"Of course."
Of course. That was it. The attitude. The attitude was everything. Shannon felt almost breathless. When he made a few changes, he could almost see the women lining up to be with him.
"What's your first name?" Chastain asked when the pastry on his plate was almost gone.
"Antonio."
"Well, Antonio, you have to figure witnesses are already rattled; they don't need anyone coming on tough to them. Calm them down so they can think, go low-key so they don't feel threatened and keep things to themselves." He paused to take a bite. "Say you've got a couple of kids who were someplace they shouldn't have been, and they saw something. If they're scared, they'll lie to cover their asses because they know their parents are going to be pissed. Reassure them. Talk to the parents yourself if you have to, so they don't scare the kid into shutting up entirely. You won't get anything if they do." Shannon knew interrogation techniques: present yourself as understanding, even sympathetic. Maybe you're talking to a guy you know beat his wife to death. You say, "Man, I know how you feel. Sometimes my wife gets in my face, and I just want to punch a hole in something, you know?" Never mind that you're lying; the perp doesn't know that. He's scared, he's upset, he lost control and killed his wife, and he's looking at nothing but trouble. A friendly voice is maybe all he needs to spill his guts. Chastain gave that same friendly, sympathetic ear to witnesses, too. People probably tripped over their own feet to get to him and start talking.
"How much follow-up do you normally do on a case like this?" he asked Chastain curiously.
"As much as the lieutenant wants me to do." Chastain's voice was neutral. "If we can get an ID, I'll notify his family. They probably won't care, but at least they can take care of his burial."
"You think he was a mental?"
Chastain shrugged, indicating the odds were even. "He didn't look like a doper, didn't have that wasted look. Some of the homeless have families who send money to them. It's a lot easier than trying to take care of someone with a mental condition. Just turn 'em out on the streets." Shannon nodded. The situation wasn't that unusual. Back in the seventies or early eighties, a bunch of do-gooders had gone to court to get patients released from mental institutions on the grounds that they were perfectly capable of functioning in society. Well, they were, as long as they took their medication. Problem was, crazy people took their medication only when they lived in a controlled environment, like a mental institution. Put them in the real world, a lot of them went off their meds and became more than their families could handle. When the stress became too much, a lot of the mentals ended up on the street, unable to hold a job or even carry on a decent conversation. They shuffled around talking to themselves, cursing people, relieving themselves in public. They were sitting ducks for mindless street violence, thrown in as they were with the dopers and the criminal element. Something in Chastain's voice alerted Shannon, a cold undertone. "You're pissed, huh?"
"Not yet. If it turns out he had a family that could have been taking care of him, then I'll be pissed." It was said mildly enough, but a chill ran down Shannon's spine. It struck him that despite Chastain's polite sophistication, when he was pissed he could be one mean son of a bitch. Chastain gathered the dishes, rinsed them, and placed them in the dishwasher. After refilling both their cups with coffee, he said, "We'll take the coffee with us. Let's go do some paperwork." They both sighed.
Marc made a mental note. If he had time, he'd follow through on this case maybe a little more than he normally would. For one thing, he wanted to find out where this guy had got hold of a Glock .17. Little oddities like that annoyed the hell out of him.
Chapter 5
"How did you dispose of the body?"
"Drove his rental car over into Mississippi, put him in it, wiped it down. We made it look like a robbery. Someone will find him in a day or so."
"What?" The first man sat forward in his huge leather chair, which had cost almost as much as the average car. "Why in hell didn't you dump him in a bayou so a gator could get him?" He was incensed. The man standing before him patiently shook his head. "You don't want a bunch of spooks losing one of their guys and starting to nose around looking for him. Strange shit can happen."
"Medina was CIA. The Agency isn't allowed to operate inside the country." Like rules—and laws—weren't broken every day, the second man thought wearily. Sure, the Agency wasn't supposed to operate within its own borders. Did anyone who wasn't naive as hell think it didn't happen anyway? Unofficially, of course. He didn't even bother to reply to that nonsense, just said
soothingly, "Looking for Medina isn't the same thing as running an operation. And Medina was a contract agent, not a Company guy, so he worked for other people, too. The CIA is the least of my worries. Give them the body so they know what happened to him. You said Medina was a real hard-ass, but from what I've heard, he didn't hold a candle to his son. I'd just as soon not have Junior snooping around looking for his old man."
"I haven't heard anything about a son," the first man said, frowning in concern. He glanced at the framed photo sitting on his desk, at the beloved, smiling faces. His own family was of paramount importance to him. As a young man, he had wanted nothing more than to win his father's approval and make him proud. He didn't dare expect less from Rick Medina's son.
"Not many people have. I've only heard a few whispers about him myself, and that's because I've done some work in the business."