“Geniuses don’t always work and play well with others.”
“The only thing she ever flunked on her report card,” I said.
I spent the next several hours on the phone, unsuccessfully trying to reach Dr. Jenrette, who apparently had taken the day off to play golf. My office in Richmond, I was pleased to hear, was under control, the day’s cases thus far requiring only views, which were external examinations with body fluids drawn. Blessedly, there had been no homicides from the night before, and my two court cases for the rest of the week had both settled. At the appointed time and place, Wesley and I met.
“Put this on.” He handed me a special visitor’s pass, which I clipped to my jacket pocket next to my faculty name tag.
“No problems?” I asked.
“It was a stretch, but I managed to pull it off.”
“I’m relieved to know I passed the background check,” I said ironically.
“Well, just barely.”
“Thanks a lot.” He paused, then lightly touched my back as I preceded him through a doorway.
“I don’t need to tell you, Kay, that nothing you see or hear at ERF leaves the building.”
“You’re right, Benton. You don’t need to tell me.” Outside the Boardroom, the PX was packed with National Academy students in red shirts browsing at everything imaginable emblazoned with “FBI.” Fit men and women politely passed us on steps as they headed to class, not a single blue shirt to be found in the color-coded crowd, for there had been no new agent classes in over a year. We followed a long corridor to the lobby, where a digital sign above the front desk reminded guests to keep visitor’s passes properly displayed. Beyond the front doors, distant gunfire peppered the perfect afternoon. The Engineering Research Facility was three beige concrete-and-glass pods with large bay doors and high chain-link fences. Rows of parked cars bore testament to a population I never saw, for ERF seemed to swallow its employees and send them away at moments when the rest of us were unconscious. At the front door, Wesley paused by a sensor module with a numeric keypad that was attached to the wall. He inserted his right thumb over a reading lens, which scanned his print as the data display instructed him to type in his Personal Identification Number. The biometric lock was released with a faint click.
“Obviously, you’ve been here before,” I commented as he held the door for me.
“Many times,” he said.
I was left to wonder what business typically brought him here as we followed a beige-carpeted corridor, softly lit and silent, and more than twice the length of a football field. We passed laboratories where scientists in somber suits and lab coats were busily engaged in activities I knew nothing of and could not identify at a glance. Men and women worked in cubicles and over countertops scattered with tools, hardware, video displays, and strange devices. Behind windowless double doors a power saw whined through wood. At an elevator, Wesley’s fingerprint was required again before we could access the rarefied quiet where Lucy spent her days. The second floor was, in essence, an air-conditioned cranium enclosing an artificial brain. Walls and carpet were muted gray, space precisely partitioned like an ice cube tray. Each cubicle contained two modular desks with sleek computers, laser printers, and piles of paper. Lucy was easy to spot. She was the only analyst wearing FBI fatigues.
Her back was to us as she talked into a telephone headset, one hand manipulating a stylus over a computerized message pad, the other typing on a keyboard. If I had not known better, I might have thought she was composing music.
“No, no,” she said.
“One long beep followed by two short ones and we’re probably talking about a malfunction with the monitor, maybe the board containing the video chips.” She swiveled around in her chair when her peripheral vision picked us up.
“Yes, it’s a huge difference if it’s just one short beep,” she explained to the person on the line.
“Now we’re talking about a problem in a system board. Listen, Dave, can I get back with you?”