Growing into the Job, Post 617: A Big Bust (Patreon)

Yeah, he still read the newspaper, like the physical thing, delivered outside his apartment door every morning. Maybe it was the old-timer Rourke, even after getting fired, still rubbing off on him. In any event by seven-forty-five Friday morning, Agent Daniel Mercer had already burned his tongue on his first cup of coffee, almost finished his second, and read the story tucked down in the corner of the front page of the New Corinth Ledger three times.

The apartment was exactly what every one-bedroom apartment occupied by a thirty-four-year-old bachelor with a federal salary eventually became: neat enough that nobody would call it messy, sparse enough that nobody would call it home. A sectional couch faced a television he mostly used for sports and late-night documentaries. The kitchen counter held a coffee maker, a bowl with two bananas rapidly approaching the point of no return, and a stack of unopened mail he'd eventually sort because that's what people did. Someday.

Outside, the morning after Thanksgiving had settled gray over the city. Rain still clung to the parking lot below in shallow puddles that reflected apartment lights flicking on one by one as neighbors began returning to ordinary life. The holiday was over, retail stores would be opening early and football highlights would dominate television. Leftovers would become lunch. For most people.

Mercer's attention remained on the newspaper spread across his kitchen table.

BIG BUST: New Local FBI Chief Takes Down Corruption, the headline declared.

Above it stretched a photograph that occupied nearly half the page.

The suspect - a thick-necked man in his late fifties whose expensive overcoat had clearly been thrown on in a hurry - was being escorted down the front walk of a large colonial house while camera flashes burst through the darkness. His expression hovered somewhere between outrage and disbelief. One hand was cuffed behind his back. The other was being guided firmly downward by Special Agent in Charge Tonya Ward.

Oh man look at her. 

Mercer studied the photograph again. His was wearing his suit slacks, but they were unzipped. 

She looks so tall.

Whoever the Bureau's media office had brought along last night had known exactly where to stand. Ward occupied the visual center of the frame without seeming to. Charcoal overcoat unbuttoned even in the cold - on purpose? Dark hair immaculate despite the drizzle. One hand resting high on the suspect's scruff - gripping, directing. Her posture remained perfectly upright while the man stumbled half a step behind her, creating the unmistakable impression that she was moving him rather than merely accompanying him.

Mercer remembered how heavy the man actually was.

He had helped search the house while another team - agents Ward had brought with her from Atlanta, along with several other female agents Mercer knew better - secured computers, paper records, and several locked filing cabinets. The city’s Procurement Director had tried planting himself in the foyer at one point, insisting nobody - ‘especially a woman’ (his big mistake) - was entering his study without another warrant. Mercer and another agent had exchanged a glance, preparing to move him.

Ward had simply stepped forward first.

"We're done debating now," she'd said, her voice even enough that Mercer had barely registered she'd spoken. Then she'd taken the man lightly by the back of his jacket collar and guided him decisively three full steps sideways. His resistance had evaporated almost immediately.

The search resumed.

The newspapers, of course, had summarized the charges in cleaner language than the warrant itself had.

‘Bid-rigging…Honest services fraud…Conspiracy. Diversion of federally allocated housing and shelter funds through shell contractors….’

Mercer folded the paper back slightly and reached for his coffee. Hope House had appeared in one of the supporting affidavits, as had other women’s shelters. He hadn't thought much about it then. Just another line item in another federal case.

Now, after everything he'd watched on television yesterday - those Thanksgiving charity events, the crowds, the interviews, the coverage of Far Horizons volunteers serving meals across the city - it landed differently. Money that had supposedly been designated to support shelters like those had instead disappeared into padded construction contracts and consulting fees. Corruption never really stayed on paper, he knew. This guy was a scuz, and Ward wanted everyone to know it.

Her coat had been buttoned-up at one point, before the cameras started. Look at those hips. ‘Tonka’ Ward…her dump truck…

His phone vibrated against the tabletop, interrupting his reverie and making him pull his hands from his pants. It was Rourke, an early morning text from a guy that could be sleeping in. Mercer frowned slightly before opening the message.

Morning.

A second bubble appeared.

See Channel 5 yesterday? That Far Horizons thing?

Mercer typed one-handed. The other went back to being busy. Eyes on Ward’s hips. 

Some of it.

The reply arrived almost immediately.

Funny thing. Guy from the bombing surveillance was there.

Mercer's fingers stopped above the screen. He stopped stroking himself. 

What?

Three dots.

Gone.

Then:

Statue guy. The big boy. The one we were looking at for the IED. Walked right into the fundraiser, behind the chick doing the newscast. Probably ate dinner.

Mercer frowned harder. That couldn't be right. The surveillance stills from the failed bombing had been frustratingly inconclusive: large male, heavy build, baseball cap, partial facial profile. Enough to circulate internally but not enough for probable cause. He typed carefully.

Positive ID?

Several seconds passed. Route replied. 

No. Strong resemblance. Bureau should've at least had eyes on him. Did we?

Mercer leaned back in his chair. Should have.

Unless...

He found himself mentally assembling explanations almost before he'd realized he was doing it. Surveillance resources had been stretched, they were on holiday staffing, there’d be no arrest authority and insufficient evidence. Or perhaps - perhaps the point wasn't the man, perhaps it was everyone around him.

His phone buzzed again. Rourke again.

Or maybe somebody wanted to see who else showed up or what this guy would do. 

Mercer read that twice, then a third time. He set the phone down beside the newspaper without replying.

Across the table, the newspaper photograph seemed somehow different now. Ward wasn't looking at the cameras. She wasn't looking at the suspect either. Her gaze had been fixed somewhere beyond all of them, already anticipating whatever came next. Mercer remembered feeling that throughout the operation, that every instruction had arrived a few seconds before he realized he needed it. Every team member had already been where they were supposed to be. The arrest itself had almost seemed secondary to the demonstration that it could be executed cleanly and for the cameras.

The coffee had cooled to the point that when Mercer took another sip, he grimaced.  He glanced toward the clock on the microwave.

8:04.

His government phone lit up again:

Domestic Amplification Working Group 0900 Hours Conference Room A

No agenda, no attachments, just the meeting.

She’ll be there. 

Mercer stood, folded the newspaper once more before setting it neatly beside the sink. He caught himself looking one last time at the front-page photograph - at Ward's calm expression amid the camera flashes, at the effortless certainty with which she'd occupied the center of someone else's story - and at his suit jacket hanging over the back of the kitchen chair. He still had a few minutes. 

He dropped his pants, and boxers, to his knees, and placed one hand on the counter for support. 

She’ll be there. With those hips…

Whatever the meeting was about, he found himself looking forward to it.

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