Jack Dawson stood in his supervisor’s office and stared out the window, his bright gray eyes watching the rain fall from the brooding summer sky over
He watched the people on the street a few floors below, hustling through the downpour with their umbrellas fluttering as they poured out of the surrounding buildings, heading home for the evening. Cars clogged Pennsylvania Avenue, with the taxis darting to the curb to pick up fares, causing other drivers to jam on their brakes, the bright red tail lights flickering on and off down the street like a sputtering neon sign. It was Friday, and everyone was eager to get home to their loved ones, or go out to dinner, or head to the local bar. Anywhere that would let them escape the rat race for the weekend.
He didn’t have to see this building’s entrance to know that very few of the people who worked here would be heading home on time tonight. The address was
A special agent had been brutally murdered, and with the addition of another name to the list of the FBI’s Service Martyrs, every resource the Bureau could bring to bear was being focused on bringing his killer to justice. Special agents from headquarters and field offices around the country were headed to
Everyone had apart in the investigation, it seemed, except for
“I’m sorry, Jack,” came a gruff voice from behind him, interrupting Dawson’s morbid train of thought as Ray Clement, Assistant Director of the Criminal Investigative Division, came in and closed the door. It was his office, and he had ordered
Ray Clement was a bear of a man with a personality to match. A star football player from the
Over the years, Clement had worked his way up through the Bureau. He was savvy enough to survive the internal politics, smart and tough enough to excel in the field, and conformed to the system because he believed in it. He could be a real bastard when someone did something stupid, but otherwise worked tirelessly to support his people so they could do their jobs. He wasn’t a boss that any of his special agents would say they loved, but under his tenure, the Criminal Investigative Division, or CID, had successfully closed more cases than under any other assistant director in the previous fifteen years. People could say what they wanted, but Clement got results.
When he had first taken over the division, Clement had taken the time to talk to each and every one of his special agents. He had been up front about why: he wanted to know at least a little bit, more than just the names, about the men and women who risked their lives every day for the American Taxpayer. They were special agents, he’d said, but they were also special human beings.
Jack had dreaded the interview. Whereas Clement could have been the FBI’s poster child, Jack didn’t quite fit the mold. He was like a nail head sticking up from the perfectly polished surface of a hardwood floor, not enough to snag on anything, just enough to notice. Outwardly, he was no different than most of his peers. He dressed the same as most special agents, eschewing a suit for more practical and casual attire for all but the most formal occasions. His well-muscled six foot, one inch tall body was far more comfortable in jeans and a pullover shirt, with a light jacket to conceal his primary weapon, a standard service-issue Glock 22. While he had no problems voicing his opinions, which had sometimes led to respectful but intense discussions with his superiors, he had never been a discipline problem. He was highly competent in the field, and was a whiz at data analysis. At first glance, he seemed like what he should be: an outstanding special agent who worked hard and had great career prospects.
