I was prepared for that question. I’d been asked that by better interrogators than Agent Porter and had never revealed anything about my parents to anyone other than my wife. I wasn’t about to answer Agent Porter’s question, and judging from the look on his face, he knew it.
“No comment.”
He continued by changing the subject. “Your time with the CIA is classified till 2035. If we want to figure out why an attempt was made to kidnap Leecy, I’m going to need you to share that classified information.”
“As you well know, or should, I can’t break the seal of confidentiality without fear of imprisonment. I’m allowed to say that I don’t think anything I may or may not have been involved with between the years of 1996 and 2003 has anything to do with what happened at our home. You can always get on the phone and call someone at Langley with the proper clearance level to read the classified file for you,” I said, and then added, “but the FBI has no clearance at Langley, so that won’t work either. Sorry, I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.”
“Since 2003, you’ve been part of your wife’s family company. So, you two work together. What do you do at INESCO, Ron?”
“You already know from my file; it’s sales.”
“Come on now, Ron; you’re being modest. You’re an executive with the company, isn’t that right?”
“A fancy title signifying nothing. I sell the products INESCO makes in the rubber division.”
Agent Porter smiled and then moved on by turning his attention elsewhere.
“Valerie Cathleen Granger, born June 22nd, 1969, right here in Park City, Georgia.” He glanced at his watch before continuing and then smiled that smile again.
“Let me be the first to wish you an early happy forty-fifth birthday.” He didn’t stop for a reply; he just kept reading. “I see from your Georgia driver’s license that you’re listed as five feet, seven inches, with brown hair and brown eyes, and you weigh 127 pounds.” He paused to verify the information. “You graduated from the local high school here in Park City in 1985. You went on to complete both your undergraduate degree from Yale and Masters Degree in Business from Wharton in four years.” He paused as if this was his first time reading that sentence. “Like mother like daughter, academically and in almost every other way. Is Wharton in your future too?” he asked, looking at Leecy, but she didn’t answer.
He continued. “I just have to say wow. I see where you get your brains, young lady. You graduated high school at sixteen, just like Mom, and now you’re on your way to Yale, just like your mother. That’s an impressive academic record, and it looks like you’re well on your way to filling Mom’s shoes.” He turned back to Valerie. “You came back to Park City after you finished your education. You went to work for the family business, and by all accounts saved the then-struggling INESCO from financial ruin. You spearheaded the company’s resurgence as a government-funded research giant while branching out into other fields, which have ensured the company’s stability and continued growth.” He stopped reading and looked at Valerie, smiling that bullshit smile of his. “You managed to do one hell of a lot since 1989, and I understand you’ve been part-time since the birth of your daughter in 1997?”
“Actually,” Valerie said. “I’ve been part-time since 1996, but I didn’t save the company by myself. My brothers, David and Isaac, along with my father, Reuben, are responsible for INESCO’s resurgence and success.”
“You’re too modest, Valerie. We have files on everyone concerned with this case, and that includes your brothers and father. Unless we missed something, and I don’t think we did, you, my dear, are the brains behind the company,” Agent Porter said. “And you don’t think that might have played a role in the attempt to kidnap your daughter?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Interesting. I say that because isn’t it true that you’re awaiting word on several proposals you’ve made to the Department of Defense and NASA?”
“Yes with regard to the DOD, and that could be said at any given time, but no, we haven’t worked with NASA in thirty years. It’s our job to make proposals. We’re a research and development facility, Agent Porter. We currently have two dozen proposals in the pipeline at the DOD, and could have twice that number if they needed them. If we aren’t innovating old technologies or inventing new ones, we aren’t doing our job.”
“I see,” he said, and then followed up, “So you don’t think there could be a connection?”
“No, I don’t see how there could be a connection. Everything we do at INESCO with the DOD is done in secrecy. We submit our proposals under our alphanumeric prefix code, and then if the project goes, I assign our DOD numeric prefix code. A person would have to have both of those codes to identify an individual project. No, I don’t see a connection between what we do at INESCO and what happened at our home.”
“What if I were to tell you that the young man your husband injured was a former employee of your company?” Agent Porter asked.
