An Office Romance, by Scifinerdgrl Part 3
WEDNESDAY

The next morning Monica bounded up the subway steps and walked
briskly to the front door of the FBI's building.  Janet stood
outside, smoking a cigarette and chatting with two other women. 
She motioned for Reyes to join them and Monica eagerly obliged.

Janet introduced her to the other women, both secretaries, and
they chatted pleasantly about the weather for a few minutes. 
Janet stomped on her cigarette and said, "You seem to be in a
good mood.  You're feeling better?"

"Better than better," Monica confided.  "I've met somebody."

The three women quizzed her on every detail of her evening.  They
were all older than Monica, and married.  They seemed to enjoy
hearing about Joe as much as she enjoyed talking about him. 
Suddenly the faces of the other three women lost their
conspiratorial enthusiasm, and they focused their eyes over
Reyes' shoulders.  

"What?" Reyes asked.  She turned around to see Brad Follmer
taking his final few steps in their direction.

"Janet, Mary, Stella," he nodded to each woman in turn.  "Agent
Reyes."

"Agent Follmer," Monica stuttered.  "Good morning."

"Feeling better?" he asked, the tone of his voice indicating some
displeasure, but Monica had no idea what had caused it.

"Yes, I feel fine," she said, keeping her voice cheerful. "I just
needed a little time off, I guess."

"Good," Brad answered.  "Come to my office in an hour.  We need
to talk."  He wheeled around and walked quickly to the front
door.

"Don't worry, honey," Janet assured her.  "It's good news."  The
older woman winked at Monica, and Monica sighed.

"Thanks.  I sure hope so," Monica said resolutely.  "I'd better
review those cases before... just in case...  Nice meeting you,"
she nodded to Mary and Stella.

Monica spent her free hour reviewing the flagged cases Brad had
assigned to her, and by the time she locked her door she had
memorized the most important details.

When she arrived at Follmer's office, his door was closed and
Janet sat at her desk reading The Post.  She looked up and said,
"Monica!  You're a few minutes early."  She took in Monica's
worried expression, then added, "Relax!  Everything is fine."

Monica sat down, trying to relax as instructed, but finding her
body stiffen as she anticipated a stern lecture, or even worse,
looks of pity and concern from Follmer.  By the time the door
opened she was almost hyperventilating.

"Come in, Monica," Brad said sternly.  Janet winked at Monica and
mouthed "It's okay" as Monica walked past her desk.

"Have a seat, Agent Reyes," Follmer said, much more formal in his
demeanor than he had been the day before.

Monica obeyed, choosing the chair that seemed pushed a little to
the side, facing at Brad's chair less directly.  He sat down and
stared at her for a moment, until she had to look away.  "You had
a difficult day yesterday," he started.  She nodded and found the
courage to look him in the eye.  "So let's start fresh today,
okay?" he said, his eyebrows raised in anticipation of her
compliance.

Her lips turned up slightly.  "Okay," she said, grabbing at the
comfort he offered.

Follmer reached into the knee well of his desk and pulled up her
briefcase.  He slid it across his desk and said, "We got lucky
this time.  Bad guys like child abusers as much as we do."

Monica grabbed at her briefcase as if reuniting with an old
friend, and immediately opened it. As she reached for the files
she felt a wave of warmth and nausea, but fought to suppress it. 
She shut the case again and stared at it, willing it to stop
sending its evil to her.

"Is there something wrong, Agent," Brad said in an unsympathetic
tone.

"No," Monica said hurriedly, and put the briefcase on the floor.

"Good," Brad said, closing the topic of Monica's condition.  "I
want to talk to you about those files.  Why were you taking them
home?"

"I read the cases you flagged, and I wanted to read more cases. 
So I chose these," Monica asserted.

"The truth, Monica," Brad said immediately.

Despite Joe's assurances, she didn't feel comfortable telling
Brad about her experiences.  She hesitated, looking down.

"Well...?" he demanded.

"It's a long story.  It's more than just reading cases," she
started.  He nodded encouragingly.  She continued, "I'm intrigued
by these unsolved cases.  And...  I felt something special about
them."  She watched his face carefully, and noticing his dubious
expression, added, "I have a kind of sense... of evil, of evil
things, evil people...  I know it sounds crazy, but I thought if
I could focus on these I might develop an image of what
happened...."