But under the shiny veneer ran a deep vein of dark emptiness. Jack smiled, but it never seemed to reach his eyes, and he rarely laughed. He was not cold-hearted, for he had often displayed uncommon compassion toward others, especially the victims, and their families, of the crimes he was sent to investigate. But he had no social life to speak of, no significant other in his life, and there were very few people who understood the extent of the pain that lay at Jack’s core.
夏日的华盛顿。杰克·道森直直地站在其上司的办公室里,凝视着窗外,他那明亮的灰眼睛望着雨滴从黑压压的天空落下。雨滴在狂风的挟持下撞向玻璃,然后像泪珠似的顺着玻璃滑落,留下一道道的“泪痕”。头顶上的荧光灯在窗户上投下阴影,杰克从反光的窗户上看到这样的一张脸:方正的下颌加上高高的颧骨——这使得这张脸看起来有点骇人;那微微上翘着仿佛随时都在微笑的饱满的嘴唇如今却紧紧地抿着;深棕色的皮肤,浓密的黑发一丝不苟地向后梳着,适量的发蜡恰到好处地把发型给固定住了。玻璃上映出的脸仿佛是属于魔鬼的,如此的憔悴而苍白。杰克很清楚这张脸就是他每天早晨起床后看到的那张脸。可现在一切都变了。他的世界里的一个重要部分被毁掉了,是谋杀,就在前一天的夜里。
杰克的目光移向楼下大街上的人群,那些从四周的建筑里涌出的人们在瓢泼大雨中撑着雨伞忙乱地走在下班回家的路上。宾夕法尼亚大道上塞满了车子,有出租车猛地驶向路边招揽生意,这使得后面的司机不得不猛踩急刹车,鲜红的车尾灯在大道上此起彼伏地闪烁着,就如同流光溢彩的霓虹灯一样。在这个周五的傍晚,人们都渴望早点回到家里与心爱的人儿团聚,或者到外面的餐馆享受晚餐,又或者去酒吧里消磨时光,总之就是要到那些能令他们在周末逃离激烈竞争的地方。
即便不看楼下的大门,杰克也知道在这栋大楼里工作的人们只有极少数能够在今晚回家休息。这里是位于宾夕法尼亚大道西北935号的诶德加胡佛大楼,美国联邦调查局(FBI)的总部所在地。除了一个小时之前动身前往内布拉斯加州林肯市的几组特工人员外,许多FBI成员要在大楼里呆到明天才会离开,一些人甚至在接下来的几天里都不会回家,他们要是实在累得不行的话,就会直接在自己的办公室或者小隔间里睡上一觉,这样就能将上下班路上的时间节省下来。
一名FBI特工被残忍地杀害了,FBI的烈士名单上又增添了一个亡灵,当局能做的就是全力追缉凶手,将凶手早日绳之于法以告慰英烈在天之灵。总部及全国各地的FBI特工已赶往内布拉斯加州,大批化验人员以及其他后勤支援人员也开始着手进行对电子数据的筛查工作以寻找线索。
似乎每个人都投身到调查中去了,除了杰克·道森。他的手里拿着一个厚纸做的普通文件夹,文件夹里面是已经被转发到林肯市FBI办事处的资料。这些资料是由特工主任(SAC) 对案件中少量已知的情况进行总结后所提交的初步报告。报告简单扼要地描述了案发地点、受害者以及在特工主任办公室收到消息前案发地FBI工作人员已进行的一些工作。报告中还附带了照片——大量的照片。如果说一张照片胜过千言万语,那么杰克颤抖的双手里攥着的那张照片则更是淋漓尽致地展现了受害者临死前所受到的极大痛苦。从照片上可以清楚地看到谢尔登·科雷由于巨大的痛苦以及极度的恐惧而变得面容扭曲、龇牙咧嘴,那时候的他还活着……
“抱歉,杰克。”身后传来的沙哑声音打断了杰克漫无边际的恐怖想像。声音的主人是FBI罪案调查科(CID)助理主任雷·克莱门特,他走进房间然后关上了房门。这本是雷·克莱门特的办公室,他之前命令杰克在这里等着他,他要找机会跟他谈谈。
雷·克莱门特拥有粗壮的身体以及同样粗壮的神经。他曾是阿拉巴马大学“赤色风暴”橄榄球队的明星球员,但他并没有趁机转为职业球员,反而成为了FBI的一名特工。他曾告诉杰克,他从10岁开始就梦想着要成为FBI特工;而他生命中最为荣耀的时刻就是获得FBI徽章的时候。杰克知道,很多人可能会觉得雷·克莱门特简直是疯了。对此,雷·克莱门特会说:“我爱橄榄球,直到今天还依然爱着它。但我打橄榄球只是因为我享受这项运动,我从未打算以此作为谋生职业。”
加入FBI多年后,雷·克莱门特的努力工作换来了上级对他的提拔。他精明,所以能够在FBI的内部斗争中全身而退;他聪颖、坚韧,最终成为行业翘楚;他谨遵FBI的制度,因为他将其奉为信条。他总是不知疲倦地为手下提供支援,使他们的工作得以顺利进行,但如果手下做了蠢事,他就会变成十足的混蛋。这样的上司自然讨不到手下的欢心,但在雷·克莱门特的领导下,罪案调查科(CID)成功侦破的案件数比他的前任在位时要多得多,破案率为15年以来最高。别人爱说什么就让他们说去吧,反正雷·克莱门特已得到他想要的结果。
在刚接手CID时,雷·克莱门特花费了大量的时间去跟手下的特工逐一进行谈话。这样做的目的很简单:他希望能够多了解——哪怕只是多了解那么一点点——这些每天都在为美国纳税人出生入死的特工们,而不仅仅是知道他们的名字。他曾说过,这些人是特工,但同时也是一群特殊的普通人。
杰克曾经很惧怕面谈这种事儿。如果说雷·克莱门特是FBI的模范生,那么杰克则是跟模范生沾不上一点边儿的那一类人物。杰克就像是光滑的硬木地板上突起的钉头,顶多只会引起旁人的注意却不足以对别人构成障碍。他看上去与其他同事并无不同,穿着打扮也跟大多数特工差不多。除非是出席正式场合,否则为了行动方便,他平时一般都是穿休闲服而很少穿西服。牛仔裤和套头衬衫会让身高六呎1寸、浑身肌肉的他觉得更加的舒适,当然,还要外加一件轻便夹克以隐藏他的主要武器——一支标准配置的Glock 22手枪。发表意见对杰克来说并不是什么难事,虽然有时候他提出的意见会引起上司和他之间礼貌但激烈的讨论,但杰克从来没有在纪律问题上犯错误。他的工作能力毋容质疑,而且在数据分析方面,他绝对称得上是奇才。工作勤奋、前途一片光明的优秀特工,这是杰克给人的第一印象,而他似乎就是这样的一个人。
但阳光外表下包裹着的却是空虚、灰暗的灵魂。杰克微笑的时候,从来不会让人觉得这是发自心底的笑容,而且他很少会哈哈大笑。他并不是冷漠的人,他经常会对他人表现出非同寻常的同情心,尤其是那些他经手的案件中的受害者及其家属。但杰克的社交生活平淡如水,没有什么值得成为人们津津乐道的事情,他没有另一半,而能够明白他内心深处痛楚的也只有那么寥寥几个人。























