Free Sympathy For the Devil by Terrence McCauley Page B

office or campus, but hundreds of offices each hiding in plain sight, all remotely connected through OMNI.
    Hicks had spoken to the man hundreds of times and, based on the conversations they’d had and the decisions he’d made, Hicks pegged him for an old field man. A good one at that. The kind who knew when to step in, when to give advice and when to back out of the way. Skills Jason didn’t have and probably never would.
    When Hicks answered the phone, the Dean said, “You’re brooding, aren’t you?”
    The man’s ability to read people had always impressed him. “How do you know?”
    “Because you’ve been staring at the same screen for ten minutes after a night of furious activity. You’ve been staring at those pictures from Colin’s autopsy for so long that I can practically feel it burning a hole right through you.”
    Hicks should’ve remembered that OMNI kept track of its user’s keystrokes. No one else had access to all of that except for the Dean. “I could’ve been in the bathroom.”
    “Not you. Not that long. Besides, I owed you a call to express my condolences over what happened to Colin. He was a good man. I hope you don’t blame yourself for his death.”
    “I don’t,” Hicks said, almost believing it. “I just don’t like how this seems to be much bigger than we know.”
    “All that means is that your instincts were right from the beginning,” the Dean said. “You knew Omar was up to something and you stayed with it, despite all evidence to the contrary. That’s the human element I’m always talking about, James. OMNI is an invaluable tool, but it still takes a human’s instinct and training to wield her properly. This business with Omar proves me right.”
    “Speaking of humans,” Hicks said, “did Jason debrief you on our meeting today?”
    “He’s promised me a full report by close of business today. All he said was that it was far more productive better than he expected it would. I know that working with him isn’t always easy, but he really is quite brilliant in certain aspects of the job.”
    Hicks had never pulled punches with the Dean before and he wouldn’t start now. “He’s nowhere near as smart as he thinks he is.”
    “I can’t argue with you there,” the Dean said, “and I know better than to waste time trying to change your mind. Jason is valuable if only because he’s young and youth can always be exploited by more experienced men. Men like you and me.”
    Hicks heard the tinkle of ice and the sound of the Dean sipping something. Hicks always envisioned the Dean as a scotch man, sitting behind a large oak desk, sipping Laphroig or Johnnie Walker Blue Label. Neat, of course. He just as easily could’ve been sipping lemonade on a porch in Savannah for all Hicks knew, but he preferred his vision of the man better to whatever the reality might be.
    The Dean went on. “Besides, we should table the discussion of Jason’s shortcomings as a Department Chair for another time. We have more important business to discuss. Your friend who drove the getaway vehicle is dead.”
    “Dead?” Hicks sat up straight. “How do you know?”
    “There’s a reason why we couldn’t track him from the garage,” the Dean explained. “I thought we’d simply lost him due to the angle of the satellite or the snow storm, so I took the liberty of having a varsity member check the garage for the car. He found our friend shot and dumped in the trunk of his own car. Whoever did it just walked away. I’ve had techs reviewing the footage of every camera in the area, but none of it bore fruit.”
    Hicks wasn’t as surprised as he was troubled. “Sir, the speed with which this situation is getting complicated is troubling, to say the least.”
    “I’m more troubled about something else,” the Dean said. “I was able to determine that the image you found was embargoed by the British.”
    “Are you sure? Not the French?”
    “Their system did it automatically, which means