At the FBI Headquarters, 60-100,
High View Avenue, Maryland
requested him to ride always to shake off body cramps. He mounted it, sped through the Central Business District. Swung into 44th Avenue. Then began riding slowly. The air was thin, his breathing was light. He was looking straight ahead. The Tyny Tunnel was two poles away. At the Devil's Bend he carefully negotiated the bike. And entered the long tunnel. The atmosphere was warm and bright. Traffic was less. Few joggers were on the pedestrian lanes. But the feeling of riding into a ghost town was there. He could feel and see the walls shaking in resonance to the echoes of marching footsteps of Roman soldiers left behind many centuries ago. Ghosts enclave, he thought. Then he rode out and ascended Henry the Great Bridge, the long high supercurved edifice. The air had become heavy and foggy. He was pedaling fast, and breathing hard. He could see a long traffic hold-up stretching from the West End to High View Avenue. He made a u-turn, and descended into a bypass. After a brief run, he rode into FBI Building Complex.
"Good morning, Prof Madison"
Good morning, Charles," he replied. He shook hands with the hefty janitor. Then he rested the bicycle on a rack. And took a tag from Charles. He took a lift down the tenth floor. As it opened, he walked through a long white corridor. At a bay, he inserted a pass. Then got to a door with emboldened plaque: G T Madison. He inserted another card. A beep sounded, the door opened, he walked in.
"Good morning Uche," he said, smiling at his secretary, a diminutive, beautiful, round face woman in white suit.
"Good morning, Prof Madison," she replied, blushing. "They're waiting," she said further, her tongue clinging to the roof of the mouth.
"Call them in, please."
His office, a small cubicle with a library filled with crime novels and encyclopedia. 'Mr President is Corrupt by Nkem Meniru' was spread on one corner of his table. The other corner had standing trays. He took the file from the top. And glanced through. As he closed it, a buzz sounded. The door slided apart. Three gentle men came in.
"Good morning, Prof Madison."
"Good morning, gentlemen," he greeted. And waved at them to sit down.
"Coffee?"
The trio nodded their heads. Uche hurried in.
"Coffee please, for three. Black!"
The men nodded their heads again. She walked out. He turned over the files. Then fixed a steady stare at his colleagues.
"I have examined the young man. Three intensive sessions! Unarticulated! Abnormal, a psychic. At the time of murder he was not himself. Therefore he shouldn't be blamed. The trial should discontinue. I recommend sick bay."
"But he was the CEO. He knew about the insurance," said the head of the team, Dr Akyl Cosmas, an authority in human personality. Tall, in black suit, blue shirt, red tie and black shoes.
"He had attempted killing her three times, and failed. But got her on the fourth."
Prof Madison looked down, turned over his report sheet again. And found a line.
"Our team report is comprehensive," he said, gawking at their faces. "We can't ignore his state of mind at the time of murder. Though it seemed planned, based on what you said, but he had no idea what he was doing. He's suffering from severe chaotic brain disorder, SCBD. And should be confined for a rehab."
Dr Ed opened an operation catalogue. A mind reader of international repute. A good listner. He was short with a round chubby face and wide shoulders. He wore a blue suit, white shirt and blue tie.
"Sir, we found his routine. A four year routine. Phone calls, travels and so on. He stole more than $2m from the deceased. And changed the documents of her three masions to his name. Today, he is the president of her multimillion inc. Does he look like a dummy? The CCTV camera caught all the events leading to the her death. He planned and supervised it."
The door opened. Uche brought in a tray of coffee. She served it out, and left. Silence ensued, they engaged the coffee.
"Dr Ed," said Madison. "I'm not defending him or holding brief for him. What I'm saying is that my sessions with him displayed a disorder. My recommendation is that he should be in rehab."
The three men were listening and sipping their coffee. All the key evidences in their quivers were exhausted . A punch like this coming from a great principal, in Professor Madison calibre, would dissipate their efforts to mere nothing before any judge.
"What is the next line of action," asked a soft spoken, urbane, middle age man. He's Demian Dike, DD for short, the head of operations. An accomplished crime fighter. A graduate of Philosophy in UNN with MSc in Criminology, Harvard. He had brought more criminals to justice than any institution. He hadn't said anything since they came in. This had been his style. Talk less, act more, act fast. He was staring at them. But no one replied.
"I suggest we test the muddy waters. Let's see what Judge Raymond will do. The jury may take liking to us."
There was a minute silence.
Then Prof Madison spoke, "May we take sometime out. Assess what we have, and scout for a watertight evidence. If we go to Raymond with this, like this, and miss, we're doomed. He is a stubborn Judge. He won't grant us any second chance."
Another round of quiet began.
"Okay, two week should do," said Dr Ed. He opened his workcase, retrieved a newspaper report and spread it on the table. The picture of the missing girl spread on the paper, her deep-searching eyes staring at them.
"Christen Chuks Quarker," said DD.
"Yea!" said Dr Ed. "Time has run out. Most probable, dead."
"The department and the sherrif is combing everywhere."
"No lead," asked Prof Madison.
"Not yet, Sir," said DD. "We need a wider Intel. Her father had brought in the Feds as well."
The intercom beeped.
"Yes, Ms Uche."
"Dr Chuks Quaker with his wife is here, Prof."
"Let him in."
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