"You mean a psychic image," Brad said incredulously.  She nodded,
and he responded by running his hand through his hair. 
"Monica..."  He paused, groping for words and at the same time
trying to rid himself of the condescending tone he heard in his
voice.  "Monica," he said more compassionately.  "That's not how
the FBI works.  If that's what you were expecting to do here..."

"No, that's not it!" Monica began to panic.  "I want to do
investigative work.  It's what I've trained for, what I've looked
forward to... And evil... It's really not that common.  I mean,
people do evil things, but sometimes they are good themselves.  I
don't sense it often..." He seemed relieved, but she continued,
"But when I do sense it, I'm right.  I know it.  And I can't
ignore it."

Brad sighed and leaned back in his chair.  "Okay," he challenged
her.  "The playground abduction.  What do you sense from that?"

Monica opened her briefcase and thumbed through the files.  She
pulled out one folder and put it in her lap.  She opened it and
rested her hands on it, one hand over the picture of the child,
the other over the typed report.  The heat of the image seared
into her fingertips, but she breathed deeply, the serenity she'd
found in the martial arts class rising from some unknown source
and giving her more distance from the feeling.  She closed her
eyes and saw a playground, children playing basketball, another
child looking on.  She exhaled, her breath pushing the heat away
from the image.  A cold wind blew across her face, and she saw
the child pull up the hood of his sweatshirt and turn toward her. 
She felt herself sliding backward as the child walked toward her,
then she saw a car door open.  The child leaned toward it and
something pulled him in.  The door slammed and she could see his
face pressed against the window as it drove off.  She could make
out his words as he mouthed "Help me..."  Her mind's eye followed
the car as it drove down a divided boulevard, then wound through
traffic and crossed the Brooklyn Bridge.  She suddenly felt
nauseous, and instinctively closed the folder and threw it on the
floor.

"Well," Brad said skeptically.  "Sense anything?"

"The boy was pulled into a car -- a dark green four-door.  A big
car...  It drove along a divided road, with trees growing in the
median...  It crossed the Brooklyn Bridge....  I'm sorry, that's
all I saw."

"Most of that was in the report.  Try another one."

She pulled another folder from her briefcase and repeated her
procedure.  "This child went to the emergency room for an ear
infection... she's in the waiting room, crying, playing with a
toy...  a teddy bear, I think...  her mother is talking to a
nurse...  a man with a moustache, dark hair, very short... he's
watching the child...  someone rushes in with blood all over his
shirt...  everybody's attention is on him..."

"Okay, that's enough," Brad interrupted. "ALL of that was in the
report.  The witnesses described that entire scene."

"But I haven't read it," Monica said innocently.  "The report was
stolen before I had a chance to..."

"Monica," Brad said, not attempting to mask his annoyance.  "We
have fake psychics offering us their services all the time.  We
don't need someone in the division pulling this crap."

Monica struggled to maintain her composure, but couldn't help
raising her voice.  "I can prove it to you.  Pick a file at
random -- one that I haven't read..."

"Monica, I want to believe you, but you have to admit..." he
tried to calm her.

"Please, let me prove it to you.  In the conference room.  I
won't sense something in every file, but I'll sense something
there.  I'm sure of it.  It's how I knew that baby was in the
dumpster."

Brad stared at her intently.  "What?"

"I sensed there was something there.  At first I thought it was
the files, but it just kept getting stronger..."  Her eyes
pleaded with him, even as her voice rose in anger.  "You don't
believe me?  What do I have to do to make you believe me?"

"Okay," he said, standing up.  "Let's go to the conference room."

Monica picked up her briefcase and was at the door before he was. 
In the conference room, Monica stood defiantly, her hands on her
hips, looking him directly into his eyes.  "Pull out a file.  Any
file."  She wasn't completely sure this would work, but she
needed for him to believe her.

He pulled a picture from the wall and handed it to her.  "Try
this," he ordered.

Monica took the picture in one hand, and laid her other hand over
the top.  "This child is dead," she started.  "Her step-father
killed her, and he threw her body from a boat..." She sniffed. 
"A fishing boat, I think."

