I believe he's here now. Are you the agent assigned to assist my deputy, Jack Crenshaw?"
"Yes, I am. Thank you, sir," offering his hand and making a slight bow to Weaver. Jack raised an eyebrow. "I'm Bruce Whitaker. It's an honor to meet you and assist you anyway I can," and half bowed again.
"Oh, God," thought Jack. "The boss was right. They really did send an expendable, bottom of the barrel grunt. Has this baby-faced kid even graduated from high school? I hope he's not carrying a real gun. That aside, the only Bruce's I've ever known were momma's boys..."
His thoughts were interrupted by the young man turning to address him. "And you are the famous deputy, Jack Crenshaw." Jack took his outstretched hand which Bruce pumped to awkwardness. "I recognized you by your picture, sir. It is such a privilege to be working with a person such as yourself... a living legend."
"A legend?" Jack repeated and thought, "I'm not that old am I?"
"Yes, sir that may be pushing it a bit but I personally do not believe so," Bruce continued. "Over two hundred apprehensions; everyone in the Bureau knows of and respects you."
"Duh, okay," returned Jack as he checked out Bruce's clothing and youthful features.
"Ahh, I see," offered Whitaker reading his mind, "I am old enough to be an agent. I'm twenty-four and a college grad. I also live with my mother in her Arlington townhouse. She's elderly, ill and requires some assistance... which I am happy to render until my special lady comes along and then we will make decisions and deal with the situation together." He beamed, "And, have children. I love children."
"Oh, of course," responded Jack. "I've was just thinking of how bright the new, young Bureau agents are," and wondered if we all were going to have a group hug next.
"I see how well you two are getting along," piped Weaver. "I'll leave you both to sort out the details. Good hunting" and left to mingle with the other agency top hats.
Jack said, "I think I've been assigned an office somewhere. Let me have your cell phone number and I'll let you know its location after I find out so we can get started."
The next morning Jack found Whitaker already in their new office modifying computer programs to enhance screening and search. "What's up," asked Crenshaw. "How'd you get here so fast? I just learned where this place was an hour ago."
"You know the Bureau and its resources," answered Bruce. "They have to know everyone's business."
Jack gave the layout the once-over; everything appeared to be running like a well-oiled machine. To his surprise there was a young lady seated at a video screen and sorting printouts.
"Her name is Kitty. I borrowed her from our Data Input Division to help us keep the flow under control. I hope it's alright with you, sir."
"Fine and dandy," Jack replied as he went over to introduce himself.
"It's an honor to be here, sir," she said and offered him a cup of fresh-made coffee.
Jack wondered, "There's that, Honor again. Do I have a freaking sign on my forehead saying, Bow and address me as Mister Honor? Perhaps I should ask for a raise if I'm so important."
"I took the liberty again and added a separate terminal and printer for each major agency and one shared unit for the other smaller reporting organizations so we wouldn't develop a gridlock in incoming data," explained Bruce. "As you can see the receivers are humming away with information from a hundred senders from all over the country. Most of the info is irrelevant. Kitty will download and catalog it into storage files. No data is dismissed or erased. Hard copies are only printed when necessary... she's a lifesaver."
"My, my," admired Jack. "I can see that already," as he sipped his coffee. "So much for that heralded, paper-less environment," which had been attempted numerous times and always reverted back to using an original hard copy system on applications requiring signed documents. "And, how did you accomplish all of this in only an hour?"
"Oh, we and Tech Support have been here since three a.m. sir. They're very fast and efficient... after all, you are a top priority."
"How about them potatoes?" remarked the deputy. "Most of the time it takes me a month just to get a new mechanical pencil. I know I'm going to ask for a raise now."
"Do you have a plan, sir?" questioned the two years of service F.B.I. agent.
"I do, partner, that I do."
Bruce's face lit up. "First off, to the both of you, stop calling me sir. Jack, will do just fine." He found a chair and stretched out his six foot-two inch frame. "The plan I use is always the same. K.i.s.s. Keep it simple, stupid. Sort through all the crap, figure out the missing key which for some reason no one else sees then hunt em' down using your gut instincts." Both Bruce and Kitty grinned from ear to ear. "But I caution you, part A takes a while. You have to stay the course and pay your due diligence."
