It was my job to look for things outside the expected pattern, but first one had to recognize the pattern. And though it may sound strange to think of it this way, this is the way that we were taught to conduct our investigations, to conduct ourselves at the FBI.
Make a list, follow it, take notes, follow protocol, then arrest the
I keed, I keed, . . . about the black guy thing anyway.
Now, looking down at my phone, my list was a ranking of the horrible things that my boss had done to me since I had arrived here as my first assignment after finishing undercover training under the Bureau’s Milton School program.
With my brown hair, blue eyes and a love of outdoor sports, I expected that I might go to Idaho and infiltrate a gun-loving sect of gun-loving polygamist Mormons. Or maybe take down a few high desert biker meth labs back near San Bernadino. But I had no such luck, and my assignments were uniformly inappropriate – being asked to infiltrate groups that into which I would never ever fit.
There was the time that I had I was tasked with infiltrating a Nation of Islam prayer group. Though I was completely unsuccessful in obtaining any useful information, I do fondly remember those seven months as when I learned how to tie a real bowtie.
But now, this time, this phone call was even worse.
I was being sent to what sounded like an all-boys beer festival to look for evidence that the brewers were trying to market their products to children.
Oh god – this did not bode well.
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