Brad looked at her in disbelief.  "This is Catherine Cahill. 
Cathy's step-father is the prime suspect...  We've never been
able to prove anything.  He tried to implicate her natural
father."

Monica walked to the wall near Brad, and placed her hand over the
picture of a boy.  "Nothing.  I don't sense a thing here..."

"Davon Smith, he disappeared from a beach house on Long Island. 
He'd been missing for several hours before his parents noticed. 
He may have drowned, but we never found a body."

Monica placed her hand on another picture and instantly felt
heat.  She pulled her hand away.  "Something horrible happened to
her.  I don't know if I can..."  She pushed her hand close to the
picture, feeling heat rising from it as if from a flame.  "Very,
very bad..." She pulled her hand away and looked at Brad.

He shrugged his shoulders.  "Disappeared without a trace.  Her
name is Keisha Campbell.  She was one of my first cases, and I
think about her a lot.  You can't tell me more?"

Reaching out tentatively, Monica steeled herself against the
heat, but needed to pull back.  "I'm sorry," she said, tears
coming to her eyes.  "Can I try her file instead?"

Brad went to the file drawer, and to her file, in a matter of
seconds.  Monica looked at the well-worn folder and then at
Follmer's face.  "I want to believe you can do this, Monica," he
said.  "Please try."

She sat down and put the file in front of her.  This was easier. 
She felt less heat, her legs were sturdier...  "She's dead,"
Monica started.  "She's been dead a long time...  She was
stabbed...  Cut up..."  She looked up at Brad, tears moistening
her eyes.  "Her body was put through a meat grinder."

Brad looked at her in horror.  "Can you see who did it?"

Closing her eyes, she forced her mind to look around, to look
away from the child.  "It looks like a butcher shop...  Meat... 
A man is doing this... He's strong...  he has gray hair, but he
isn't old...  He has a tattoo on his forearm...  No, both
forearms..."

Brad grabbed the folder and flipped through the pages.  He laid
it on the table.  "Is that the guy?" he demanded, nodding toward
the picture looking up at her.

She gasped and looked from the picture to his face.  "Yes," she
said, as amazed as he.

He turned and sprinted out the door and down the hallway.  Monica
followed the sound of his footsteps.  She found him standing at
the elevators, pounding the call button.  "Damn him, damn him,
damn him..." he muttered to himself.  He didn't notice her
approaching, and when the elevator door opened, he didn't notice
her slip in behind him.

In the elevator, Monica tugged at Brad's elbow.  He whirled
around, surprised to see her.  "Agent Follmer," she said.  "Mind
if I come with you?"

He thought for a moment, and decided her psychic ability overrode
her inexperience at the FBI.  "Sure," he answered.  "But let me
do the talking."  She nodded.

They drove in silence, Brad's lips curled inward as he navigated
the busy streets of lower Manhattan, passed through a long
tunnel, and emerged on a highway in Brooklyn.  Monica sighed and
rested her head against the window, trying to establish where she
was, looking for landmarks.  They left the highway and drove onto
a divided road, then to a residential street lined with large
two-storey houses that contrasted with the pre-war brick
buildings of the main streets.  "Where are we?" Monica asked.

"Flatbush," Brad answered.  His eyes remained focused ahead, as
if seeing his destination while he was driving.  He turned onto a
main street and parked next to a fire hydrant.  He pulled his FBI
placard from the glove box and threw it onto the dashboard. 
Monica could barely keep up as he strode to the front door of a
butcher shop.

He approached the middle-aged woman behind the counter and
flashed his badge.  "Where is he?"

She nervously glanced toward the back of the shop, and Brad raced
to the doorway.  Monica followed behind, and the woman followed
her.  

"What is it?" the woman cried out.  "What's wrong?"

Monica turned around and put her hands on the woman's shoulders. 
"Is he your husband?" Monica asked.  The woman nodded.  "We need
to question him about a case."

"That little girl?" the woman asked anxiously.  Monica looked
grimly back at her.  "We told the police -- we only saw her once
or twice.  We don't know where she went."

"Stay here," Monica ordered, and the woman stayed where she was,
as Monica raced to catch up with Brad.

