Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,71

medical certainty. Yes, I understand.”

“It’s certainly within the realm of possibility that his death was wrongfully­—”

“Right, there’s always some possibility of homicide,” he says, interrupting her again. “But that’s not what happened here.” Dwight nods at Elizabeth, who’s sitting next to him. “Okay, Agent, thank you for the good work.”

The screen goes dark, and Dwight pushes himself up from his chair. “It’s a dead end,” he says.

“It was worth a look,” says Elizabeth. “This man was the only—”

“It was worth a look,” says Dwight, “and now it’s a dead end.”

“Just because she can’t prove it in court doesn’t mean it isn’t worth investigating,” I say. “Not every lead is provable in court. It’s still a lead.”

Dwight removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “‘Not every lead is provable in court.’ Thank you, Dockery, for that insightful wisdom.”

“He could have smothered Mayday without leaving signs of struggle. If he Tasered him—”

“If he Tasered him! Yes! Leaving marks that don’t look anything like a Taser’s! So Citizen David isn’t just some crusader for the poor and downtrodden—he’s also a diabolical serial killer who can fool the Bureau’s top forensic pathologist!”

“Sir—”

“Look, Dockery, we all know you helped catch Graham.” He waves his hands theatrically. “We all know—believe me, we know; God, do we know—that you helped bring down a brilliant serial killer. Okay? But quit looking for lightning to strike twice. Quit making this about you. You had your moment in the sun, and it’s over now.”

With blood rushing to my face and anger welling up inside me, I struggle to find words to answer him. Keep it together, I tell myself. Don’t be the “hysterical woman” he wants you to be.

“This wasn’t the work of some evil, sociopathic genius, Dockery. Citizen David is a crusader. He goes after corporations and government entities when he thinks they’re unfair to the poor. He doesn’t sit at home and build custom-made Tasers and devise diabolical schemes to murder the very people he’s trying to protect.”

I clear my throat and place my hands in front of me, forcing them not to ball into fists. “Sir, I’m only saying—”

“This man had a lung disease, for Christ’s sake. A homeless man who—I’m going to take a wild guess—didn’t lead the healthiest of lives on his best day, who had a chronic pulmonary disease that he didn’t get treatment for, probably didn’t even know about, but we should focus on his ‘murder’”—he puts air quotes around the word—“because he had traces of plastic on his tongue, which even Agent Janus said could come from simply unwrapping a sandwich and eating it. Yes, let’s drop everything else we’re doing and spend all our resources on that lottery ticket.”

“I’m not suggesting that we drop—”

“Or,” Dwight says, yet again cutting off a woman, this time raising his index finger as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him, “we could leave the work of agents to agents. You wanna be one, go to Quantico. Until then, stick to your patterns and algorithms.”

“Mr. Director,” says Elizabeth.

“No.” He slices a hand through the air as he turns to Elizabeth. “She got her follow-up. She got her autopsy. I didn’t stop it, did I? And it came back inconclusive, at best—at best. Nobody thinks this homeless man was murdered. However,” he says, turning back to me, “if memory serves, a few blocks away from where that man died, two hundred homeless people absolutely, unquestionably were murdered in the bombing of a building.”

“That’s what I’m—”

“Focus. On. That.” He punches a finger at me with each word. “No more about this—May-whatever. Mayday? Enough of him. Enough!”

I drop my head but don’t say anything.

“I warned you that this was your last chance,” he says. “I catch you one more time going on some self-promoting witch hunt instead of following the real clues, and you’re done, Dockery. You get me? Done.”

I close my eyes as I hear the door to the conference room open and then slam shut.

70

I RETURN to my cubicle, suddenly feeling the weight of sleepless nights, the roller-coaster ride of momentum and setback, in my neck and shoulders, in my rubbery legs.

I’m on my own, as usual. No support from the Bureau. Just me and my gang of analysts.

Well, so be it, I tell myself. We’ve done it before. We’ll do it again.

“How did it go?” Rabbit asks me.

“Great, wonderful, peachy.” I throw down a file on my desk. “Dwight said that he admired my tenacity, that I’ve earned his respect and trust, and that no