The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) (9 page)
Read The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) Online
Authors: Christopher Metcalf
Wyrick’s legal pad on the small shelf in his van contained the usual bulleted outline format he had used for two decades. During moments of silence or inane dialogue of the sitcom now on Lance’s television, Wyrick reviewed his notes from his surveillance. In doing so, he came to a conclusion that he had missed something. His in-depth knowledge of candidate Priest included reams of school records, occupational history, credit reports and analysis prepared by Braden and his psych eval team. He knew he would not likely get what he needed in 24 hours of observation, but a scan of his notes concluded that this kid didn’t have the car in drive. He was stuck in neutral. Wyrick recalled his discussion with Braden and follow-up conversations with his contacts back at the ranch that it all, and by all, everything, seemed to come a little too easy for Priest.
Wyrick drifted for a moment as the two characters on Lance’s TV discussed some ridiculous situation they now found themselves in. He thought about Pete Marivich, the Pistol. “Pistol Pete” would take and make shots both in college and the pros that no one should have. Time after time, he set scoring records, often breaking his own. Wyrick, like so many others sitting in stands or glued to television sets, had marveled at Marivich’s scoring prowess. He truly made it look easy. The Pistol obviously worked at his craft, but the way he floated from top of the key to the wing and back and then turned in a flash to catch a pass and shoot another swishing basket was sheer poetry. Wyrick remembered watching an after-game interview with the young Pistol where he was asked how he does it. “Practice” was the one-word reply, but between the letters was a subtle code that simply stated some things just come natural to certain people. For Pistol Pete, squaring up and sinking a shot was as natural as putting one foot in front of the other.
Priest had this same naturalness about him; the same confidence the Pistol exuded every time he eyed a shot. A confidence that said he’d make this shot and the next and the next. Priest excelled in pressure situations as well. And probably most important, when he missed or was knocked off kilter in some way, his recovery was quick and confident, almost without skipping a bit. Yet, it wasn’t overtly obvious to those who had not been through 611 pages of candidate Priest’s life. This young man’s success in building a cover was so complete, that he gave little or no hint of his prowess. He stayed humble and modest while putting others to shame or getting by with a whopper of a story. This undoubtedly required practice.
Yet practice is different for each of us. For some it is repetition to build muscle memory. For others it is experiential to prepare for the actual event and the physical and psychological elements. For others, practice can involve deep visioning to essentially rehearse the event, whether a speech before a board or a 100-meter hurdle race. Coaches will encourage athletes to envision success so that it can come easier. From what Wyrick had seen, Lance Priest practices in a manner that borrows aspects of each of these methods and more into a process that psychologist Braden had labeled “personality borrowing” and sometimes “stealing.” He basically became another person by copying them, by copying their actions, movements, facial expressions, speech, laugh.
From what Wyrick could discern, Lance’s practice methods revolve primarily around reading. Books, maps, catalogs but most of all, people. The kid seems to possess a photographic memory and is able to grab certain aspects of everything he sees, hears, smells and touches. His practice involves borrowing these aspects and putting them into action. He plays different characters from minute to minute. It showed up mainly in the interview transcripts Braden and other compartmentalized agency members had gathered in just over six weeks. Interviewees would depict different people when describing candidate Priest. Utterly and totally different with detail piled upon detail. That took practice.
Wyrick thumbed through Braden’s report for a 10
th
time and stopped on the passage he liked most. It read, “Candidate is perhaps most comfortable when faced with a challenge or set of challenges. He appears to excel, even live, for these moments when his current paradigm is challenged and a creative, improvised response is required. He has purposefully placed himself in these situations time and time again. It is as though he views these challenging situations as opportunities to practice, or better, perfect his performance skills.” Wyrick smiled to himself and put his finger to the headphone on his ear to get a better “view” of the room.
One hundred and fifty yards away, sitting in front of his television with made-for-TV characters regurgitating lame lines followed by laugh tracks, a road atlas of the United States beside him, a phone book open to the yellow pages on his lap and an architectural reference guide in his hands, Lance put in motion plans for his next practice and envisioned success. The winning moment he saw in his mind was not being offered a Foreign Service job at the end of a serpentine bureaucratic governmental process. No, his goal was fooling them all into thinking he had a clue where he was going and what he was doing with his life. He practices for this particular result each and every day. The thrill for him is in the chase, not the end.
A disembodied Lance floating above could only look at himself on the couch below and try like hell to see what he’d missed. He searched for clues. Was there a bug listening to him? Was there a video camera somewhere in the apartment? He knew something was there. He just couldn’t see it.
Frustrating
.
Nondescript
. That was the word the floating, hovering Lance used to describe the federal government building in Downtown Dallas. He was back where the fun had started three days before; watching from above as the earthbound Lance entered the building to begin his new life.