She found him in a workroom, the workroom of her vision.  Brad
grabbed the man by the neck and pushed him up against the wall. 
"Why did you do it, you bastard!" he shouted.

The man's face reddened instantly, but he managed to croak, "Do
what? I didn't do nothing!"

Brad pulled the man away from the wall, then slammed him against
it again.  "What did you do with her body?"

"Agent Follmer!" Monica shouted.  Brad seemed not to hear her. 
She ran up behind him and shouted again, "Agent Follmer!"  The
man's eye's started to bulge out, and Monica could hear him
gasping for air.

Monica took a few backward steps and pulled out her gun.  She
trained it on Brad and shouted, "Brad, let him go or I'll shoot."

Brad noticed the man's eyes looking over his shoulder, and he
turned around.  The sight of Monica's resolute expression made
Brad remember himself, and he let go of the man.  In the distance
they could hear his wife yelling "He's killing him, he's killing
him!"

Brad and Monica stared at each other for a moment as the butcher
slid sideways against the wall, edging toward the doorway. 
Monica turned and pointed her gun toward him.  "You too," she
said authoritatively.  "Don't move." The man raised his hands,
the redness fading from his face, leaving him blanched and
wide-eyed.  Monica faced Brad and said, "Okay, ask him what you
want," she ordered.

Brad was stunned by her reaction, and he looked from her to his
suspect.  He walked slowly and deliberately toward the butcher,
and put his hands into his pants pockets, as if to restrain
himself.  In a low, controlled voice, he said, "You remember
Keisha Campbell?"

The man looked puzzled.  "Who?" he said, with deliberate
innocence.

"Seven years old?  Missing for two years?  Lived on the sixth
floor," Brad's eyes looked upward as if to indicate the apartment
building above the shop.

"Oh, yes.  Very sad.  What about it?" the butcher said, looking a
little relieved.

Brad paused, a little confused by the suspect's reaction.  His
silence was filled with the sound of footsteps and the voice of
the butcher's wife saying, "In the back..."

Monica kept her gun pointed toward the butcher but readied
herself to aim for the doorway.  A massive shadow grew on the
floor in front of the doorway, until a man's silhouette arrived. 
From the doorway they heard a voice say, "Monica?"

"Joe?" Monica answered, subconsciously allowing her gun to follow
the direction of her eyes. 

"What's going on here?" Joe asked, his hand on his holster. 

"We're questioning a suspect," Brad interjected. "Brad Follmer,
we met yesterday..." Brad said in a saccharine tone, his hand
extended for a handshake. 

"Oh, yes," Joe responded, looking from Reyes' gun to Brad' face. 

"Agent Reyes," Brad took the hint. "Put away your gun." Monica
did as she was told, but kept a wary eye on the butcher. Brad
continued, "We are investigating a cold case. This man was a
witness then, but..." 

Monica only half-listened as Brad filed Joe in on the details of
the crime. She started to think about the crime, her vision, the
meat grinder... She wandered to the side of the workshop then
back to where she had been standing. Joe listened as Brad
detailed the reasons why a beat cop needn't be on the scene, but
he trained his eye on Monica's movements. 

Monica sensed something, something different from her vision. Was
it being in that place that made it different? she wondered. Or
was something else wrong here. She followed her sense as if
following an odor, and felt herself feeling warmer and warmer as
she walked further toward the back of the shop. She came to a
metal door, and felt the handle. It was hot, as if the room on
the other side were on fire. She slowly opened the door, and when
it was opened an inch she could tell there was no fire. She
walked in to the dark room, light from the doorway casting her
shadow ahead of her. She felt heat under her feet, even as a cold
draft cooled her cheeks. Stopping in the middle of the room, she
closed her eyes and calmed her mind. Her heartbeat, which had
been racing since pulling her gun on Brad, started to slow. She
breathed deeply and let her body balance itself over her feet.
Slowly, she felt the heat less, and started to develop a vision,
different from the earlier vision. 

