Color of Blood(118)

“I’ll be there,” Dennis said.

“For the record, you are a Class A train wreck, Cunningham,” he said.

***

He arrived at Massey’s office at 1:15 p.m. and was told to take a seat in the small waiting room. Dennis bided his time by looking at an old copy of US News & World Report.

After ten minutes he was ushered into the huge office. Massey and two other men were already there. The weasel-faced assistant, that followed his master everywhere, sat to Massey’s right; another man Dennis had never seen before sat to his left.

The secretary left and closed the door behind her. Dennis sat in the only chair remaining; it was positioned directly in front of Massey’s desk. The three men stared at Dennis; Dennis stared at them. An ornate clock on a shelf behind the three men tick, tick, ticked.

Dennis’s normal operating style, of course, was never to talk first, but this situation was different.

“So,” Dennis started, “I don’t have the pleasure of meeting the man sitting to your left.”

“That would be Dr. Norris,” Massey said.

“A medical doctor?” Dennis asked.

“Yes,” Massey said. “A psychiatrist.”

“There’s no telling who will show up next in your office,” Dennis said. “Maybe the Rolling Stones?”

“Very funny, Cunningham,” Massey said.

“Maybe I’m just nervous,” Dennis said. “It’s been a long, strange trip since you sent me looking for Garder six months ago.”

“Indeed it has,” Massey said, “for all of us.”

“I know that you’ve been running an illegal and dangerous program that is certain to get the Agency into very hot water once Congress finds out. That’s why you wanted Garder found.”

Massey, Dennis noticed to his credit, did not blink once or show the slightest flicker of distress.

Massey put his hands on the desk and interlaced his fingers together, dropped his eyes, and just for a moment, Dennis thought he was going to pray.

“How long have you been feeling depressed?” Massey said.

“Who says I’m depressed?”

“Weren’t you on sick leave for half the year because of depression?”

Dennis shifted in his chair.

“I’ve been back to work for a while. Who said I’m depressed?”

“How long have you been having suicidal thoughts?” Dr. Norris said.

“The only time I get suicidal is when I talk to doctors like you,” Dennis blurted. “That was a joke. Massey here is getting on my nerves, so I’m a little edgy.”

“Are you always this angry?” the doctor said.

“Who said I’m angry?”

Dr. Norris stared at Dennis.

“And you knew Garder was faking his death all along,” Dennis said to Massey. “I was just sent there to close the official file on him and get the congressman and Garder’s parents to stop squawking. Meanwhile, you were trying to find the guy before he went public with what he found.”

“Your medical file shows that you talked openly about your suicidal feelings with your therapist,” Dr. Norris said in a calm and authoritative tone.

“So?” Dennis said. “That was a while ago.”

“Your file shows that you’ve had a history of erratic behavior, including belligerence directed at superiors.”

“About eighty percent of Agency employees are belligerent to their superiors on any given day,” Dennis said.

“Your file also shows that you experienced a severe childhood trauma,” Dr. Norris said.

Dennis felt like someone had just turned his chair sideways. He tried to collect himself by focusing on a maroon ballpoint pen in Massey’s shirt pocket. For the first time since entering the room, he felt warm.

“Isn’t that true, Mr. Cunningham?” the doctor persisted.

Dennis stared at Massey’s pen.

“You were raised in Chicago, right? Your father was a Chicago police officer, correct?”

Dennis kept staring at the pen, trying to figure out whether the color was actually maroon or a dark red. Actually, he thought, maybe it was ocher.

“When you were ten years old, you came home from school one day and found your mother dead on the living-room floor. Isn’t that right? She had been shot in the head by your father. You found him in the kitchen, according to the police report, with a fatal gunshot wound to his temple.”

Dennis slowly bit the inside of his cheek and stared at the ballpoint pen. The clock ticked loudly on the mantel, and Massey shifted in his seat.

“So you’ve been depressed for a long time, isn’t that right, Cunningham?” Massey said. “It’s quite unfortunate what happened to your family; you being the only child and all. Raised by an aunt and uncle in Minnesota: very sad state of affairs. And you’ve suffered a lot lately with your wife’s passing. It’s understandable how depressed a person can be in those circumstances.”

The weasel-like man next to Massey stirred slightly in his seat and scratched the top of his head.

“We’d like you to turn in any firearms you have in your possession,” Massey said. “We have your Agency-issued handgun, but our records show you also have possession of a Glock 17 handgun that you purchased at a sporting goods store two years ago in Virginia. We believe it would make sense, given the circumstances, for you to volunteer your weapon.”