Agent Bayne: PsyCop 9 Read online

  “I was just wondering the same thing.” I sat down beside him. “Ever have business with the Fifth Precinct?”

  He squinted harder, then said, “Oh—you’re the PsyCop. Bayne, right?” He held out his hand, and I shook it. “Patrick Barley. I used to work at Mid North Medical.”

  As I pumped his hand mechanically up and down, I wondered why absolutely nothing rang a bell, especially with a name like Barley. But then it clicked. The Clinic. He’d handed me how many bottles of Auracel through the reception window, and I never thought of him as having a name other than Nerdy Horn-Rimmed Glasses. “You got new frames,” I said, but before I could add anything even more awkward, a brisk, suited woman from HR marched in, dropped a stack of folders on the table, and positioned herself importantly at a ginormous digital whiteboard.

  I haven’t trained for many jobs, but I suspect orientation is pretty much the same anywhere. Time cards, dress codes, and in the case of law enforcement, an additional spiel about where you can and can’t leave your gun. Dress code was no problem. I’d bought ten of the same black suit, two dozen white shirts and a gray striped tie that blended in with all my other boring neckwear. The jackets rode a little funny across my holster and I looked like an undertaker, but the sleeves fit okay, and at least it removed all the decision-making from my morning routine.

  I was wondering about the possibility of “casual Fridays” and worrying about what I might wear when I realized that today’s orientation featured something new and different: a briefing about psychic abilities. In the interest of full disclosure, everybody’s talent and level was indicated by a series of symbols on their ID. “Take a look at the M5 on Agent Bayne’s identification,” the HR lady said. “He’ll be making sure we don’t have any unauthorized visitors.”

  All eyes in the room turned to me. I wondered if I was expected to say something. Thankfully not. The presenter turned back to her board and began a spiel about various training schedules, and everyone’s attention swung back to her. For such a minor interaction, the feeling it left behind felt odd, and somewhat profound. Sure, there was the “crap, she’s talking about me” sensation, but the ugly sinking feeling I usually get in the pit of my gut when somebody notices me was conspicuously absent. Why? Because for once in my life, it didn’t feel like I was being judged and found sorely lacking.

  As I pondered that, I realized Barley was trying to catch my eye. He gave me a single nod. And I returned it.

  Approval. I hardly knew what to make of it.

  We broke for lunch, and the presenter pulled me aside and told me the director would like to see me. The sense of approval I had felt from the new recruits in general was weird enough; the quiet respect I sensed from her was downright strange.

  A male Caucasian dark-suited agent came to escort me to Laura’s office. I’d been thinking of them as being interchangeable, I realized. And that was a big mistake.

  Officer “Andy” didn’t have a particularly memorable face, but once you’ve caught someone spying on you, it’s pretty hard to forget them. He looked different in a dark suit than he had in a Chicago PD uniform. There’s a certain barrel-chested swagger that goes with the bulletproof vest and gun belt that didn’t really translate to civilian wear. Without all the gear, Andy looked a lot less bulky—more like a banker than a Fed. His patrol officer’s tan had faded, and in the absence of the uniform hat, his head looked a bit pointy.

  One thing hadn’t changed about good old Andy, though. He snuck a weird look at me every time he thought I was ignoring him. This time, though, he decided to break the ice. “You heard of Stargate?”

  “I…suppose.”

  He got even more uncomfortably intense. “You seen it yourself?”

  “I don’t really dedicate much time to TV.”

  That seemed to quell the conversation pretty effectively. Though from the corner of my eye, I saw he was still giving me weird looks.

  I probably should’ve paid less attention to Andy and more to where we were going. He led me through a weird series of switchbacks and turns until my sense of direction was well and truly compromised. I was about to ask if he couldn’t have just put a bag over my head when we stopped at a door with a promising nameplate: Director Kim.

  Andy knocked. An electronic lock clicked open, and we entered.

