The Devils Teardrop

had a long talk.
    A day later Hughes showed up in Fielding’s cubicle, covered with blood, carrying a piece of jagged glass and asking if he could have some soup.
    Fielding cleaned him up, thinking he’d been a little careless about the when and where of the murder and about getting away afterward. He decided that Hughes was too good to waste on little things like this and so hetold the man how to escape from the hospital and how to make his way to a nearby cottage that Fielding rented for afternoon trysts with some of the retarded patients.
    It was that night that he decided how he could best put the man to use.
    Hartford, then Boston, then White Plains, then Philly. Perfect crimes.
    And now he was in Washington.
    Committing what was turning out to be the most perfect crime, he decided (though reflecting that a linguist like Parker Kincaid would be troubled by the unnecessary modifier).
    For the last six months he’d spent nearly eighteen hours a day planning the theft. Slowly breaching FBI security—masquerading as young Detective Hardy from the police department’s Research and Statistics Department. (He’d selected his particular pseudonym because studies into the psychological impressions of names reported that “Leonard” was unthreatening and “Hardy” conjured an image of a loyal comrade.) He first infiltrated the Bureau’s District of Columbia field office because that office had jurisdiction over major crimes in the District. He got to know Ron Cohen, the special agent in charge, and his assistants. He learned when SAC Cohen would be on vacation and which of his underlings would be—as the currently in-vogue term went—“primary” on a case of this magnitude. That would be, of course, Margaret Lukas, whose life he invaded as inexorably as he worked his way into the Bureau itself.
    He’d camp out in conference rooms, copying voluminous crime statistics for his fictional reports, then would make trips to the vending machines and restrooms, glancing at internal FBI memos and phone books and IDdocumentation and procedure manuals. Meanwhile at his home and at his safe house in Gravesend he was spending time cruising the Internet and learning about government facilities, police procedures and security systems (and, yes, Parker, about foreign dialects).
    Fielding made hundreds of calls to interior designers who’d worked at FBI headquarters, to the GSA, to former clerks, outside contractors, security specialists, asking innocent questions, talking about phony employee reunions, arguing about imaginary invoices. He usually managed to extract one vital fact—say, about the layout of the headquarters building, the staffing on holidays, the exits and entrances. He learned the brand and general location of security cameras in headquarters. The number and stations of the guards. The communications systems.
    He’d spent a month finding the perfect front man—Gilbert Havel, a bum with no criminal record and virtually no recorded past. A man naive enough to think that someone as brilliant as Fielding needed a partner. A man easy to kill.
    It was arduous work. But perfection requires patience.
    And then, this morning, the Digger shot the hell out of the Metro and Fielding showed up at the Bureau doorstep, eager to help but suitably indignant about being the third wheel on the investigation. Other agents would have double-or triple-checked his credentials, called police headquarters. But not Margaret Lukas, the poor childless widow. Because here was Len Hardy, soon to be a childless widower, racked with the same sorrow she’d struggled through five years ago.
    Of course she accepted him into the fold without a thought.
    And they’d never guessed a thing about him.
    Just as he’d figured.
    Because Edward Fielding knew that combating crime today is the province of the scientist. Even the psychologists who profiled the criminal mind use formulae to categorize their prey. Yet the perpetrator himself—the human being—is so often overlooked. Oh, he knew that the agents, believing the unsub to be dead, would be concentrating so hard on the extortion note, the linguistics, the handwriting, the trace evidence, and their computer programs and fancy equipment that they’d never see the real mastermind standing—literally—three feet behind them.
    He now came to the elevator. The car arrived and he got inside. Fielding didn’t, however, push the seventh-floor button to go to the document lab. He pushed