Lance rode the elevator to the fifth floor at 7:45 a.m. The gal in her mid-20s riding up with him was headed to the same session. He now knew her as Sarah Ridenour, not her real name. They smiled at each other upon entering the lift and casually looked away during the ride.
He couldn’t help but read her. Twenty-five. No ring left hand third finger, but there was an indent from a band. Blue contacts. Designer knock-off suit and size 7 ½ two-inch heels. Soccer player back in high school – medial collateral scar below her left kneecap. But the smell didn’t fit. She wore
Diorissimo perfume, the fragrance Annette, Jimmy Lee’s wizened secretary at the dealership wore. It didn’t fit a 25-year-old.
Lance did a little recall assessment during the slow upward drift of the ancient elevator. He had scouted out the building, available parking and multiple traffic options the previous evening. His drive in from Richardson before 7 a.m. was pleasantly uneventful as he beat much of the morning’s rush-hour traffic aiming towards the glass and steel skyscrapers of downtown Big D. The parking lot he chose offered all day for $12. He tipped the lot attendant an extra $5 to make sure no one parked behind him, potentially blocking him in until 5 p.m. The interior of the building was as vanilla as its exterior. Grey walls, greyer linoleum floors, no surprises.
He politely held his hand in front of the opened doors allowing his fairly attractive but fake co-passenger to exit first. He then followed her down the hall to room 510 where they checked-in with a cordial, but cold receptionist who obviously found this day’s assignment of welcoming nobodies below her low pay grade.
“Please have a seat and someone will be with you shortly,” the receptionist gestured to the chairs lining the wall and immediately returned to her newspaper.
Lance and his elevator partner sat in two of the 10 chairs lining the walls of the small waiting room, an open seat between them. She proceeded to pull out a folded copy of the New York Times from her purse and continued a story she had started reading earlier. Lance craned his neck to scan the headlines on the front page. She caught his eye and smiled.
“I only get to read the New York Times in the library,” he apologized.
“No problem. That’s what I did back at school. Are you still in college?”
“Yes,” he smiled back, “University of Tulsa.” He told the truth.
“Really, I had a friend graduate from there.” Sarah lied to add detail to her story.
“Really, who was that?”
“Tina Stempler was her name in college, now she’s Tina Mayes. Mrs. Brad Mayes as she likes to joke.”
“Don’t think I recognize the name. What degree did she graduate with?”
“Marketing,” she replied and turned back to her paper.
“Great.”
“I’m Sarah Ridenhour by the way.” She turned back.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Vance Porter.” They shook hands. From above, Lance giggled at the little twist on his name. Stupid really.
“Nice to meet you. I guess we’ll get to know each other a bit today.” Her smile was very nice.
“That’s what I hear. Supposed to be six or eight of us, right?”
“Yep.” And she turned back to her paper while turning the page.
The door opened and two more candidates who made it to the oral assessment stage of the Foreign Service Officer applicant process entered. The gentleman was in his late thirties with tiny gold-rimmed glasses. The woman was probably 32 but had a premature grey streak in her black hair.
Ann Bancroft
. Lance thought to himself. The grey streak in her hair made him think of the movie
The Graduate
. Lance thought for maybe the 20
th
time in his life that it was amazing that Bancroft was only six or seven years older than Dustin Hoffman but was masterful at playing a seductive older woman. The opening chords and “doo-dooing” of the movie’s theme song started playing in his head and he had to listen to Simon and Garfunkel sing for a few minutes. Lance recalled reading somewhere that Joe DiMaggio had been really pissed when the song and movie came out. Joe didn’t think he had gone anywhere. Lance laughed at yet another bit of useless trivia rambling around his head. He would
kill
on Jeopardy!
A moment later, another chap walked in. This guy was dressed for business with a navy suit, striking white shirt and deep red power tie. He was followed a few seconds later by two women in their late 20s who had struck up a conversation riding up in the elevator together. The heavier one finished their conversation with an exclamation, “Now, wouldn’t that be perfect.”
The dour receptionist welcomed them and directed them to join everyone else by being seated.
Lance scanned the group again from above, taking in details that hardly mattered to most but amounted to something more than nothing. Clothing, accessories, shoes, haircuts, eyewear and other minutia came together to create a whole, a complete and comprehensive visual portrait. Little things like being right or left-handed, cologne and leg position told him most of what he needed to know about his fellow oral assessees. Or so he thought at the time. Dumb.
Sarah finished the front section of the Times and decided to put her paper away since the clock on the wall now read 8 a.m. sharp. Her timing was impeccable because less than five seconds later a door to the right of the receptionist opened and out walked Geoffrey Seibel. Lance didn’t know that was his name at the time, but would in a minute.