A child, about nine years old, a girl... with black hair, light
skin, freckles, light blue eyes.. playing with dolls... Barbie
and Ken?... No, G.I. Joe, and ... a little girl doll. G.I. Joe is
putting his hands under the smaller doll's dress, and... Monica
was horrified by the next part of her vision and shook it off.
She opened her eyes, and gradually felt the heat return to her
feet, then her legs... Voices from a distance were calling her.
"Monica... Monica....' 

"Monica..." Joe said as he put his hand on her shoulder. She
seemed not to recognize him at first. "Monica? Are you okay? What
are you doing in the freezer?" 

Suddenly the light went on, and Monica could see the carcasses of
frozen animals suspended from hooks. Brad stood in the doorway, a
look of annoyance on his face. Monica could tell that he was
talking to her, but she felt as if time had slowed down. She
looked from Brad to Joe, then to the floor. She knelt down and
pulled at a loose flap of linoleum, exposing a large
stainless-steel box, the body of a dark-haired, freckle-faced
little girl curled up inside, frozen solid. 

Brad approached and leaned over the opening.  "Maureen Cahill,"
he said matter-of-factly, and pulled his cellphone from his
pocket.  He nodded in the direction of Monica and Joe.  Joe
nodded back, and grabbed Monica by the hand.  They raced back to
the shop, Monica gaining in consciousness as she ran.

Joe let go of Monica's hand and leapt onto the butcher's back. 
His left arm around the man's neck, he said, "You have the right
to remain silent.  You have the right to an attorney..." as his
right hand worked his handcuffs.

"What?" the man cried out.  His wife ran towards them, her arm
stretched toward Joe's arm.  Monica instinctively intercepted the
arm and pulled her back, sharply.

The older woman's eyes filled with tears and in a gurgling voice
she said, "What are you people doing?  He didn't do nothing... 
Leave him alone... He's a good man.."  Monica continued pulling
the woman, walking her backwards toward the front of the shop. 
She was still holding the struggling woman when she saw Brad come
from the back.

Brad ran to Joe and said, "I'll take over from here.  You and
your partner start securing the crime scene..."  Joe nodded and
walked briskly to the front door.  Monica and Brad stared at each
other silently.  Monica studied Brad's demeanor.  He was panting
slightly, but he seemed to be in complete control of himself. 
She couldn't believe it was the same man she'd aimed her gun at
earlier.

Brad turned to the butcher and said, "How many?  How many have
there been..." He added with sarcasm, "MISter Jeffries?"

Jeffries' eyes were half closed, and he looked coldly at Brad. 
"Talk to my lawyer," was all he said.

After the crime scene had been secured, and the victim had been
removed, Brad showed Monica to a counter top and took out a small
notebook.  "Here," he started.  "Before you leave, be sure to
take down the details you'll need in case you're questioned..." 
He recited the basic facts of the case as Monica dutifully wrote
everything in tiny, precise handwriting.  

She was mid-sentence when Brad stopped talking.  She looked up
and saw Joe looming over her on the opposite side from Brad.  She
smiled broadly, exhaling loudly through her nostrils.  Brad
couldn't help notice the gleam in her eyes, and he didn't like
it.

"We're just about done here," Joe said, almost sadly.

"It was good to see you again," Monica answered, her eyes telling
him the same things they'd told Brad.

"I don't think you need a self-defense course, Monica..." Joe
started.

"I'm interested... Really!  And I definitely want to join the
gym."

"I'm going again tonight," Joe said a little more softly, as if
trying to keep Brad from listening.  Brad stood by, showing a
carefully measured expression of displeasure.  Joe continued,
"Want me to pick you up?"  Monica nodded.  "Same time?"  

She nodded again and smiled.  "This time I want to try out the
whirlpool afterward, if you don't mind eating a little later."

Joe swallowed uncomfortably, the image of Monica in a bathing
suit draining the moisture from his throat.  "That's good.  We
can do that..."

Monica set down her pen and reached for his hand.  "See you
then," she said, squeezing his hand gently.  His hand was so
strong she wasn't sure she'd really squeezed it, then she felt a
very gentle pressure from his hand.  "See you then," he answered.

She watched as he exited, her eyes on his triangular form,
following the lines of his silhouette down to his well-defined
ass.  She lost track of her surroundings, then felt the tug of
Brad's hand on her sleeve.  "You're not going out with that ape,
are you?"

