Free The Bubble Gum Thief by Jeff Miller Page A

York?”
    “That’s part of the package.”
    “I know,” he said. And then again, more softly, “I know.”
    Later that night, as Mike slept beside her, Dagny tossed and turned. She hadn’t given much thought to how her career might interfere with her future relationships when she joined the FBI. Being an agent meant strange hours, a lot of travel, and too much danger. Signing up for the Bureau had been an admittedly selfish choice she’d made as a single woman with no attachments. It wasn’t a great life for a wife, or a mother. Did she even want kids? A couple of months ago, she would have said no. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
    At one thirty, she got out of bed and descended the spiral staircase to the second floor. Mike had drawn a curtain across his studio space; he had told her he was working on a surprise. Dagny resisted the temptation to take a peek and continued down the next flight of stairs, through the living area and kitchen to Mike’s rendition of the van Eyck in the entry hall.
    She loved looking at the small details in the painting—the figure of a woman carved into the bedpost, the apple sitting on the windowsill, the leaves of the trees through the cracked window...thewedding ring on the wife’s finger, stuck at the middle joint, too small for her. After a few minutes, she walked upstairs and climbed back in bed. It must have been easier to think about the Arnolfinis than her future, because she drifted off quickly.
    She woke at four and tiptoed to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and climbed onto his scale. Three red numerals: 1-1-9. Glancing in the mirror, she saw Mike in the bathroom doorway, wearing his blue boxer shorts and leaning against the doorframe.
    “It’s early, Dag.” He rubbed his eyes.
    “I’ve got to head down to Quantico.”
    Mike walked to his dresser and picked up his keys. “C’mon, D.”
    She grabbed the keys from his hand and tossed them onto the bed. “Go back to sleep. I’ll run home.”
    “You’re crazy, Dag. That’s twelve miles.”
    “It’s barely eight.” She kissed his lips and led him back to bed. “Get some more sleep. You’ve got to teach a class today.”
    “Let me drive you,” he offered, as he slid back under the covers. “Let me drive you,” he muttered again, falling back asleep.
    They had traded keys a week earlier, and Dagny used hers to lock the door when she left. She took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air. And then she ran.

CHAPTER 11

    February 27—Quantico, Virginia
    The Professor leaned against the front of his desk. “The FBI defines terror as the unlawful use of force or violence against persons or property to intimidate or coerce a government, the civilian population, or any segment thereof, in furtherance of political or social objectives. So was the BTK killer a terrorist? Agent Davis?”
    “Arguably, he had a social objective—namely, for society to fear him. It’s why he sent letters to the police and to the papers,” Brent said.
    “If self-aggrandizement is a social objective,” Dagny interjected, “then I’m afraid an awful lot of crimes are going to fall within our definition of terrorism. It’s not unusual for serial killers to seek recognition. The Zodiac killer sent numerous letters to the media. Jack the Ripper sent a letter to authorities bragging about his crimes. I think that we should expect a criminal to have an objective beyond his own gratification before we call him a terrorist.”
    The Professor smiled. “So Agent Gray, you’re willing to let the definition depend upon the way madmen define their cause?”
    “Aren’t all crimes judged by the mind-set of the criminal, Professor? Doesn’t the commission of a crime itself require a mens rea?”
    “Ah, the lawyer has made her appearance.” This got a hearty laugh from Brent and a chuckle from Walton. No one else was paying attention.
    “You’re right, though,” the Professor continued. “We do define crimes by the mind-set of the