A police patrol car went down the street. One of the cops sat by the open window, holding a rifle in both hands, the barrel pointing out at the street. He saw Teresa, said something to the driver, and the car braked sharply to a halt. Teresa pulled out her Bureau ID from its clip on her belt, held it aloft; the cops nodded their acknowledgement, and the car accelerated away.
Teresa saw the first body slumped against a garbage can at the street corner. One of the man's arms had hooked itself into the top of the can, holding him in place. His head lolled, and blood poured from wounds in his neck and back. A bullet flew past her, and Teresa threw herself on the ground behind the can. The shot had come from a window somewhere above her. The man's dead face looked blankly at her. She backed away in horror, scrambled back round the corner. She pulled her gun, cocked it, settled it comfortably in her hands, held it high in front of her.
She entered the building through the main doors, seeing more bodies lying in the lobby.
Some people were still alive, and they called out to her for help as she passed through, the gun seeking before her at every obstruction, every corner. She was in a bank, she thought. All this marble, the big windows, the long counters.
There were police outside, shouting up with bullhorns to where Unruh must be hidden.
Teresa paused. trying to remember the rule book. She could intercede, attempt the apprehension of the gunman alone or with any other members of the Bureau assigned to the incident. Or she
could put herself at the disposal of the police, until Bureau reinforcements were sent in. She thought hard. This was not real; this was training. Would they send her into this only for her to throw in her lot with the city police?
She knew the answer, and dashed across the rest of the long lobby, pushing quickly but cautiously through double swing doors, to where there was a cage elevator built in the well of the staircase.
She took the steps two at a time, the gun always questing before her. She paused, listening, thinking, aiming ahead, at every corner. At the next level there was another pair of swing doors; Teresa trained her gun on them in case Unruh came through.
Then he did, pushing through with his back towards her. He was crouching, moving with great caution.
FBI!' Teresa screamed. 'Freeze!'
Unruh turned in surprise towards her, holding his rifle. He worked the action without haste, but with deadly attention; she heard a mechanical process with loud clicks. Calmly he raised the weapon towards her, and squeezed the trigger.
'Oh shit,' Teresa said, and then his bullet struck her in the throat.
Agent Dan Kazinsky said, 'This is 1949. We don't shout "Freeze" to suspects.'
'I'm training for now, sir,' Teresa said.
'You got to be in role, Agent Simons,' said Kazinsky. 'None of this is made up. Howard Unruh was a real man, the event you're entering is a piece of Bureau history. Mr Unruh went through World War 11 in the US Army, in the Tank Corps. He came out 1946 with a stolen service rifle, and in 1949 he used it to kill thirteen innocent people in Camden, New jersey. He was apprehended by agents from
the Bureau, and because he was judged insane spent the rest of his life in a federal pen.'
'Yes, sir,' said Teresa, who had researched the Unruh case before going into the ExEx the first time. 'How do they get all those details of the city right? The cars and all?'
'Beats me. Aren't they something? That authentic detail is there to help you. Next time look at yourself in a shop window, or a mirror if you can find one. Familiarize yourself with the clothes you're in, the way your hair is done, how you look. Feel the part. Your task is to apprehend Mr Unruh, either alone or with other members of a Bureau team, depending on how you read the situation on the ground. Are you ready to go in again.
'I've got a medical note, sir,' said Teresa. 'I'm scheduled for another session next week, but I'm having trouble with the valve.'
She indicated the plastic seal on her neck, which was protected by a square of lint and some BandAids. The incision on her neck had gone septic after the latest entry to the Unruh ExEx, requiring it to be cleaned and the valve to be replaced, and delaying her training course by an extra three days.
She wasn't sure yet if she welcomed or resented the delay. More of this kind of training lay ahead, a great deal more, and so far it had not gone well. She was tom between trying to rush through it and get it over with, and backing off, preparing more thoroughly and getting it right. Andy had completed a similar course two years before her, and described it as a pushover. Maybe it had been a pushover for him, but Teresa knew that some of the other trainees were having as hard a time as she was. Not all, though. Harriet Lupi had also suffered a septic neck valve, but it had cleared up quickly and her training was already ahead of Teresa's.
The next day, the nursing sister in the medical wing told Teresa her neck infection was clearing up, and authorized her for ExEx duties again.
She was in a bank, she thought. All this marble, the big windows, the long counters. There were police outside, shouting up with bullhoms to where Unruh must be hidden. She dashed across the rest of the long lobby, pushing quickly but cautiously through double swing doors, to where there was a cage elevator built in the well of the staircase.
She took the steps two at a time, her gun always questing before her. She paused, listening, thinking, aiming ahead, at every corner. At the next level there was another pair of swing doors; Teresa trained her gun on them in case Unruh came through. She saw a shadow moving beyond, so she stepped across to them, kicked one of the doors open. Unruh was there, his rifle held ready. He turned towards her.
'Drop the gun!' Teresa shouted, but Unruh, with unhurried movements worked the action; she heard a mechanical process with loud clicks. Calmly he raised the weapon towards her, and she fired. Her bullet caught him in his arm. He spun round and away from her, and the rifle clattered to the floor. Half crouching, he pulled an automatic from his belt and tried to aim it at her. Teresa moved swiftly behind him, her gun trained on his head.
'Drop the gun, and he flat!' she yelled, and within a few moments Howard Unruh did exactly that.
'Harriet? It's Teresa.'
'Hi! How you doing?'
'I got him! 1 got Unruh!'
'You did? 1 never could. 1 managed to wound him, but 1 was out of ammunition. The city police came in and
dragged him away. Dan Kazinsky flunked me, and moved me on. How did you do it?'
Later in the phone call, Teresa said, 'Harriet, have you ever been to Camden, New Jersey?'
'No, I haven't. Have you?'
'I feel as if I have. How the hell do they do that? All those cars and buildings! They're so real!'
'Have you ever been to Texas on a hot day?'
'No.'
'Then you haven't done Whitman yet. That right?'
'Yes.'
'Whitman's next. It's real tough. And it'll make you sick.'
lt was noon on August 1, 1966, Austin, Texas. A former boy scout and Marine called Charles Joseph Whitman was on the observation deck of the University of Texas Tower, overlooking Guadalupe Street, 'the Drag'. In his possession was a 6mm Remington Magnum rifle with fourpower Leupold telescopic sight. He also had with him a rented handcart and a green duffel bag. In the bag, and spread around him, were packets of Planters Peanuts, sandwiches, cans of Spam and fruit cocktail, a box of raisins, two jerrycans, one containing water and the other three gallons of gasoline, rope, binoculars, canteens, a plastic bottle of Mennen spray deodorant, toilet paper, a machete, a Bowie knife, a hatchet, a .35calibre Remington rifle, a