  Back when Con Dreyfuss was director, he’d had a spacious office that looked like something out of a magazine. Unfortunately, that office held more than just expensive furniture and bland oil paintings. Three guys had been gunned down in that room, and they’d each left a nonphysical souvenir behind.

  Laura Kim looked pretty much the same as she had when she’d been the Operations Coordinator of the FPMP. Dark fitted suit. Minimal makeup. Phenomenally put together all around—yet vaguely out of place in the low-ceilinged room with only a single window with a view that consisted of a minuscule strip of weeds and a brick wall.

  She said, “Thank you, Agent Parsons, that’s all for now.”

  I gave “Andy” a small glare as he left, and when the door clicked shut behind him, asked, “What’s with the office?”

  “Do you seriously think I could work in a room where dead people were wandering around?” She walked around her desk so we were face to face, perched on the edge, and crossed her arms. “I went through all of Agent Duff’s records, and this section of the floor has never registered any spirit activity.” She cut her eyes to me. “That’s correct, isn’t it? You don’t see anything, right?”

  I pulled down some white light and gave the office a more careful look. “All clear.”

  Laura’s shoulders sagged. “That’s a relief.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “But just because I need you—and that was never any question—it doesn’t mean you can go around acting like a diva.”

  “What?”

  “Agent Dreyfuss may have seemed like he was at your beck and call, but not only was he phenomenally good at keeping all his plates spinning without anyone knowing he was running ragged, he had me doing all his behind-the-scenes work. Now, not only did I inherit whatever animosity was stirred up between him and FPMP National, but I’ve got to train someone to take my place. My one consolation was that I wouldn’t have to funnel time and energy into hand-holding a childish and demanding medium. Don’t take that away from me.”

  Comparing me to Richie was a low blow. “I’m not generally high-maintenance.”

  “Everyone takes a polygraph before we give them full access to the building and hand them a weapon. Even me. You can see the logic in that, can’t you?”

  I hadn’t really thought about it that way. “I just figured it was part of the overall violation of my privacy.”

  “Look, I’m not happy about taking an annual polygraph, no one is.” Oh great, I had to do it every year? “But it’s not as if the results are posted in the monthly newsletter. Only top-level security has access to the data. I can’t stress how critical it is to make sure we run a tight ship, and we need to ensure that everyone on the team can be trusted. Look, Vic, I always felt like you and I had great rapport. And your service to the Program has been invaluable. Any reasonable accommodation I can make for you, I’m happy to make. But that doesn’t give you free license to take advantage.”

  Damn, asking for what I wanted was a hell of a lot more complicated than I’d ever realized it would be. “I’m just not keen on being hooked up to machinery,” I admitted.

  “Think of it this way. You’re not the only one who has to take a polygraph to do their job. Most other federal agencies require a polygraph, and plenty of positions in the private sector, too. Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t take one for the Fifth Precinct.”

  Well, I wasn’t. I’d come to find out Warwick had made all kinds of exceptions for me.

  “You’ll have access to highly sensitive information and full run of the building. So, yes, it’s crucial you take the polygraph. And if I make an exception for you, it sets a terrible precedent.”

  And if she did
give me a pass, a loose-lipped telepath could pick up on it, and pretty soon everyone would know that I thought I was too cool for school. Those approving looks would dry up, and I would be no better off than I was at the Fifth.

  “Fine. Hook me up.”

  She smiled warmly. “I appreciate it. And I hate to cut our meeting short before we have a chance to catch up, but unfortunately, Dr. K was unable to clone me, so I really need to start breaking in my new assistant.” She tapped something into her watch, then said to me, “Your keycard is functional. Do you remember the way to the polygraph suite, or would you like Agent Parsons to escort you?”

  “I’ll find my own way. Thanks.”

  “And, Vic…I don’t have the time or resources to personally deal with your every last request. If you need something, you’ll have to go through the proper channels. Just like everyone else.”

  Ouch.

