The Breaking Point (Body Farm 9)

“Just do your best,” she said. “How many times have you worked with the FBI before this?”

“Four. No, five.”

“Any problems with them?”

“No. They’re the best. Of course.” I still felt fretful. “I wish Marty were around this summer. I’d get him to poke around a little.”

“Poke around how? In what?”

“I don’t know,” I repeated in reflexive frustration. She kept quiet—her way of making me think instead of just spouting off—and after a moment I added, “I’d see if he could find out who’s the FBI agent that got killed, and how, and why? Who’s the fat, raspy guy that claims to be fighting supervillains? And who’s this Goose Man character that the fat fellow’s so hot to take down?”

“And you think Marty could dig up answers to those questions?”

“I don’t . . .” I caught myself before repeating it, my mantra of mystification, once again. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Marty’s great with a trowel, Bill. And he knows his osteology forward and backward. But his skill set is—how to put this nicely?—very specific. What you need is a detective. Or an investigative journalist.”

“A journalist? God, Kathleen, if I talked to a journalist about an open FBI case? It’d be my last case for them. Ever.”

“Probably,” she said. “Okay, how about a reference librarian?”

“What?”

“A reference librarian.”

“Are you serious—a librarian?”

“Sure, I’m serious,” she said. “Why not? They’re smart, they’re helpful, and they have dozens of databases at their fingertips. Remember when I was looking for stuff on child blindness and vitamin A deficiency? And nonprofits? I called the reference desk at Hodges”—the university’s main library—“and maybe two hours later, a librarian handed me a stack of articles I never would have found on my own. That’s how I first heard about Richard Janus and Airlift Relief.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I’d forgotten that.” I wasn’t sure that confiding in a librarian was a brilliant idea, but it trumped anything else I had at the moment. “You think somebody’s there now? It’s nearly midnight.”

“They’re open another five minutes,” she said. “Worth a try.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a UT directory there beside the remote and the Kleenex box?”

“Don’t need one,” she said, and I smiled as she recited the number from memory. Kathleen was smart and wise—sassy, too—and I loved her for those qualities. And more, many more.

THE PHONE RANG A DOZEN TIMES—I COUNTED THE rings as I drummed my fingers. “Good grief,” I groused as I pulled the phone away from my ear and reached for the “end” button. “Doesn’t anybody work a full day anymore?”

As if in answer to my question, I suddenly heard a voice on the other end of the line. “Excuse me?” Then I heard a loud clatter, as if the phone had been dropped. A moment later a slightly breathless woman said, “Oops. Sorry about that. I had to vault the counter to get to the phone. Figured it must be important, as many times as it rang.”

I was taken aback by the woman’s breezy attitude. “Uh,” I faltered, “is this the reference desk?”

“Technically, no,” she said. “But I’m standing at the reference desk. Will that do?”

Was she mocking me? I didn’t have the luxury of exploring that question. “This is Dr. Bill Brockton, head of the Anthropology Department.”

“Yes?”

“I need some information. I’m afraid I can’t give you much to go on. But it’s important. And sensitive—it’s related to a criminal investigation—so I need you to keep it confidential.”

“Sounds intriguing,” she said. “What do you need to know, Dr. Brockton? And what can you tell me to point me in the right direction?”

“What I need to know, Ms. . . . What did you say your name is?”

“I didn’t,” she said cheerily. “Just call me Red.”

“Red? Is that a nickname?”

She laughed. “I would hope so!” Again I wondered if she was mocking me, though her tone sounded more amused than sarcastic.

“Look . . . Red,” I said. “This seems a little . . . strange, not to know who I’m talking to. Would you rather hand me off to somebody else?”

“Unfortunately, at the moment, I’m all you’ve got,” she said. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Dr. Brockton; please forgive me if it sounded that way. I’ve been stalked a couple times—seriously stalked—so I’m skittish about giving my name to men on the phone at midnight, even if they sound legit. The guy I still have nightmares about? He sounded every bit as legit as you, at first.”

“But—” I began, then stopped myself. But what? You think if you argue, she’ll feel more at ease? Not bloody likely. “Fair enough, Red,” I conceded. “Is that your hair color, or your politics?”

“Both,” she said. “Also the color of my checkbook balance. Maybe short for ‘Ready Reference,’ too. How can I help you, Dr. Brockton? The lights in the library go out in about three minutes, so tell me quick, if you can.”

I started with the thing that seemed strangest. “I need you to dig up whatever you can about someone called ‘Goose Man.’” The line was silent, and I wondered if the call had been dropped—or if she’d decided I was a crank and hung up. “Hello? Red? Are you there?”

“I’m here,” she said. “I was waiting for you to tell me more.”

“There is no ‘more.’ That’s it.”

“That’s all you’ve got—‘Goose Man’? You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” I snapped, feeling defensive. “I’m not kidding. I told you I couldn’t give you much to go on.”

She laughed again. “So you did. I see you’re a man of your word. But . . . can I ask a couple things, superquick? Just to make sure we’re on the same page here—the same virtually blank page? What put ‘Goose Man’ on your radar? How’d you hear about him? In what context?”

“I heard a cop—at least, I think he was a cop—mention him to another cop.”

“Was the second one also a maybe cop? Or was cop number two a for-sure cop?”

“A for-sure cop.”

“Knoxville cop?”

“No. Federal cop. Both feds, I think. One’s FBI. The other, I don’t know—maybe Homeland Security, maybe DEA, maybe Border Patrol. Hell, maybe even CIA.”

“Wowzer,” she said. “You don’t play in the minors, do you? Should you even be telling me this?”

“No,” I said. “Almost certainly not. But something’s going on that I don’t understand, and it’s making me nervous. I’d like to know who the other players are, and what teams they’re playing for.”

In the background, I heard a robotic-sounding announcement: The library is now closed. Please exit now. “Crap,” she muttered. “Oh well—in for a penny, in for a pound. Quick, what makes you think Fed Number Two might be CIA?”

“He said they were waging war with the worst badasses on the planet. Pardon the language.”

“Pardon it? I appreciate it. I hate it when people beat around the bush, all tactful and mealy-mouthed. Say what you mean, mean what you say—that’s my motto. One of ’em, anyhow. So . . . presumably the Goose Man is one of these badasses?”

“Presumably,” I said. “The FBI guy was getting reamed out. Apparently he scared the Goose Man away, just as Fed Number Two was about to reel him in.”

“In-ter-esting,” she said. “So the Goose Man is a pretty big fish. And he’s swimming around right here in the little ol’ pond of Knoxville?”

“Ah. No,” I said. “Sorry. In San Diego. I mean, I don’t know if San Diego’s where the Goose Man is swimming, but it’s where I’m swimming at the moment. Or treading water. And it’s where these guys were arguing.”

“I really have to go,” she said. “How do I reach you?” I gave her my number. “Got it. Let me give you mine.”

“I’ve already got it,” I pointed out. “I

just dialed it.”

“I’m away from the desk most of the time,” she said. “Better to call me on my cell.” She rattled off the digits like machine-gun fire; I wrote hurriedly, hoping I was getting it right.

“Let me read that back to you.”

“I gotta go—I’m about to get locked in.”

“Last question,” I said. “What are your hours—do you work weeknights?”

“Call whenever,” she said. “I really, really gotta go.”

The line went dead, and I was left staring at the scrawled phone number of a woman who didn’t even trust me with her name.