"No problem there, sir... er, Jack. Sometimes the Bureau takes a year to solve a case. Some, they never do."
"I don't believe we have the luxury of running in circles for a year. I believe a lotta folks are in a big hurry." Jack slapped his thigh, rose and declared, "Reckon we should get to it. Now show me what all these high tech gadgets can do for us."
Several weeks later.
"It seems to me our fellow constituents are having a contest to see who can generate the greatest amount of useless information. And as expected, it appears your cronies at the F.B.I. are winning the game so far." In contrast, their Office's contribution remained a consistent bland offering - thrice a day: Nothing to report.
"I'm not surprised by this bombardment of irreverent information from my employer," noted Whitaker. "Our field personnel spend more hours being trained in departmental documentation and format procedures than anything else, even firearms and law."
"Humph, I believe it. Appears to me your team needs special, special agents to do the real work."
"I'll make that suggestion when I return," agreed Bruce.
Kitty brought Jack a new printout containing info from a C.I.A. informant in Mexico. "Well looky here boys and girls. Maybe we're not chasing ghosts after all. There's even a picture attached. That must have cost the U.S. of A. a pretty penny. Of course, it's most likely a fake... some hombre trying to rip Uncle Sam off for a few pesos. Flash it on the wall and let's check it out."
"I'm confident the lab at Quantico has verified its authenticity," asserted Bruce. Jack shrugged a conceded, Maybe.
"That guy sure resembles our fugitive, Louis Atwater," stated Crenshaw. "And, I'm pretty confident he has long departed that locale shortly after this pic was taken or else one of our diligent, fellow agencies would have captured him and be howling at the moon as they beat their chests." The photo displayed Atwater and an unidentified man exiting a cantina yesterday in some mud-hole called, Ciudad Acuna which is due west of San Antonio. "Note the get-up he's wearing."
"I'm not familiar with that apparel," admitted his young partner. "Is it a costume or a cowboy suit? Perhaps he's wearing clothing from a play or the circus?"
"No. Most people wouldn't be familiar with it either. I'm a bit of a history buff and recognize a couple of items here." The deputy pointed at his footwear, "See these heavy-duty boots and his pants tucked inside them. Ah, and yes, it appears those trousers are all-weather-terrain." Next, he tapped the man's jacket. "A long-sleeved, leather jacket in Mexico? What does this tell you?" Bruce gestured, 'I don't know.' "Our boy here is a biker or at least trying to look like a bike rider."
"A biker?" repeated Whitaker. "I've heard of them but never seen one."
"That's because you won't find them riding in the cities. It was out-lawed a hundred years ago. The Bandits, they call themselves, commute primarily on the back roads and hunker-down in the desert or woods when they're not drinking or stealing. That's why he can't be found. Your guys in the Bureau and everyone else are looking for someone riding public transportation."
"How would a modern scientist know how to change his appearance in that manner?" pondered Bruce.
"Don't forget this fellow is super smart and can without a doubt make himsel
f into whoever he wants. He knows Big Brother is after him and I doubt if he's alone, especially now," as he tapped the second man in the picture who wore a suit. "See the docucase this guy's carrying... and the expression on his face? He looks as if someone killed and ate his pet dog. They clearly know each other, probably long-time friends or relatives. Let's learn who his buddy is and reassess our line of thought. We'll start with every relative Louis has then his colleagues and friends. After that everyone he went to college and high school with. Essentially, I want to know everyone he's ever known and where they are now. Then if that doesn't work, we'll move on to people outside the box. "
"Yes, sir!" blurted his delighted sidekick. Jack frowned.
Two days later
"And what have we come up with?"
"It was actually pretty easy, sir. The second man in the photo is his first cousin, Gary Gunderson who is a quantum physics professor at Harvard. He also holds a doctorate in bio molecular chemistry. In fact, he's the Head of both the Math and Science departments. Gunderson unexpectedly left five weeks ago and hasn't returned nor made contact."
"Same m.o. as our primary fugitive, Atwater," asserted Jack.
"And there's another important development," announced Whitaker. "View again the Mexican photo. The F.B.I. lab has determined there is a shadow on the wall behind them and due to the time of day and angle it means there was a third man present. The