but the pilot thought it was hysterical.
Russell's headset crackled. "State police chopper, this is the FBI ground unit below you. Is Agent Coates on board with you?"
Russell recognized the voice of Tim Burrows, his ASAC out of the Charleston field office, and he beat the pilot to the mike button. "I'm here, Tim. We're just looking for a place to park. Hold what you've got and I'll be on scene in a half hour, tops."
As police agencies go, the Charleston, West Virginia, Field Office of the FBI was not exactly Murder Central. They did their share, of course, but most murder investigations fell within the jurisdiction of local police forces, with additional support from state agencies. Because this particular killing had occurred in Catoctin National Forest, however - on federal property - it was a federal issue. Moreover, because it had occurred on Russell Coates's first day back from a Bahamian cruise, it had become the Bureaus version of a welcome-home fruit basket.
A hiker had discovered the body earlier this morning and made an anonymous phone call to the nearest ranger station. They, in turn, had called the local police, who notified the FBI. Somewhere in that daisy chain of telephone calls, someone thought to roust Russell out of bed on what should have been his last day of vacation to catch a state police chopper out to the middle of nowhere. Technically, he could have said no thanks, but such were the words that could get an agent stranded in West Virginia for life. As it was, he didn't know whom he'd pissed off to get himself landed out here, but a day didn't go by that he didn't fantasize about being someplace else.
That Tim Burrows, the wonder boy, had been standing in for him all week didn't help matters a bit. At thirty-something, Burrows looked twenty-something and sported that kind of raw enthusiasm and ambition that made Russell nervous. As assistant supervisory agent in charge of a field office that generated precious few national headlines, Tim would sacrifice his left nut to personally command a murder investigation. If things went well, and the bad guys were apprehended with the appropriate flair, a young agent could fatten his personnel file with the right kinds of letters and commendations. All of these things defined the reasons why Russell had busted his butt to make it out here to East Jesus at zero dark early.
Properly restrained, Tim was a genuine asset to the Bureau; not to
be confused with the genuine ass he often made of himself when you didn't sit on him from time to time. Russell didn't fully understand what had happened with the academy graduates of Burrows's era, but somebody had pumped their egos with helium. Never a group known for low self-esteem, the younger agents in the field these days floated somewhere between annoying and insufferable.
Of course, it could just be that Russell was getting old, but he refused to believe that. Outside of the National Football League, forty-three didn't meet anyone's definition of over-the-hill.
As the ground dropped away below them, Russell saw four smoke trails rising from the ground where someone had used road flares to mark out a makeshift landing zone around what appeared to be a narrow fire trail. He took it on faith that the pilot had a good feel for the length of his rotors, but held his breath anyway as the Aerospatiale chopper approached from upwind and then flared gracefully before touching down without so much as a bump.
"On the ground safe and sound, sir," said the pilot.
Russell reached across the center console and shook his hand. "Nice job. Glad it's not mine." He ducked low under the rotor disk as he jogged away from the big machine. Something about a bazillion horsepower guillotine overhead just made you want to be shorter.
Russell headed for a group of rangers gathered around a Park Service vehicle, and as he did, one of the cluster - a mid-thirties blonde with that hearty woman-of-the-earth look that seemed so common
among
Russell's headset crackled. "State police chopper, this is the FBI ground unit below you. Is Agent Coates on board with you?"
Russell recognized the voice of Tim Burrows, his ASAC out of the Charleston field office, and he beat the pilot to the mike button. "I'm here, Tim. We're just looking for a place to park. Hold what you've got and I'll be on scene in a half hour, tops."
As police agencies go, the Charleston, West Virginia, Field Office of the FBI was not exactly Murder Central. They did their share, of course, but most murder investigations fell within the jurisdiction of local police forces, with additional support from state agencies. Because this particular killing had occurred in Catoctin National Forest, however - on federal property - it was a federal issue. Moreover, because it had occurred on Russell Coates's first day back from a Bahamian cruise, it had become the Bureaus version of a welcome-home fruit basket.
A hiker had discovered the body earlier this morning and made an anonymous phone call to the nearest ranger station. They, in turn, had called the local police, who notified the FBI. Somewhere in that daisy chain of telephone calls, someone thought to roust Russell out of bed on what should have been his last day of vacation to catch a state police chopper out to the middle of nowhere. Technically, he could have said no thanks, but such were the words that could get an agent stranded in West Virginia for life. As it was, he didn't know whom he'd pissed off to get himself landed out here, but a day didn't go by that he didn't fantasize about being someplace else.
That Tim Burrows, the wonder boy, had been standing in for him all week didn't help matters a bit. At thirty-something, Burrows looked twenty-something and sported that kind of raw enthusiasm and ambition that made Russell nervous. As assistant supervisory agent in charge of a field office that generated precious few national headlines, Tim would sacrifice his left nut to personally command a murder investigation. If things went well, and the bad guys were apprehended with the appropriate flair, a young agent could fatten his personnel file with the right kinds of letters and commendations. All of these things defined the reasons why Russell had busted his butt to make it out here to East Jesus at zero dark early.
Properly restrained, Tim was a genuine asset to the Bureau; not to
be confused with the genuine ass he often made of himself when you didn't sit on him from time to time. Russell didn't fully understand what had happened with the academy graduates of Burrows's era, but somebody had pumped their egos with helium. Never a group known for low self-esteem, the younger agents in the field these days floated somewhere between annoying and insufferable.
Of course, it could just be that Russell was getting old, but he refused to believe that. Outside of the National Football League, forty-three didn't meet anyone's definition of over-the-hill.
As the ground dropped away below them, Russell saw four smoke trails rising from the ground where someone had used road flares to mark out a makeshift landing zone around what appeared to be a narrow fire trail. He took it on faith that the pilot had a good feel for the length of his rotors, but held his breath anyway as the Aerospatiale chopper approached from upwind and then flared gracefully before touching down without so much as a bump.
"On the ground safe and sound, sir," said the pilot.
Russell reached across the center console and shook his hand. "Nice job. Glad it's not mine." He ducked low under the rotor disk as he jogged away from the big machine. Something about a bazillion horsepower guillotine overhead just made you want to be shorter.
Russell headed for a group of rangers gathered around a Park Service vehicle, and as he did, one of the cluster - a mid-thirties blonde with that hearty woman-of-the-earth look that seemed so common
among
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