Valerie laughed and said, “I recognized his face, and if I’m not mistaken, he was employed in our rubber division as an entry-level compounder. I’d have to look at his employee file to be 100% certain about that, but he had nothing to do with, and therefore no knowledge of, anything going on in R&D.”
Agent Porter stood up as his two silent cronies began packing up their files and other paperwork.
“One other thing I’d like to ask you, and that’s, how does a woman with no history of firearms training that we could find make a shot like the one that killed the intruder? I mean, even on my best day, under perfect conditions at the range at Quantico, I can’t hit the bull’s eye. But you, Mrs. Valerie Granger, shot a man who was twenty-seven feet away in partial light between the eyes. How’s that possible?”
“My dad taught me to shoot when I was a kid,” Valerie said.
“That’s your answer?” he asked. He stared down at Valerie for a little too long before going on.
“Okay. I see how it is. The conclusion we reached about thirty minutes after we arrived in Park City is that the unfortunate incident at your home was a home invasion by what turns out to be a couple of out of work ex-cons. The man that was killed was James Smotherman, recently paroled from the Federal Penitentiary in Atlanta. I’m sure with a few additional man-hours, the two men that entered your home illegally will be shown to have known each other in some capacity. Furthermore, I’m confident that the man in the hospital is Daniel Pickett, who targeted your home because of his having worked briefly as a low-level employee at INESCO. He most likely assumed there was cash or other valuables on hand. This incident was not an attempt to kidnap Leecy Granger, but they pay me to investigate, so I investigated. It was nice to meet you all, and I apologize if my line of questions ruffled any feathers. It’s my job to find the answers, and that’s not always a pleasant process to undertake.”
The Smith boys, as if on cue, stood and filed out of the room, with Agent Porter lagging behind.
“I’ll inform Chief Rawlings this case is closed and there’s no need for any further concern. Good day, Grangers.” He walked through the open door, but stopped as if something occurred to him, and turning, he came back into the room.
“One last thing,” he began, “when I started with the FBI in 2002, there were stories – more like rumors really – floating through the agency. I never gave the stories much credence till I read your file this morning, Ron. Do you want to know why?”
“Not really,” I said.
“Well, I’ll tell you; I think you will find it interesting. See, the stories I heard were about a Native American CIA agent operating in the Middle East and Europe in the mid 90s. The rumor was, this operator was the CIA’s best. He was so good, in fact, that he operated alone. I remember thinking that was ridiculous. I knew the CIA had kill teams, but no one believed there was this single guy out there somewhere. I didn’t believe it. I dismissed the rumors. That’s until I read your file and immediately began to wonder if this was the guy. I mean why wouldn’t I think that? Now, add to the file what you did to Mr. Pickett with your bare hands and you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking this is the guy. I’m thinking the rumors I’d heard all those years ago are actually true.” Agent Porter leaned in real close to me and asked, “Just between us, are you the guy?”
I sat there looking at the now empty table, listening to Agent Porter and running down my list of things I didn’t like about the Smith boys. Valerie was now standing, and I thought she might grab Leecy and leave, but she didn’t move a muscle. I wondered what Leecy was thinking. And then I stood and faced Agent Porter.
“I heard those rumors, too. Did you hear that this guy used some Indian war chant or something like that before he killed his target? That he did all his wet work with a knife and tomahawk?”
I let that hang there in the air for a moment. Then I laughed. “Those stories have been floating around for a long time. Long before I even started at the agency.” And then, leaning in close to Agent Porter’s ear I said, “But if I was that guy, I would be a real dangerous man, wouldn’t I?”
Agent Porter stopped himself from backing away from me. He covered his reaction well by shifting his weight from foot to foot, saying, “Yeah; it was just a crazy notion. You’re right; those stories are ridiculous. Just rumors. CIA legends. I just thought with your heritage you would find it interesting, that’s all. Good day again, Grangers.”
He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. I looked from Valerie to Leecy and saw no sign of concern or worry about what Agent Porter and I had said to each other. That was a good thing, because I didn’t want to talk about it anymore, at least not in the police station.