  As I headed back toward the polygraph suite, I tried to recall if I’d ever been called a diva before. Unlikely. Then again, it never occurred to me to ask Sergeant Warwick for any favors—even though it turned out he’d been helping me behind the scenes all along.

  Laura might not have time for me like she used to, but she was still my ally. I pondered whether it was random happenstance that put Officer Andy back on my radar, or if she thought she was being helpful by pairing me up with someone from my old precinct. Laura was no mind-reader. She had no way of knowing what a square peg I was, and that any reminder of the department would only make me uneasy.

  The fact was, I might as well prepare myself to encounter all kinds of familiar faces. Who knows how many people in my day-to-day life were actually FPMP agents checking up on the highest documented medium?

  Since I’d been pondering my place in the world and not my location in the building, I soon realized I was nowhere near the polygraph suite, but Laura’s old command center instead, the lobby outside Con’s office. I found another employee admiring the sweeping desk, and while I did know him, thankfully it wasn’t because he’d been posing as my mailman, accountant or next door neighbor.

  Patrick Barley ran his hands reverently across the slick marble countertop, then looked up at me and smiled. Without years of practicing the standard cop face, he was a total open book. “Can you believe it?” he said. “We actually work at the FPMP now. Most people don’t even know the place exists.”

  “It’s a step up from your reception window.”

  “No kidding—if I heard ‘can I get fries with that’ one more time, who knows what I would’ve done! Operations Coordinator—not gonna lie, it’s a major upgrade for me.”

  Patrick was the new Laura? What a relief we’d gotten off on the right foot.

  “So,” he said, “where are you headed?”

  “Polygraph.”

  “I had mine this morning. It was so interesting. Not like you see on TV with the scrolling paper readout—it’s all on the computer—but the stuff they hook up to you is totally old-school.”

  I closed my eyes and sighed.

  “What, you’re nervous? There’s nothing to be afraid of. Just remember to breathe, and you’ll do great.”

  Chapter 3

  The notion that someone was capable of taking a polygraph without feeling utterly violated was certainly food for thought, but it didn’t make me any less apprehensive when the tester wrapped a harness around my chest and diaphragm to monitor my respiration. The chest restraints weren’t the only ones. A tight band went around my left arm, and yes, I knew full well it was a blood pressure cuff and not a restraint, but try telling that to my racing heart. Sensors were clipped to the fingertips of my other hand. And even my feet rested on some sort of device. To measure what? I had no idea.

  The tester clicked around her screen for a few seconds, then said “Is your blood pressure normally…?”

  I closed my eyes and tried to calm down. It didn’t work. Already, sweat was dampening the back of my shirt.

  “This really is routine,” she said. “Just breathe, and we’ll have a conversation, and you answer yes or no. Right now we’re getting a baseline. That’s all.”

  So she said, and so my rational mind might have believed. But the rest of me was screaming Camp Hell.

  “Let’s start with an easy one: Is your name Victor Bayne?”

  Yes. At least, I thought it was. Wasn’t it? When I thought back to everyone I knew whose name had been changed, however, I couldn’t be all that sure. “As far as I know,” I said.

  “Don’t overthink it.”

  “You can see me overthinking it on the monitor?”

  “A yes or no response is all I need.”

  “Okay. Uh…yes?”

  “Right. Let’s keep going. You’re thirty-nine years old?

  Was I? Or were my records falsified? “I think so.”

  “Yes or no.”

  “Yes,” I said glumly.

  “Okay, great. You’re doing just fine.” I didn’t need to be a telepath to know she’d just told a whopper of a white lie. “Again, we’re just getting a baseline. And…is today Wednesday?”

  “Yes.” Luckily, I answered before I could spin out some weird fantasy in which even the day of the week was questionable.

  “And at your last position you were a police detective?”

  Was I? Or was I some sort of sick puppet, just going through the motions of collaring people who would later be released?

  “Victor? Yes or no.”

  “Yes.” My heart was pounding.

