May 5, 1986, 8:18 AM

4
May 5, 1986
8:18 AM

     Agent Danley walked out in the bright, beautiful Texas sunshine following Lieutenant Cantroux out to his car. It had been too long since he had been out in the field. His whole life felt like it was now hemmed in by budgetary meetings in darkened conference rooms. He'd spent so long with other bureaucrats he'd forgotten what it was like to spend time with good old fashioned law enforcement. How good it was to trade the hustle and bustle of DC for the simplicity of Austin.
     Of course, it wasn't all roses. They were having trouble connecting with the Sheriff from Fidello, who they going to meet up with, because his secretary was on maternity leave and one of his deputies was out sick. A well-oiled machine, that Sheriff's Department did not appear to be. Considering Agent Danley's intentions when he got there, he half-suspected he'd be spending a good part of the next two days filing instead of looking through files.
     But Agent Danley knew he had to put his big-city snobbery on pause for just a minute, or else he wouldn't get buy-in from the Sheriff or his deputies, and he was intending to put them to work after he'd gotten the lay of the land.
     "You think this Sheriff's department has a computerized system?"
     Lieutenant Cantroux looked at him. "That a joke?"
     "There are so many grant programs out there! The system would basically be free."
     "Something tells me the good Sheriff is not your grant-writing type."
     "Then I'm going to guess he doesn't have any body armor or assault rifles, either."
     "Perhaps a bit of incentive is necessary."
     "Yeah, I guess I got to give him the incentive."
     "A lot of these small departments, I don't think will ever get there. It's not the resources, really. Going to take a change in generations."
     "Right. But what would your life be life without computerized records?"
     "We're managing a state with ten million people, Agent Danley. Not a one-stoplight town."
     Lieutenant Cantroux smiled and then put on his sunglasses.
     "I'm following you?"
     "Yeah. If you get lost, I'll meet you at the 6 West turnoff. It's about a mile before Waco."
     "Mile before Waco. Got it."
     As soon as Agent Danley got behind the wheel of the unmarked black Lincoln Towncar, he started to search his thoughts. What did he know about the person responsible? Religious, yes, but no preacher. Probably young and idealistic. Military background possibly. Probable history of substance abuse. Marital problems. Possibly a DWI or assault charge on his record. Possible juvenile detention in middle school or high school. 
     Probable transient or at least transplant. If he was well known he would have been discovered already, or even revealed himself by now. What were the boardinghouses, schools, and small businesses that hired transient workers? Agent Danley would guess, he worked for a preacher or a religious school and had been made to view himself as a Christian soldier by somebody. Whether or not that person was providing material support was the question, as whoever did it may be one of several acolytes, perhaps all of them disposable in some regard. Mental retardation possible.
     He could have kicked himself for not remembering to reread some of the narratives of Palestinian terrorists he had in his office. He needed to get inside this person's head. What he was seeing around him felt too familiar for him to create a picture of the perpetrator. Every time he saw him in his mind's eye, Agent Danley saw himself staring back.
     Agent Danley was a religious man, and he was sympathetic to the pro-life cause. But he had to remember that this was someone who was attempting to use terrorism to lionize himself using the sheep's clothing of other people's pro-life sympathies. This man did not want there to be any change. This person had no political goals. His goal was to be remembered after he died, and he had found a cause that allowed him to practice his profound narcissism.
     This was a PLO terrorist. This was a man that thought nothing of gunning down a doctor, a man with a family, for performing a legal medical procedure. To catch a terrorist, he had to remember all those forgettable details, all those little steps along the way that seemed like accidents but were the method by which a terrorist was made. A handler. There was surely a handler somewhere, but finding the handler would be difficult. He was no doubt shrouded in some mystery and perhaps would only be found through the usual ways: a nasty divorce, children after their estate or death.
     And financial records. Because, ultimately, money was always involved, even in the case of fanatics moved by their passion for religious warfare. Even if you planned to pay for everything in cash, you weren't going to have that money lying around unless you had a lucrative cash-only side business. Prostitution and drugs seemed unlikely complimenting businesses. Church donations, sure, the collection box could be good for it, but guns and ammo cost hundreds of dollars. It took a lot of singles and fives to get there.
     No, there was a bank draft somewhere out there that paid for this, or even several. Someone spent their personal money or money from a legitimate business with books and tax records and everything.
     He started to salivate thinking about the paper trail that was no doubt awaiting him. It felt good to be out in the field!