Gregson took a seat next to the window.
The wilderness was peaceful, from 40,000 feet—but he knew it wasn’t wonderland.
Fire was a man’s best friend, in the elements, and his sharp mind to fashion a spear.
“Whiskey,” Gregson said to the stewardess.
“What? Do you think this is Dodge City?”
“I need to dull my mind, while I can.” Gregson drank the samples.
Langley was the last place he wanted to visit. Gregson was done with bureaucracies. There is a social stratum in society, made that way, by people who go along, with other people who go along. It’s a world of white-washed walls and dead souls. Envy, is the weapon of the office, and it’s a knife that stabs in the back.
The security check, was a man who spent all day in a five-by-five box. He got his authority by scrutinizing everything, down to a man’s zipper. There was a gun in there, but it wasn’t lethal, unless it hadn’t been fired in years. Then it might go off, at any moment.
Gregson didn’t look at him. He drove his red rent-a-car to the C-Building. The buildings were labeled with letters because a bureaucracy is similar to an elementary school. The boys are measuring their penises in the bathroom and the girls are learning their ABCs.
Gregson walked to the front desk, where a lady with gray hair had it looped into a tower on her head. She looked like she had sat there since the 1950s. Her yellow nicotine nails were painted pink. They were long and deformed, from typing.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see Murphy.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“He’s the director of violent crimes.”
“Oh—a compact sort of man—dresses well.” She eyed Gregson, disapprovingly. He was wearing khaki pants with a loose-fitting polo shirt.
Gregson got onto the elevator, and went up. When he got off, he noticed two women going down with a man. The female agents were wearing straight black skirts. The man wore a power suit. Women love the power.
The hallway was full of ringing phones.
In the cubicles, pictures of mutilated bodies hung on the walls like modern art.
The workplace reminded Gregson of angry bees in their hive. An alpha boss passed him in the hallway, followed by his beta monkeys in white shirts. They were going to have a meeting in the board room, where everybody would be bored. He droned on… about mission statements, while his underlings paid him lip-service by taking copious notes.
“Hell runs on a time-clock,” Gregson said. “Am I dead?”
“Not yet, but this case, could be your coffin,” Murphy said.
Gregson turned around.