  So that was just the baseline, and the questioning went on. The sorts of things I would expect: had I ever accepted a bribe, falsified a report, lied under oath…which I probably would have, but thanks to the fact that I’d never needed to testify, I hadn’t been faced with that temptation. I would have lied in a red hot minute to protect my own secrets, but thankfully the yes-or-no responses didn’t require me to elaborate.

  “Okay great, you’re doing just fine.” She seriously thought I believed that? Maybe she was the one who needed to be hooked up to the polygraph. “Now we’ll move on to your friends and associates.”

  Standard operating procedure in any interrogation. She gave my address and asked if I lived there. I said I did.

  “And do you live there alone?”

  My heart stuttered as fourteen years of dodging questions about my love life came crashing down. “No.”

  “I show Agent Marks also resides at this address. Is that the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone else at this address?”

  “No.”

  It might have been the yes-or-no nature of the questions that she didn’t delve into the nature of our relationship, but, honestly, she didn’t really need to, did she? Two single adult men living together…. My apprehension turned to a queasy but unexpected relief. Because while the Fifth Precinct had been blissfully unaware of my sexuality—either that, or they were trying very hard to pretend they had no idea—here at the FPMP, I was out from day one. No Bikini Inspector T-shirts here. I supposed I could thank Jacob for paving the way and volunteering that info a few months ago. And while the stubborn part of me might have liked to do things in my own way and my own time, the majority of me was profoundly relieved.

  She went on to see if I was affiliated with any sort of group, from church to civic organizations to softball teams, but no. Other than work and home, I didn’t have much of a life. There was no family to pump me for information about. As for friends, she touched on Maurice and Zigler, but must not have been privy to Crash, which was just as well. The less info the FPMP had on him, the better.

  After a good hour and a half, she’d exhausted her questions, and I’d exhausted my adrenaline. I felt nauseated, worn out, and clammy, and I was thankful when my inquisitor checked her computer and said, “Okay, we’re done here. I’ve activated the magnetic strip on your new ID. Wear it clipped to your chest, and use it to access any secure areas of the building. Or we have lanyards, would you like a lanyard? No? And here�
��s a license for your wallet when you’re in the field. Report to the range for a marksmanship test the day after tomorrow on your way to HQ and…hold on a sec, I also have a message for you to stop by room 302 before you sign out tonight. Then that should be it for the day.”

  Good. Because back at the cannery, there was a long hot shower with my name all over it. And maybe my throat itched for a Seconal, but that clamoring urge would need to be ignored, since I’d made sure there were no Reds to be had. Not because I was worried I’d be polygraphed over my illegal drug use (and seriously, thank God they only asked about the Auracel) but because I didn’t care for the idea of anyone being able to use that dependence to manipulate me.

  As I swiped myself in and out of various areas where, before, as a consultant, I’d required a babysitter, I reflected that other than the polygraph, my first day in the official employ of the FPMP hadn’t really been all that bad. No one had puffed up and tried to out-macho me. No one had cowered away from me because of my talent. No one had even crossed themselves while muttering Spook Squad. Heck, the director herself had even claimed the two of us had a “rapport,” which was something I’d never bothered striving for with anyone.

  But maybe here…I could.

  Maybe I hadn’t tanked the polygraph. Why else would they have given me the IDs? And why else would they be waiting for me at the range to come shoot things?

  Third floor. I turned down the wrong hall, found myself in an empty meeting room, scanned briefly for unwelcome nonphysical visitors, then turned around, backtracked, and worked my way toward 302.

  Being somewhere that my coworkers didn’t merely tolerate my talent, but admire it, would take some getting used to. The tradeoff was steep, though: an utter lack of privacy. While I did see the logic in keeping tabs on me to make sure an opportune spirit hadn’t stepped in, and my mind was still my own, that didn’t mean I had to like it. But since all my deepest secrets were already splayed open for everyone to see, things would be fine going forward just as long as I kept my nose clean and didn’t invite further scrutiny from….