Diablo Mesa(38)

As she approached the corner office, she began to see more people. The death of an FBI agent, even accidental, was not only a tragedy but a big deal that needed to be investigated. That it happened on the premises made it doubly serious. No doubt that was why Garcia had called her in today. Corrie had no illusions she’d been brought in for a grief therapy session.

There was no administrative assistant outside Garcia’s office, and Corrie was still a few minutes early, so she sat down in one of the chairs outside the SAC’s door. She closed her eyes and took slow, deep breaths. The sense of disbelief was, in a way, a protective carapace: if she could get through this meeting with that shell intact, maybe it could last the rest of the weekend.

The door opened and three or four senior agents in suits filed out. None of them looked at her. Silence for a moment, then she heard: “Swanson? Come in, please.”

Corrie stood up and walked into the office. She’d been here only a couple of times, but it had always looked the same: American flag in one corner, FBI flag in another, framed photo of the president between them. Two windows on adjacent walls, offering views of the freeway. Neat files on the desk beside a few family pictures. Conference table; chairs; desert landscapes on the walls. She recalled that Morwood had brought her up for an initial meeting after—in his words—deciding she stood a fair chance of sticking around.

“Good morning,” Garcia said in his soft voice. “Close the door and take a seat, please.”

Garcia’s alert brown eyes took her in quickly; he rose to shake her hand as she chose a chair, then sat down again and placed his beefy arms on the desk, hands clasped and fingers interlaced. His mouth was a straight line, neither smiling nor frowning; but then, she’d never seen Garcia either laugh or shout in anger.

“Thank you for coming in, Agent Swanson.”

“Yes, sir,” Corrie replied.

“Hale—Agent Morwood—was well liked here. He was a dedicated agent, respected for his loyalty to the Bureau. This is a tragedy for the entire office, Swanson: we share a common loss. I’m sorry if I seemed short with you on the phone last night.”

“Not to worry, sir.”

Now Garcia hesitated uncharacteristically. Through her haze of shock and sorrow, Corrie had noted there was no folder open in front of the SAC; no recording device visible. This, too, seemed unusual for what she expected to be a debrief.

Garcia took a deep breath. “I think it best to mention something up front, Agent Swanson, so that there’s complete transparency—and so you’ll better understand my line of questioning.”

“Very well, sir,” Corrie said. Transparency about what?

“As part of the preliminary investigation into the fire, I met with Dr. Lathrop earlier this morning. It is his, ah, recollection that—” another hesitation, this one briefer— “when you and he were together in the forensics lab yesterday, you did not observe proper safety protocols.”

Corrie was still concentrating on keeping the protective shell in place, and it took a moment for these words to sink in. “Excuse me. I did what?”

“As part of your work yesterday, you were warming Plasticine. Correct?”

Corrie nodded.

Now at last the folder came out. Garcia opened it, glanced over a page or two. “Dr. Lathrop has stated, for the record, that you were not following guidelines for use of a Bunsen burner.” Another glance at the page. “He said there was combustible material in the vicinity of the flame. He also stated that you had not inspected the hose for defects such as pinch points. Finally, he said this was a behavior he’d seen in you before—leaving a burner unattended, leaving the primary gas valve on after you were done, and the like.”

As Garcia spoke, Corrie felt the protective bubble melt away and a combination of disbelief, hurt, and anger take its place. “Sir, are you saying Lathrop is accusing me of leaving a burner on…and being responsible for that fire? The fire that killed my boss?”

Garcia put his hands up in a calming gesture; unconsciously, Corrie had begun to rise out of her chair. “Agent Swanson, please. I’m telling you all this now, at the start, as a courtesy, so you’ll have the full picture. Lathrop made no specific accusations. You are not suspected of anything. You know better than anyone we have teams of professionals who are expert in reconstructing events precisely like this one. They’ve already sealed off the lab and begun work. It’s their findings on the source of the fire that will determine what happened. Not a lone accusation. The recollections of Lathrop or other eyewitnesses—including yourself—are also important, but supplementary.”

The SAC let a silence fall. Once again, his bright eyes looked intently at Corrie. She had sunk back into her chair, once again in shock—but now of an entirely different kind.

Garcia cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, it was in a quieter, almost confidential tone. “What I just told you was by the book. Off the book, I’m truly sorry this has happened. In a fairer world, you’d be given time to mourn, rather than feel a need to defend yourself. Dr. Lathrop is—well, I think you’d agree he has a certain reputation. But the fact remains he’s been here many years and it’s our job to investigate his claims. I hope you’ll understand the necessity to ask you a few questions. Believe me: it’s much better this way.”

“Yes, sir.” Corrie drew in a shuddering breath. “Thank you, sir.”