“You guys ready to get out of here and get started with Val’s big birthday plans?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Yeah, but first you need to know there’s a problem with the FBI’s take on this home invasion,” Valerie said.
“What problem?” I asked.
“Tell your dad what you told me before we ate breakfast,” Valerie said to Leecy.
“The guy that pulled me from my room called me by my name. He knew who I was and where to find me,” she said, and then, “The FBI is wrong.”
Valerie and I looked at each other and with a glance between us, decided to keep that information to ourselves.
Leecy continued. “I didn’t say anything to Agent Porter because those other two guys, the ones with the same last name, made me uncomfortable. The one across from me kept checking me out as he pretended to read. What a weirdo! No, I think we need to find out what’s going on, but first you two need to spill on the secrets because Dad, ‘classified till 2035’ isn’t getting it done. And the rumors aren’t rumors, are they?And as far as I’m concerned, Mom, Agent Porter is right about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Even a genius like you doesn’t learn to shoot like you can shoot from her dad. So spill it. How did you learn to shoot like that?”
Valerie laughed and then continued in the whispered tone we’d been using as I walked toward the door. “Not here and not now, but I promise to tell you everything.” She pushed Leecy toward the door. “We need to get out of here and go see your grandmother. The phone in my pocket hasn’t stopped vibrating. I bet she’s called twenty times.”
“Okay, but I’m holding you to that. And Dad, you have some explaining to do. Don’t think I will forget; you know I remember everything.”
The three of us left the meeting room and were passing the bathroom door when Leecy informed us, “I need to make a pit stop.”
“All right,” I said, “I’ll wait for you by the front doors.”
“Look, guys, I’m going to call my mom and let her know we’re on the way. I’ll be outside,” Valerie said as she walked toward the front door, and Leecy entered the unisex bathroom.
“Okay, meet you in a bit,” I said to both of them.
I walked slowly to the front of the police station and sat on a bench against the wall opposite Officer Johnson at the dispatcher’s desk. Suddenly, Chief Rawling’s office door opened and out came the Chief, slamming the door behind him. I watched as he waddled up to the dispatcher’s desk and spoke to Officer Johnson. Without a word to me at all, the Chief walked out the front door. Officer Johnson shrugged his shoulders at me and said in a whisper, the way southerners speak about things that are none of their business, “The FBI guy wanted to use the phone and file his report before returning to Atlanta, and asked the Chief to give them some privacy.” He spoke with his hands as much as his mouth. “The Chief didn’t like that, and suggested the FBI use the desk in our little bull pen here.” He gestured wildly to the desk behind him. “But that didn’t go over too well, so the Chief had to skedaddle. Looks like it made him pretty upset,” he concluded.
“Oh, I see,” I said, and nodded my head to signify I would keep our secret.
Officer Henry Johnson was the only other police officer I knew anything about besides Lester, and the only reason was because his hiring had been somewhat of a controversy in our little town. Officer Johnson was openly gay, and when the Chief hired him as the day shift dispatcher two years ago, there had been a bit of an uproar from some of Park City’s citizenry.
The public debate and resulting national media attention was why the Chief hung on to his position for a few more years. It had been reported that the Chief had delayed his retirement to ensure that Officer Johnson got a fair chance to perform the duties of the job and not be dismissed by some new Chief that might have taken over at the time. The hiring had been a bold move, but some said it was a calculated strategy that garnered the Chief much respect and admiration. Park City’s town council saw the bright side of all the attention. They thought the national exposure might lead to a financial windfall for the town by way of increased tourism, but that wasn’t realized. No, the only two things realized were Officer Johnson was a fine police officer, and the town council named Lester the Chief of Police in waiting.
The Chief’s office door opened again, and I watched the three-member FBI team emerge from its confines. The Smith boys led the way, followed at a distance by Agent Porter. The two Smiths passed me without a word or a glance. I watched them through the glass doors of the police station as the one named Travis climbed behind the wheel of the Suburban, and the one named Briggs took the seat directly behind him. I heard Agent Porter ease up next to me and turned my attention to him as he asked, “Were you waiting for me for some reason?”