Pay or Pray

Chapter 1 “Wake up, lieutenant, your day is about to begin,” Theresa, the major domo of the Criminal Investigation Bureau of the Fairfax Police Department, announced her presence. Chase Mansfield, who had been dozing with his feet propped on his desk and his head braced against the wall behind his chair, opened his eyes, glanced at Theresa, blinked twice, and closed them again. “Very well,” Theresa smiled. “I’ll call the chief back and tell him.” “Tell him what?” “That you are not interested in responding to his order to appear forthwith in his office.” “What’s he want?” “I don’t know.” “Then ask Barney,” Chase referred to his ostensible superior, Major Barney Hopkins, the Chief of the CIB. Barney, once one of Chase’s subordinates, had been elevated to the position after Chase who preferred investigations to managing the bureaucracy had declined the promotion. Chase now served in a position he had created, Special Assistant to the CIB commander. He handled sensitive investigations usually assigned directly by Chief Raymond Arthur when Chase did not stumble on them directly from his closet sized office adjacent to the CIB reception room dominated by Theresa. “I can ask the chief to ask him if you wish,” Theresa smiled. Chase waited for Theresa to explain. Theresa did not. Instead, she turned and returned to her desk. Chase sighed and followed. He found Theresa posing with her hand on the phone. “How long has Barney been in the chief’s office?” Chase asked. “Shall I tell them you are on your way?” Theresa asked, enjoying their role reversal. Usually, she was the one futilely trying to get Chase to tell her what was happening. Chase shrugged and headed for the elevator. “Go right in, lieutenant. They are waiting for you,” the chief’s secretary greeted him. “Who’s in there?” Chase asked. The secretary answered by pointing her thumb at the closed door. Chase tapped once and entered to find the chief, Barney, and an oversized, muscular male sitting on the upholstered furniture in the chief’s conversational corner that he reserved for conversations with visiting dignitaries. Chief Raymond Arthur, who had commanded the CIB when Chase had first made detective some twenty years previously, nodded, and turned to the visitor, “Special Agent Cotton, Lieutenant Mansfield, finally.” The stranger turned and glanced at Chase. He inclined his head but did not speak or offer his hand. Chase nodded back, sat down in the last empty chair, and waited for someone to explain. Finally, the chief broke the silence. “I assume you are aware of the incident at George Mason last night.” “No, sir,” Chase answered honestly. The chief frowned and turned to Barney. “Major, I assumed you discussed it at your morning staff meeting.” Barney deferred to Chase with a glance. Chase who seldom attended Barney’s morning staff meetings did not react. “Packard and Whitten handled the call,” Barney did not directly address the chief’s remark. “Both experienced detectives,” the chief spoke to the silent visitor. “Chief, as I noted, that is not an issue,” Cotton said. “We will take over the investigation, and your department need not concern itself.” “And as I noted, Special Agent Cotton,” the chief said. “George Mason University is located in Fairfax County, and we will handle the investigation. Given the Bureau and the Department of Homeland Security’s tangential interest, you may assign one of your officers to work with Lieutenant Mansfield.” Chase looked at Barney who smiled. “Now, if you will excuse me, I will leave you and the lieutenant to work out the details.” Chase, who did not have a clue what was happening, obediently stood up. “Major,” the chief grimaced. “If I could have a moment of your time.” Barney obediently remained seated. Chase started for the door, where he paused with his hand on the knob. He turned and looked at the frowning visitor, waiting for him to recognize that he had been dismissed. Cotton stared at the chief who ignored him. Chase opened the door and stepped into the reception room where he winked at the secretary. By the time he reached the door to the hall, the angry, red-faced visitor stormed out of the inner office. “Special Agent Cotter,” Chase said, deliberately using the wrong surname. “If you would join me in my office, we can discuss the parameters of our limited cooperation.” Chase, like most of his fellow police officers, had a congenital dislike of federal officers. “Cotton,” the angry man corrected. “Like the gin,” Chase smiled. “Lieutenant, you and your chief have just committed professional suicide,” Cotton declared, ignoring Chase’s feeble attempt at humor by referring to Eli Whitney’s cotton gin, a local invention that stimulated an agricultural revolution. As a native Virginian, Chase had learned of the cotton gin very early in his grade school education. Eli Whitney meant nothing to him personally; the name of the inventor had been the first thing that had popped into his mind when the visitor had made an issue of his surname. The two secretaries greeted Cotton’s comment with applause. Chase ignored the fact they were approving of Special Agent’s Cotton’s threat, bowed in the direction of the applause, and started for the elevator leaving the visitor in the chief’s reception room. Officious FBI special agents ranked very low on his deference scale. Quite coincidentally, the elevator door opened before Chase could push the button. He waited for two smiling county employees to exit and entered. Just as the door started to close behind him, a huge paw caught it, and Major Barney Hopkins joined Chase in the elevator. “That didn’t take long,” Chase said. “It doesn’t take the chief long to give a six word order.” Chase pushed the second floor button but did not ask the question he assumed Barney was waiting for him to ask. They rode in silence until the door opened. “Don’t you really want to know?” Barney asked. “Know what?” Chase asked innocently. Barney shrugged and led the way down the hall to their CIB offices where Theresa greeted them with a smile and waited to be briefed. “Please have Bruce and Charles join us,” Barney ordered. A disappointed Theresa frowned but pointed with a thumb in the direction of Barney’s office on her right. Barney turned left and Chase right, deliberately pretending he did not understand he was to participate. “Please join us lieutenant,” Barney called over his shoulder, ignoring Chase’s gesture. “I’m confident the chief would want us to brief you forthwith.” Chase winked at Theresa as he followed Barney into his office and closed the door behind him, knowing that would aggravate Theresa even more. Barney sat down at his desk, nodded at the two detectives, Packard and Whitten, whose faces showed the wear of a long night. Barney sat behind his desk, waited for Chase to take a seat, and then spoke. “The chief dismissed us with a terse command: ‘Don’t let Mansfield screw this investigation up,” Barney smiled. “That’s seven words,” Chase blurted. “So who around here can count?” Barney countered. “Do those seven little words mean we can dump this mess on the lieutenant’s desk?” Packard asked. Both detectives knew that Mansfield preferred to work alone. “Yes,” Barney answered. “I don’t like sentences that end in a preposition,” Chase observed. “Take it with the chief up,” Barney smiled. Before Chase could think of a reply that ended in a preposition, the intercom buzzed. “Yes, Theresa,” Barney said, gracefully, aware that his secretary was dying to know what happened in the chief’s office. He also knew that speaking to her was like using a loudspeaker. Confidentiality was not a word in Theresa’s vocabulary. Her access to the department’s secretarial grapevine was useful at times but required judicious management. “Special Agent Cotton would like a word,” Theresa announced. “Please have Special Agent Cotton join us,