Lance paused the image in his brain to examine the details. Seibel exuded travel, experience, sun-baked desert and steamy tropical intrigue. Lance could hear an ocean breeze blow in behind as Seibel walked out through the door to greet the group. He wore a very expensive suit. Lance guessed it cost significantly more than the $1,200 custom-tailored suits that Jimmy Lee loved to wear. And like the car dealer, Seibel wore gold on a couple of fingers and his wrist. Those props disappeared for his performances later during the day.
“Well, good morning everyone.” Seibel’s smile was electric, a flashing neon light.
A chorus of reciprocal “good mornings” went up and everyone adjusted in their chairs. The nerves kept so well in check suddenly came to the fore.
“I am Geoffrey Seibel and I am one of your prompters today for the oral assessments portion of the Foreign Service Officer evaluation process. Seibel took another pace to the exact center of the small room just as an actor doing Shakespeare in the round might do. He made sure he smiled at each and every one of the candidates before going on.
Lance paused the replay in his head and did a quick 360 around Seibel frozen in the middle of the room. No bulge in his jacket. No gun. Must have come later. He restarted the playback.
“Congratulations on passing your written exams. You all have likely read how today will unfold. You will participate in a group session to start. Then we will break up into three smaller case management groups and then your individual assessments will round out the day.”
His smile broadened and he continued. “You should expect to be here until approximately 3 p.m. today. But don’t worry, we have drinks, snacks and Uncle Sam is picking up your boxed lunch today. Please be sure to let us know if you have special dietary needs.”
Smiles and gentle laughs ensued. “Before we bring you back, are there any questions?” No reply. “Okay, then I’ll rephrase it, who wants to break the ice and ask the first question?”
The group exchanged glances, but no one was willing to step up. Lance broke the awkward silence, “Bathrooms?”
“Very good, thank you Mr. Priest for asking a very important, albeit short one-word question. Restrooms, lavatories, the lue or el bano in most of the countries south of where we now stand are located just down this hall we are about to walk through.”
“Thanks.” Lance let it go that Seibel knew his name already though they had never met. He knew better now.
“No, thank you for asking sir. You receive no prize, but you have earned my gratitude and that of your mates here for breaking the proverbial ice that is silence.” Seibel moved back to the open door. “Now then, please gather up your bags, briefs and paraphernalia and follow me through this first doorway to the rest of your lives. If you dare that is.” His smile even broader.
They all traipsed down a hallway, indeed passing bathrooms approximately halfway, and walked to the end of the hall where they entered a large conference room with a number of tables pushed together forming a large “U.” An open space on one side allowed someone to walk into the middle of the space. Lance expected Seibel to be in there shortly.
A group of three individuals stood to one side of the room where a pot of coffee and a tray of breakfast goodies waited. The three of them split up to welcome the members of the arriving group. By the looks of them, they had done this gig dozens, maybe hundreds of times. In turn, the three made their way around to introduce themselves to the group.
The first to approach Lance was a small woman who appeared to have a good bit of Native American Indian in her. Lance, living in Oklahoma for several years now, had spent a lot of time with people of Native American descent. The trail of tears brought their ancestors to Indian Territory, now the Sooner State. She extended a hand to him and smiled. “Good morning, I’m Isabel Russell with the Department of State.”
“Good morning, I’m Lance Priest, department of state of denial.”
She smiled and laughed at that, “Oh really. And how long have you been with them.”
“Permanent assignment.”
“I like that. Might have to see about a transfer there myself.” She squeezed his hand and released.
“We accept all types. No real requirements that I know of, at least none based in reality.” Lance added.
“Very interesting Mr. Priest. I look forward to getting to know you today.” She smiled wider.
“You too, thanks for letting me come.” He returned the smile.
“You’re very welcome.”
And she moved on with a wink. She liked him. One down.
Lance turned to face number two approaching. He was a black man in his mid-fifties. Lance glanced up and down and immediately knew the gentleman drove an older model foreign make; probably a BMW 528i. Maybe 1976 or 77; just old enough to be considered a classic.
“Hi there. I’m Brad Renfro.”
“Morning. Lance Priest.” He replied.
“From Oklahoma, right?” Renfro asked.
“Tulsa.” Lance nodded.
“I was there maybe 15 years ago for a couple of days. Very pretty as I recall. Green Country.”
“Right. I like it. Place has changed with the oil bust and all. But where are you from?”
“All around I guess. Grew up on a bunch of military bases around the world. Dad was in the Army.” Renfro added.
“So now you still get to travel round the world in the Foreign Service.”
“Used to. I’m stuck in D.C. most of the time. I’d love to get back out there in the field doing embassy work, but they say I’m more valuable as a trainer.”
“Very good. Can’t beat a good teacher.”
“Don’t know if I’m any good or not.”
“I’m sure you are. If they have you teaching others, that means they trust you with the future right?” Lance nodded.
“I like that. Trust me with the future. Think I might find a way to use that.” Renfro patted Lance’s arm above the elbow and moved on to meet and greet the others. Number three approached him and did an even worse job lying than Renfro had.