Free Psychopath by Keith Ablow Page B

Clevenger was a kind of reluctant pride.  The Bishop case had made him a celebrity, but it hadn’t won him any stamp of approval from the law enforcement community.  If anything, the fact that he’d embarrassed the Nantucket Police Department and Massachusetts State Police by proving Billy innocent had made him more of an outsider, not less.  Now the FBI was coming to him for help.  The federal government was coming to Frank Clevenger, one half of a two-man operation in oil-soaked Chelsea.
    Clevenger was escorted through two sets of security doors, down a long hallway, then through a third set of security doors and into an elevator which descended six floors to the Behavioral Sciences Unit, or BSU.  The elevator opened onto a shiny, hardwood hallway, lighted by hanging brass fixtures, with portraits of former FBI notables in gilded frames lining the walls.
    A tall man with brown, wavy hair and bright white teeth stepped in front of the open elevator doors.  "Dr. Clevenger," he said, in a raspy voice that came across even less friendly than it had over the phone, "I’m Kane Warner.  Welcome to the Academy."
    Clevenger stepped out, shook Warner’s hand.
    "Your trip went smoothly?" Warner asked, trying not to show how taken aback he was by Clevenger wearing what he always wore — blue jeans and a black turtleneck.
    "No trouble," Clevenger said.
    Warner smiled, flashing his gleaming teeth.  He was handsome, late thirties, with high cheekbones, an unmistakably healthy hue to his skin, and bright green eyes — a Ken doll decked out in a dark gray, pinstriped suit and red silk tie.  His shirt was as white as his teeth, pristinely pressed and starched.  "Everyone’s waiting in the conference room," he said.
    Clevenger followed Warner down the hallway.  "Quite a campus," he said.
    "Three hundred eighty-five acres?" Warner said, delivering his statement as a question, the way he had on the phone.  "Self-contained.  A city unto itself.  Classrooms?  Dorms?  Dining hall?  Library?  A thousand-seat auditorium?  Eight firing ranges?  Four skeet ranges?  A one-point-one mile racetrack for defensive and pursuit driving?  Hogan’s Alley?  It’s all here."
    "Tell me about Hogan’s Alley?" Clevenger asked.
    "A mock town," Warner said.  "For hostage rescue training, that sort of thing?"
    "Handy," Clevenger said.
    "Very."  He stopped in front of a set of double doors.  "I hope you decide to join us in this," he said.
    Clevenger gave Warner a mirror image of his own wide smile and left it at that.
    Inside the conference room, two women and three men sat around a long, polished mahogany table.  A backlighted, computerized map of the United States glowed on the wall, thirteen red dots shining along the highways where victims of the Highway Killer had been found.  Warner took a seat at the head of the table and nodded for Clevenger to take the seat next to him.  "Let’s start with introductions," Warner said.  "I think everyone is familiar with Dr. Clevenger’s background," he said to the group.  He glanced at Clevenger, then nodded in turn at each person around the table.  "Dorothy Campbell, who works with our PROFILER computer system; Greg Martino, an analyst with VICAP, the Violent Crime Apprehension Program; Bob White and John Silverstein, from our Criminal Investigative Analysis Program, CIAP; Dr. Whitney McCormick, our chief of forensic psychiatry; and Ken Hiramatsu, our chief pathologist."
    Clevenger’s eyes were still on Whitney McCormick when Hiramatsu was introduced.  She was no more than thirty-five, slim and very pretty, with long, straight blonde hair, and deep brown eyes.  She looked completely at ease, entirely self-confident, yet the way she held her head and the way she looked at him, even the pale rose lipstick she wore, made him sense that she had not surrendered her femininity, that the sensitivities and intuitions that were her birthright had survived medical training and FBI training