The final report was written, revised, corrected and printed. Brock grabbed the folder and started down the hall toward Cassidy's office. His work was finished. After fourth months of interviews, research and analysis, he had completed the last task Cassidy had given him: a realistic report of the section's situation, and the draft of a viable work plan, suggesting changes to improve it.
So it was time to face up to the Section Chief and ask him for a field post. He had waited to do it, because he had the odd feeling that Cassidy wouldn't be happy about his request. The man seemed to have some agenda in mind for the whole section—to shake things up, as he would say—and Brock could tell he played a part in that plan. And that was the last thing he wanted.
He was only interested in a simple field post that would allow him some healthy chasing, maybe even some profiling. Nothing more, nothing else. No more deskwork than strictly necessary, no dealing with the peacocks, and most of all: no politics.
He just wanted a quiet season in his life. Do his job, spend time with Andrea, see Viv now and then—anywhere but at his apartment, since that had been key to make things up with his daughter, and he wasn't about to screw up.
Jo was on the phone, and signaled him to just knock on Cassidy's door and walk in, so he did.
"Brockner! Right on time!"
That kind of greeting was usually the prelude to a new task, so Brock got ready to put up a little fight for a change.
Cassidy watched something on his computer, and motioned for Brock to circle the desk and go to his side. Brock went to stand a step behind his chair and saw a live stream of a funeral. The small size of the casket surrounded by wreaths sent a chill down his spine. Some thirty people stood around it while a pastor recited his prayers.
"Whose funeral is this?" he asked.
"You only watch national news, right?" replied Cassidy. "That boy was found dead yesterday, floating down a river in New England. Gillian was able to identify him in a few hours and now the family is burying him. He was killed after eight months of captivity and abuse. Gillian thinks the killer may attend the funeral, so her men are streaming and recording it with their phones, to try to identify him. Take a look at the faces, Brockner. Tell me if your profiler's eyes see anyone that could be a murderous pedophile."
Brock raised his eyebrows. "Pedophiles are good at blending in, sir. Without knowing the filiation of those people, he could just look like another grieving relative."
"Even if the place is circled by the police in plain sight?"
He leaned a little toward the screen. That was a good touch. Gillian's, no doubt. The subject could pretend to be a grieving relative, but the police presence would upset him. He scanned the faces, looking for sideways glances or anything suspicious.
"Third row, the fourth man on the right," he said. "Charcoal jacket, he seems to be alone."
He recognized Tanya's voice coming from the computer speakers a moment later. "Good morning, Agent Brockner. That's Robert Lee, Bobby's uncle. Bobby was named after him."
"Why him, Brockner?" asked Cassidy, curious.
"He's apart from the parents, but crying like one."
"He was very close to the family, but had a fight with his brother after Bobby went missing," said Tanya. "They haven't talked to each other ever since."
Brock kept scanning the faces. "The group on the left. Second row, the last man on the right."
"That one's not even crying, Brockner."
"Exactly. He keeps staring at the picture, not at the coffin, like denying the boy's death."
Tanya replied in a few seconds. "That's Charles Stewart. He was Mary Lee's boyfriend before she married Bobby's father. Rumor has it he was Mary's lover after she got married, so back in the day many people suspected he was Bobby's real father."
Cassidy scoffed. "C'mon! How the hell d'you know that?"
"The team's been working in town since sunrise, sir, collecting information."
Brock nodded. Yeah, you could trust the punks to work around the clock when they had to. Then he spotted the shadowy figure of a man, yards away from the ceremony, standing very still by a tree.
"That would be Fred, sir," said Tanya, a smile in her voice.
He scowled deeper and leaned closer to the screen, recognizing the sniper.
"Good work, Lawrence," said Cassidy. "Gotta go now, keep me up."
"Yessir."