand me?”
Beckholm nodded.
“I don’t care if
you have to interview every last one of Wittenbel’s family, friends, or dog-shit-picker-uppers,
you do it!” Treft pointed at Beckholm. “Do whatever you have to do to finish
that report by Friday. Call me if you need clearance.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me make
myself clear on this next point.” Treft’s forefinger stabbed the envelope of
paperwork in front of him. “It is not public knowledge that we are involved
with this case. The media will be covering the Wittenbel crash like flies on
shit. I do not want you in front of any cameras or giving any interviews. If I
see or hear anything in the news that says FBI and Wittenbel in the same
sentence, you’ll be at the bottom of my shit pile. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who is that
friend you’ve worked with before, the one in records?”
“You mean Agent
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