A little more than an hour later, Cole was at his desk. He kept foil packets of tuna in his middle desk drawer and he’d gone to the break room and made himself a tuna and Colby cheese sandwich on seven-grain bread. He finished the last bite of his sandwich about the same time he finished sifting through the file in front of him for the second time. Little bits and pieces of ideas orbited around inside his brain, but nothing jumped out at him. Though it made little sense to others, sometimes he needed to drift a bit before having things come into sharper focus.
The right side of a person’s brain controls the left side of their body and performs tasks related to creativity and the arts, while the brain’s left hemisphere controls the right side of the body and performs logical functions like science and math.
Cole had what some people might call a sixth sense. At times, especially in tense situations, he would get a feeling in the middle of his head. It was neither pain nor pressure, but more like a warmth or pulsing sensation. He first noticed it in high school while wrestling in his first state final. He was a sophomore and was up against a beast of a senior from River Valley who had won the weight class the year before. Cole was down by one point with ten seconds left in the match. His opponent was stronger, more mature, and more experienced. None of the fans packing the University of Wisconsin Kohl Center anticipated what happened next.
Both wrestlers were on their feet, clinging to one another. Cole was trying frantically to find a small edge he could use to his advantage when he felt the warmth in his head. Imperceptible at first, then a small kernel of soothing heat that spread in the center of his head until it was the size of a baseball. Things slowed down fractionally, and he knew with certainty what his opponent was going to do in the next half-second. As his opponent stepped back to try to stall out the last couple of seconds, Cole dropped down and grabbed the guy’s ankle. He also pushed into the kid. The combined momentum of the kid trying to step back and Cole’s shove made him fall over backward and Cole covered him up for two points and the win as time expired.
The warmth in his head dulled to a kind of numbness and lasted while Cole shook his opponent’s hand and his other hand was raised in victory by the ref. It ebbed as he was mobbed by his coach, teammates, and the cheers from the crowd. He tried to hold onto the feeling, but he felt it dissipating, almost like a sedative wearing off. By the time he was bear-hugged by his dad and mom, he almost forgot about it. But the sensation came back to him over the following years when he needed it most. He thought of it as his own secret mini-power.
Cole brought the Orvis page back up and looked at the salmon-colored sweatshirt again. He was leaning toward the purchase and was in the process of pulling his wallet from his back pocket to fish out his VISA card when his desk phone rang. He punched the speakerphone button, “Huebsch here.”
“Cole. It’s Gene Olson.” Olson’s deep voice filled the room. Cole leaned forward and tapped the volume bar on the phone to take it down a few decibels.
Olson was ten years older than Cole and had been one of his instructors at Quantico when Cole first joined the FBI. Olson was well decorated and had risen steadily through the Bureau’s ranks. He was calling from FBI Headquarters, the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington DC, as a Deputy Director, two spots below the agency’s top position. Even in the hinterlands of Milwaukee, Cole heard the persistent rumors that Olson was expected to head up the Bureau sometime within the next few years.
“Hi, Gene. Haven’t heard from you in some time,” Cole said in a warm tone. He got along well with Olson and had come through for the man on numerous occasions.
“Yeah, I know. I wish I was calling to ask if you could get us good seats to the Marquette–Georgetown game next week but, as you can imagine, that’s not why I’m on the phone.”
“Right. I wondered when you or one of your minions would get around to it. I knew the trouble we had this morning would catch your attention.”
“You’re a smart boy. It also caught the attention of the Director, the President of the United States, and pretty much every member of Congress. Oh, and did I mention the media has more than a passing interest in your little incident as well? You and your team have been doing a nice job of getting us regular updates, and I appreciate that, but the Director wants to make some changes in how we work this.”
Cole thought this might be coming, but he was surprised it was happening this fast. “Let me guess, we’re going to transfer the flag, right?”
“Afraid so,” Olson acknowledged in a voice that said he had little choice in the matter. “The investigation will be led from our Chicago office. We’ve got a lot more resources and assets there.”
“So, I’ll be taking my orders from Jeffers?” Cole’s voice didn’t hide his annoyance. Collin Jeffers was the Chicago SAC, the head of the FBI’s Midwest hub. He’d joined the Bureau the same year Cole had and Cole felt Jeffers was more flash than substance.
“You really think Jeffers will handle this better than me, Gene?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I don’t think Jeffers will do a better job.” His voice didn’t rise but it hardened slightly. “You know that. You’ve turned down five different promotions over the past seven years, Cole, and three of those were offered to you directly by me. And the funny thing about job openings in the FBI, like most of the real world, is that people typically take the initiative to apply for those openings. We came to you, multiple times, because we think you’re that good. But the Director wants Chicago leading this and the Director gets what he wants.”
Olson softened then, but continued, “Listen, Cole, if this thing isn’t put to bed soon, I’ll no doubt be sent in to take over. Then I’ll be down there and Jeffers will get pushed aside. I hope it doesn’t come to that. For now, though, Jeffers is definitely going to need your assistance. You know Milwaukee and Wisconsin far better than he does, or anyone on his staff for that matter. He only moved to Chicago from Virginia a little over a year ago.”
Cole admired Olson and lightened up. “Don’t sell Jeffers short, Gene. I’ll bet he could tell us where to get the best foie gras or five hundred dollar haircut in Chi-Town. Other than that, you’re correct that I could fill in some details for him…if he’ll let me that is.”
“I’ve already told him to use you to full benefit. He might be a pretty boy, but he’s not stupid. If you help him quell this in a timely fashion, he could grab a higher rung on the FBI career ladder that much sooner. You and I both know Jeffers feels any address in the Midwest is beneath him.”
“As long as Jeffers lets me get him and his crew donuts and coffee, I’ll be happy.”
Olson chuckled. “It’ll probably be croissants and brie, but I get you.” He paused a bit before continuing. “Listen, Cole, this isn’t how either of us wants this to go down. That said, I need you in the game all the way. Figure out who did this and bring the bad guy or guys in. DC won’t rest easy until you do, and that means none of us will feel the heat turned down until then. Are you with me?”
“Gene, you had me at hello.” They both laughed then before Cole turned serious again. “You know you can count on me. I’ve always been a team player…maybe to a fault. I’ll do everything I can on my end. And I appreciate the fact you made this call. If I’d gotten it from Jeffers first, I probably wouldn’t have taken it as well.”
“Understood. And though I’ve given more than my share on this call, I have one more bit of advice…”
Cole was locked in now. “And that is…”
“Get the sweatshirt. That salmon color is perfect for your skin tone!” Olson’s loud laugh overwhelmed the volume control before he clicked off.
Cole chuckled and mumbled to himself, “You’re right about that,” as he typed in his VISA number, expiration date, and security code. That salmon-colored Orvis sweatshirt was as good as his.