They seemed particularly interested in who killed whom, so I related what MaryLou told me and I hypothesized that-by process of elimination-the rest were murdered by Clyde or Hank. I shared my view that I didn't think Jason pulled any triggers himself.

Bob confided that in fact, ballistics comparisons from the weapons found on the bodies at the townhouse confirmed this guess. Yet there remained open questions about who fired the LAW on the beltway and who pushed the button that exploded the bomb that killed Joan Townsend, as though it really mattered.

But these people wrote reports for a living, and their lives were dedicated to leaving no blank spaces on any form. So they batted around a few theories, and I listened politely, without comment, until we got down to the nutcutting, which turned out to be not an inappropriate metaphor.

Larry said to me, "So when you arrived at the townhouse, only the red pickup was present. Correct?"

"No, the yellow pickup was also present. I was driving it."

Larry didn't like being corrected and snapped, "That's what I meant."

"Then say what you mean." I didn't like Larry very much.

Bob asked me, "Do you know where the black pickup was? The one driven by Clyde Barnes?"

"Why?"

"If you don't mind, we'll ask the questions."

"Bob, I do mind. If you want me to keep answering your questions, you'll answer my questions."

Bob leaned toward me and said, "I'm not here to cure your curiosity, Major. We can always compel your testimony"

"How, Bob?"

"What?"

"I don't work at your Bureau. How will you compel my testimony?"

"We have our ways. Answer my question," Bob insisted. Incidentally, I didn't really like Bob either.

Larry again asked if I knew where the black pickup went after we departed the shopping center and before Clyde returned to the townhouse.

I replied, "Larry, I'm developing a serious memory lapse."

Bill appeared to be the designated good cop. He said, very amiably, "All right, Sean. Some of the money seems to be missing."

"Seems to be missing?"

Bill smiled unctuously. "Hey… you got me there, didn't you? All right-it is missing."

"How much is missing, Bill?"

Time for Bob, and he said, "None of your business."

"It is now."

Larry felt the need to assert himself. "Drummond, I don't like your attitude. I'll remind you again, this is an official investigation"

When that didn't seem to work, Larry turned to Phyllis and said, "Reason with him."

Phyllis smiled at Larry and replied, "I've tried from the day he started working here. The only advice I can offer is to answer his questions. He sometimes responds well to reciprocity."

Larry, Bob, and Bill looked a little baffled by this insight. I'm sure Bureau employees were scared out of their wits by these guys. I'm sure Larry, Bob, and Bill asked, and everybody popped out answers. I was just as sure I'd be an idiot to answer another question without knowing what this was about.

It was Bill's turn again. He said, "About twelve million is missing."

"About?"

He smiled again. "Twelve and a half, to be precise."

I remarked, "Precision is always good, right, Bill? I mean, what if you guys had identified yourselves as internal investigations or whatever you are, and what if I had been distrustful of you right from the start. What if I knew this was an interrogation, not a debriefing. That wouldn't have been good, would it, Bill?"

Bob said, "You'd be well-advised to can the sarcasm, Drummond."

Phyllis interjected, "He can't. It's like Tourette's syndrome. It just spills from his lips, an uncontrollable river."

I smiled at Phyllis. She smiled back. I really liked her. I think she was getting used to me.

Bob and Larry thought Bill had the best chance with me, and he took over. But I didn't really like Bill either, to be honest. He was the sneaky type. Bill said, "Help us determine where the money went. You told us it was loaded in the back of Clyde Wizner's truck when he departed the shopping center. Between our discussions with Agent Sanchez and with you, we've managed to time out approximately how long it took each pickup to arrive at the townhouse. You arrived with MaryLou Johnson, you said, perhaps ten to twelve minutes behind Hank Mercer. Correct?"

Bill examined my face for confirmation. I stared back at him, sort of blankly.

Eventually Bill said, "We know for sure that Clyde Wizner arrived at least thirty minutes later. What did you and MaryLou Johnson talk about during the nearly forty-five minutes you were alone together?"

"Mostly, Bill, we argued about where my cut was to be delivered." Obviously this was a joke. Right? I should work on my comic timing.

Bill did not laugh, or even smile. Bob examined me more closely.

Larry decided I was kidding. He was sharp. He leaned toward me and said, "When Clyde Wizner first called, he specified that you had to be the courier. Why you? And how did he know you?"

"Ask him."

After a moment, Bob also leaned forward and informed me, "The Army would not allow us to view your military records, which they said are classified and sealed. However, the Office of the Judge Advocate cooperated with our request for information. We were informed that although you were never actually stationed at Fort Hood, on three different occasions you were there on temporary duty, once for over two months. Isn't it possible that during those months you might have met Clyde Wizner?"

"Of course, Bob. It's possible."

Larry saw that Bob wasn't doing well, and said, "Here's another thing we find interesting. Agent Sanchez informed us that you initially refused to take the tracking device."

"She called it a suppository. I don't like people looking up my ass. I was joking."

"Yes. That's what she thought at first-a perfectly innocuous misunderstanding. She then assured you it was taken orally and your excuse disappeared."

"Sounds right."

Bob hit his hand on the table and pointed out, "However, a pool of vomit was found beside the van at the shopping center."

"Hank kicked me in the stomach. I blew lunch. It's in my oral statement. So what?"

"So maybe you were trying to dislodge the tracking device. Maybe you stuck your finger down your throat, initiating an involuntary gag."

"I still had the tracking device, Bob."

Larry stopped using conditionals and switched to straightforward accusations. He said, "But you didn't know that. Through the dense smoke you couldn't see whether it came out or not. And considering the hectic circumstances, you were in too much of a hurry to dig through your vomit to be sure it was gone."

Bob wanted back into the action and said, "Nor was there a bomb in the van, as you informed Sanchez and Margold. We've listened to the transcripts of all your phone conversations with the control van. You demanded they remove all coverage, and you threw a fit when you discovered the tails were still on you."

I think Bill was tired of playing the good cop, which wasn't a particularly comfortable fit for him anyway. Ticking off fingers, he said, "As we reviewed the activities of that day, Drummond, you're the sore thumb. Wizner asked for you, and you eagerly volunteered. You tried to refuse a tracking device. Later you tried to get rid of it. You lied about the bomb and tried to get the coverage eliminated." He paused and then, with half-assed melodrama, pointed a finger at my chest. "Where's the money, Drummond?"

Larry, Bob, and Bill sat back in their chairs and studied me. Now I knew what they thought, and I knew why they thought it. Nor did it escape my notice that they hadn't read me my rights or formally charged me. Ergo, they lacked evidence. They had a strong suspicion backed up by a strong circumstantial construction. Period.

Also they suspected that the moment they initiated the rights process, I would clam up and demand representation, and around and around we would go. Smart guys.