Monica stared at him, open-mouthed, before defiantly answering,
"Why shouldn't I?" 

Brad sighed and closed his eyes. "Monica," he started slowly,
shaking his head slightly. He opened his eyes and looked
pityingly into hers, "He's the cop who took your report when your
briefcase was stolen..." 

"So?" Monica interrupted, both puzzled and angry. 

"So..." Brad said condescendingly. "You are a victim in one of
his cases. There's nothing lower than a cop who takes advantage
of a victim." 

"He's not taking advantage of me," she shot back. "We went to the
gym together -- ONCE! -- That was it. And anyway, how do you know
I'm not taking advantage of him?" 

He looked into her face, and he found her defiance exhilarating.
Her eyes were gleaming with anger, their pupils wide and liquid.
For the second time that day he felt he was under her control. He
wanted to tell her she could do anything she wanted, but he also
wanted to keep her from getting hurt. As he tried to think of the
right words, she took a step backward and spread her legs
slightly, as if preparing for a boxing match. He felt himself
obeying her demand for respect, and before he could think through
his approach, he said, "Just be careful, okay?" 

"Of course," she answered, tight-lipped. "Are we finished here?"
she demanded. 

They drove back to Manhattan, and this time the silence was her
doing. She leaned against the window, reviewing the morning's
events. It seemed that everything she did was wrong in her
supervisor's eyes. He was so sure of himself, so experienced, so
knowledgeable... She wanted so much to be respected by him, and
she felt that goal receding further and further into the
distance. She glanced at him and he returned her glance, showing
her the concern she'd seen far too many times already. He's
worried because I'm not talking, she thought. She tried to think
of something to say, but she couldn't think of anything that
wouldn't make things worse. 

They emerged from the tunnel, and Brad drove a different route,
along the East River, toward the Brooklyn Bridge. "Where are we
going?" she asked, a little nervously. 

"It's lunch time. We're going to the South Street Seaport, where
we can talk." 

Monica felt a flash of panic, as if she'd been kidnaped. She
looked at him and could see the hurt in his eyes as he saw her
expression. "There are a few things we need to straighten out,
away from prying ears," he said, smiling the most comforting
smile he could manage. She knew it was a phony smile, but the
attempt was comforting nonetheless. 

They went to a seafood restaurant, and while they were waiting
for their meal, Brad said, "Monica, you need to understand the
difference between the local P.D. and the FBI." She looked at him
quizzically and he continued, "Especially the beat cops. They
operate on a more basic level than we do... I mean, look at their
training. It isn't half what ours is..." 

Monica felt nauseous suddenly. Was she hearing right? "They were
there for me when I needed them..." she started. 

"But who went dumpster diving for you?" Monica opened her mouth
to object, but Brad quickly added, "And when they can't solve a
case, who do they go to? Don't get me wrong, they have their
place, but ... Monica, ..." he sighed again. "You can do better,
is all I'm saying." 

She stared silently at him, her accusative expression making him
feel like a small man in a tall body. He fought against the
shriveling of his ego, but her displeasure won and he thought,
well at least I tried. "Just be careful... promise me?" he said
pleadingly. 

She nodded silently, her eyes fixed on his. 

After they arrived at their building, Brad walked Monica to her
office and said in his most business-like tone, "About your
training... There are some procedures I'd like you to review.
Study them this afternoon then come to my office at about four
o'clock." He pulled a large procedure manual from her desk
drawer, marked some pages for her to study, then left.  She stood
silently, watching him as he walked purposefully down the
hallway.  She hoped he would turn around.  He didn't.

When Brad got back to his office, he found an
uncharacteristically nervous Janet jumping up to greet him. "A.D.
Williams wants to see you," she said grimly.

"Did you make an appointment?" Brad answered as unemotionally as
he could, despite the knot that had just formed in his stomach.

"He wanted to see you as soon as you got back," Janet replied,
knowing that the A.D. rarely made such a request.  Brad offered
no answer, except a silent "Oh shit!" in his mind.

Follmer sat across from Williams, hoping for the best, yet
fearing the worst. The A.D. had his arms outstretched on his
desk, each hand resting on a manilla file folder. 

