Judas Horse

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I am standing in the middle of nowhere, eating an oatmeal cookie, when the word comes down the hallway like an ill wind that SAC Robert Galloway wants to see everyone in his office. I glance at the TV monitors — no airplane crashes — and figure this would be Galloway announcing with his usual gloomy hysteria that some honcho is coming from FBI headquarters, or maybe, because of budget cuts, we all have to bring our own copy paper.

The boss is waiting behind his desk, eyes downcast, fingertips tapping the blotter, and he does not speak or look up until the office is jammed with agents in shirtsleeves and wide-eyed administrative assistants. Cautious silence settles in.

“Another blow,” he says, because there are all kinds of blows, all day long.

The silence twists tighter.

“Special Agent Steve Crawford is dead.”

A collective gasp of shock. Some of us clutch, as if kicked in the gut.

“We have a positive ID on his remains.”

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