"Quit that!"
TSA Officer Bill Duffy sank back into his chair, red-knuckled from rapping on the observation window. He stared sullenly at the clock on the wall. His shift ended soon and he was counting the minutes.
A sulphurous odour hung in the air, faint but persistent. Emitted most likely from something festering down a drain somewhere, it was a fitting end to the crappy night he had endured, and a possible omen for where his career was headed.
Voices rumbled in the corridor outside; the relaxed baritone of FBI Supervisory Agent Dennis Abbott versus the boss's reedy tenor. Occasionally words could be discerned. Boss was using phrases like 'with all due respect' and 'I think you'll find' and 'no offense but'. This was music to Duffy's ears. It meant that boss was losing the argument.
The detainee—and royal pain in the ass—a Mr Patrick Jane, had been co-operative but strangely indifferent during several rounds of questioning last night, and had then sat for a couple of hours, injured ankle elevated, staring into space. He seemed dead tired, withdrawn; possibly sad. While occupying the interview room, and in accordance with policy, he had been provided with no hospitality other than water in a plastic cup, and it was for this reason that, at around 1 a.m., Duffy's problems had begun.
He was searching for the paperclip that held all the sections of his report together when interrupted by a tap on the observation window. The detainee was peering at him.
"Uh, excuse me. I was wondering if I could have a cup of tea," he said.
Duffy shook his head.
"Well in that case, could I at least have some more water?" he asked wearily. "But hot. With a teabag."
Duffy motioned abruptly for the detainee to sit back in his seat. In so doing he caused a draught and sent his papers floating to the floor. He muttered darkly.
Half an hour later, another knock, and a tired, slightly irked voice, "Officer, it's been a very rough night and I could really use a cup of tea. Just one favour and I won't bother you again." Immune to Duffy's glare, he continued, "Fifty dollars for a cup of tea. No? One hundred dollars. One hundred dollars for a teabag and some hot water. An excellent deal, no?"
Duffy stood and leaned in over his desk, his face close to the glass.
"Sir, you do not seem to understand the gravity of your situation. Let me make it clear to you. You are in no position to request refreshments. And under no circumstances will harassment of airport security staff be tolerated. If you persist I will see to it myself that you are placed on the Transport Security Administration Selectee list, such that . . ."—here he was forced to step sideways as the glass was misting up—"you may be subject to additional searches of your luggage and your person when travelling by air in the future."
Just for fun he mimed the snapping on of latex gloves and waggled his fingers.
After that things had been quiet, but sometimes he had the sense that he was being watched. Every time he checked the detainee was staring into space as before.
The situation had deteriorated in the period between 3.31 and 3.54 a.m., during which time Duffy had been reading Sports Illustrated on the can. On his return he had discovered Mr Jane reclining in his chair doing Sudoku puzzles and drinking a hot beverage. A disturbing possibility had presented itself, one that did not take long to verify. Switching on his monitor and reviewing the security camera footage covering the interview room and the corridor, he discovered that at 3.33 a.m. Mr Jane had picked the lock of the interview room and, limping slightly, exited the security wing. He had returned nine minutes later, having somehow acquired the access code for the entrance door. An unidentifiable item was stuffed in his jacket pocket—a suspicious looking package—that he removed, unwrapped and paused to examine closely.
Wide eyed and sweaty palmed, Duffy paddled his sluggish mouse to the zoom control and froze a 10x magnified image of Mr Patrick Jane, his mouth now full, staring in disgust at a Sausage and Egg McMuffin.
Cursing quietly, Duffy had resumed playback and watched Mr Jane proceed to poke his head into the staff-room, entering and re-emerging a few minutes later with a steaming mug—the boss's mug to be precise—bearing the slogan 'Keep Calm and Date a Stewardess'. He had then returned to his seat in the interview room.
Duffy took a deep breath and considered his options. The full extent of Mr Jane's activity in the terminal building could not be determined without involving the surveillance team. This in turn would get back to the boss and require explaining why he had left his post and why he needed more than twenty minutes to take a dump. His only hope was to hide the evidence, keep his mouth shut and pray that Mr Jane's stay would be a short one.
In silent fury he entered the interview room, confiscated the Sudoku book and then washed, dried and put away the mug.
When he returned to his desk he noticed a muted but not very pleasant smell, and spent a minute poking around at the trash can and the air vents before official business intervened. Several phone calls and a stack of Form B25s later he noticed something sticking out from under the interview room door. It was a wad of folded paper, the 'Super Fiendish' difficulty section of the Sudoku book, apparently removed prior to confiscation and now completed. It was held together by a mangled paperclip. On the back was a note: We both have the power to cause suffering. If you play nice, so will I.
He glared through the window. Slumped forward on the table, head resting on folded arms, Mr Jane was asleep.
And so it was that he found himself a few hours later, with sixty seconds to end of shift, in an office that smelt like he had a flatulence problem, signing off on his recommendation that this raging lunatic did not present a future security risk, listening to his boss agree to drop all charges and release him, and watching in disbelief as the fierce but attractive FBI lady concluded her interview with the detainee by allowing him to kiss her.
As he left the building to go home Duffy finally discovered the source of the bad smell tucked into his jacket pocket. It was a scrunched up McDonald's wrapper containing a Twining's 'English Breakfast' tea bag and a portion of egg roughly the shape and consistency of a hockey puck. Patrick Jane, it seemed, was not an admirer of McDonald's eggs.