Williams pulled a sheet of paper from the thinner, brighter, file
folder and handed it to Brad. Brad looked at him in confusion,
and Wiliams answered, "Read it... out loud." 

He read the top line silently: "Investigative Request for
Employment, Data and Supervisor Information," a form sent to
previous employers by the Office of Personnel Management. Brad
knew that there were several of these in Reyes' folder, as there
were for most federal employees. He didn't remember any of them
saying anything bad about Reyes. He furrowed his brow and looked
again at Williams' poker face. Williams said, "Read the other
side. Number 6" 

Brad turned the page over, and at Number 6 read, "Additional
information... derogatory as well as positive information....
Monica Reyes is one of the best employees I've ever supervised.
She is dependable, intelligent, and a model of self-control. She
would make a fine addition to your staff." After he'd finished
reading, Brad's brow was even more furrowed. "I don't
understand," he said cautiously. "What am I supposed to be seeing
here?"
 
Williams reached for the page and put it back in its folder, then
pulled an identical form from the larger, older, folder. "Read
Number 6 on this one." 

Brad's face flushed immediately. "Brad Follmer is intelligent and
quick to learn. He has a strong sense of duty and is easy to
supervise. His main fault is that he sometimes acts without
thinking, letting his emotions rule his actions. He has made some
progress controlling his emotions, and I expect continued
progress along these lines." Brad's voice started to crack as he
neared the end, and when Williams reached for the page, it shook
slightly in Brad's hand. 

"Agent Follmer," Williams said, eyeing Brad carefully. "Would you
expect an agent who has been described as 'a model of
self-control' to point a gun at her supervisor without good
reason?" 

"No sir," Brad answered. 

"What was her reason, then?" 

Brad's stomach was in knots as he realized Williams knew
everything. "Because I had let my emotions rule my actions." 

"Oh?" Williams said with feigned curiosity. "In what way?" 

Brad gulped. "I was holding a suspect by his neck. Agent Reyes
believed I was hurting him." 

"The suspect agrees with her. And so does the judge," Williams
said sternly. Brad's face changed from a flushed and dappled
pink, to a near-white pallor. 'Oh, crap,' he thought. 

"Fortunately, we have a body..." Williams continued. Brad exhaled
and his shoulders relaxed slightly. "Unfortunately," Williams
added, "there was no search warrant. You do know what a search
warrant is?" Brad nodded. 

Williams' face reddened slightly, the first sign of anger Brad
had seen. "And you do know how to go about procuring one?" 

Brad nodded vigorously and said, "I'm sorry... I..." 

Williams cut him off. "Just what were you doing there anyway? And
with a rookie agent?" 

Brad, relieved at being given a chance for some damage control,
took a deep breath and said, "I was going over some cold case
files with Agent Reyes, when I suddenly had a hunch... I was
following up on that hunch... and I was right." 

"That's the only thing saving your career right now, Agent
Follmer. Even though the case will no doubt be thrown out, and
the D.A.'s office is now reviewing every pending case we've
brought to their office, and the Brooklyn P.D. is even less
likely to cooperate with us, you were indeed correct. This hunch
of yours may save a child's life. Don't think I haven't
considered that..." 

"But...?" Brad interjected. 

"You're new to your position, so you're already on probation. I
will be watching you more carefully now." He pulled a sheet of
paper out from under Monica's file folder. "Here is Agent Reyes'
training schedule. Note that she will not be going into the field
for at least two weeks. Note that you will be accompanying her at
every stage. You will not be going into the field for at least
two weeks, either. Her training period will also be a re-training
period for you." 

Brad glanced at the schedule. It looked good -- better than what
he'd been planning for her. "Thank you, sir," Brad said, his
voice indicating a wish to close their meeting. "I'll get on it
right away." He put his hands on the arms of the chair and
started to push himself up. 

"One more thing," Williams said. "Why did Agent Reyes point her
gun at a police officer?" Brad's face was ashen. Was there
anything Williams didn't know? He was speechless, and Williams
provided his own answer. "My guess is that she pointed her gun in
the direction she was looking. Be sure she gets over that
tendency. She's a model of self-control, remember? Make sure she
learns how to control her gun."