Camouflage

Author's note: this one's a bit longer. Whump alert - and happy weekend.

Chapter 3

Without looking up, Charlie called out at the soft knock at his office door. "Come in!"

He was sitting at his desk, working, and he scribbled a few last notes and then glanced up. Surprise crossed his face but it was replaced almost immediately by a smile. "Don – hi! What are you doing here?"

His brother pulled up a chair and sat, with the lazy grace of an athlete. He'd always been good at sports, Charlie reflected. In fact, Don had even played minor league baseball for a while. Good at sports, good with the girls, good with people in general. Everything Charlie wasn't. In spite of the international acclaim his prowess with mathematics had won him and the fact that that they were now both adults, he perpetually felt as though he was still trying to measure up to big brother.

"Hey, Charlie." Don's eyes strayed to the pile of papers on the desk. "Pretty busy, huh?"

Charlie eyed him. Don was busy himself and didn't usually come by just to chat, but Charlie responded in kind. "Yeah. We've got a big presentation coming up for the grant committee next week. It will determine our main sources of research funding for the year. Lots of dollars riding on it. I'm doing my own presentation, and helping out the physics department with some others."

"Sounds impressive." Don stood. "Well, I was hoping maybe you could give us some help with a case, but it appears as though you're pretty busy."

He sounded almost relieved, and Charlie interjected quickly. "No, no problem. I can help – what do you need?"

Don hesitated for a split second, and Charlie looked at him encouragingly. Maybe this meant that their argument hadn't been such a big deal after all – that their working relationship could continue. He wasn't quite sure why it meant that much to him – but it did, and he held his breath until Don sat again, with a sigh.

"Okay, yeah," Don said. "This case might take several weeks, but I don't think we need you the whole time, anyway. We just need a jump-start. Remember what you were saying about the Warriors the other day?"

Charlie felt just a twinge of disappointment at the mention that his role would be limited, but it was overridden by his relief at being included in another case, and he listened carefully as Don outlined the investigation and his conversation with Pierce from the NFL commissioner's office. "So we were wondering," Don concluded, "if you could do an analysis that would point out who the most likely users would be – if in fact there are players who are actually juicing – to see how deep this goes. There are the obvious superstars who get a lot of media attention just because of their type of position. We will of course take a look at them. But there might be others who are also performing above the norm, but don't get noticed as much by the media because their positions aren't as glamorous as, say, a running back or a receiver. We want to try to identify anyone performing above the norm and add them to the list – question them, get some surveillance on them; see if they have any common contacts. If we narrow down our search toward the beginning we'll be a lot more effective, but I don't want to leave out any possibilities, either. We can get you physical history on the players from the team doctor and performance data for each player."

"Sure," said Charlie. "Whatever you need. I can take the player stats and come up with some likely prospects – keeping the initial list relatively broad, and then we can try to draw some relationship matrices and try to narrow the group down from there. I can do that first study, and then I can refine it as you get further into the investigation and gather more data." That last statement was a hint – Charlie was trying to insinuate that he might be needed for longer than just an initial consult. The longer the better; it would give Don and him time to get back in the swing of working together, time for the memories of that argument to fade… "By the way," he added, "my consulting contract needs to be renewed – it's expiring in a couple of weeks."

Don stood again, his face inscrutable. "Yeah, we'll deal with that a little later. You should be done with this before then. Thanks for the help, Chuck."

"Yeah," said Charlie, his smile fading as he watched his brother walk toward the door, and not because of Don's use of the despised nickname. Deal with it later? That didn't bode well. Neither did his brother's overly polite, distant demeanor. "No problem."

No problem. Now, there was an understatement.

...

Tony Rubacek surveyed the scene in the locker room and beamed. The excitement in the room was palpable – they were still pumped from the big win on Sunday. "Hey Worthless!" he roared, and reached out and knuckled Jack Worth's wet scalp as he passed. "Way to go, you mother! Good practice!"

"You're gonna need another nickname for him, Coach Ruby," retorted Jarvis Trent, as he pulled a shirt out of his locker. "He sure ain't 'Worthless' no more. More like 'Worthy.'"

Two towel-clad players picked it up, and began kowtowing in Worth's direction, snickering. "We're not Worthy; we're not Worthy!"

"Shut the hell up," snarled Worth as he maneuvered an impressive bulk past them, but he was grinning.

Tony's own grin faded a bit and he clapped his hands loudly as he spied their general manager, Clayton Mansell, coming through the main locker room entrance. "Okay, guys, listen up! Mr. Mansell has a few things to say to us." He could see some other people gathered in the doorway behind Mansell, but they stayed there as Mansell strode to the center of the room.

"Team. Warriors." Clayton Mansell nodded at the men, and waited a moment as several players shuffled around the corner from an adjoining locker room to join the group. He was wearing a suit and his dark hair was groomed carefully – but that was his usual look. Even when he dressed down, he looked like he was ready for a round of golf at the country club. A few of the men shot curious glances at a small group of people waiting in the doorway. Mansell glanced at the strangers; then cleared his throat. "I told you this Sunday, and I'll say it again – that was an outstanding game. You have successfully won your division and secured home team advantage for the playoffs. You are to be congratulated – you've worked hard for this and you deserve it. With success, however, comes scrutiny and speculation. There are some people – in the media and otherwise – who are maintaining that we are too successful. You've heard the rumors – that we have some players – or maybe even the entire team – taking banned substances to enhance performance. Now you know, and I know, that you've all been tested several times and have come up clean. However, to put all rumors to bed once and for all, the NFL Commissioner's office has decided to conduct an inquiry and has called in the FBI to assist, similar to the type of investigation that was done for major league baseball."

Mansell waved a hand behind him at the entrance, and the group stepped forward into the room – save for a woman, who remained respectfully a step or two beyond the doorway. Tony knew the players were accustomed to women in the locker room – reporters, male and female, had access after the games, but the woman obviously felt a little uncomfortable. Tony figured the scene was probably a little overwhelming for someone not accustomed to it – a lot of men in only towels, a lot of muscle. The room reeked of male sweat and testosterone.

He looked back as Mansell continued. "This is Special Agent in Charge Don Eppes, and his team – agents Sinclair, Granger, and Reeves, and his brother, Charles Eppes. They are FBI, and will be working with us on the investigation. If they come to you with questions, I want you to cooperate and be honest with them. This will be a quiet inquiry – they will not talk to the press about it and neither should you. Once they have concluded their investigation, the NFL Commissioner's office will announce the fact that they conducted it and announce the results, all at the same time. While I want you to cooperate, I also do not want this to be a distraction. Just answer their questions and focus on the next game. This is not a negative for us – it will be a benefit. We have nothing to hide and I'd like the world to know that." He looked around the room. "Are there any questions?"

Across the room, Colby Granger sidled next to David, trying to stifle a grin. "I've got a question," he murmured, with a nod toward Charlie, who had found himself next to Jack Worth and had tilted his head back to look up at the mountain of a man beside him. "Do you think Worth is two of Charlie, or three?"

David let his eyes slide sideways, and had to smile – the disparity in size was almost comical – as was the look of awe on Charlie's face.

"Charlie's maybe – what – five foot seven? One hundred forty pounds, tops?" Colby whispered. "Worth – look at the guy – he's gotta be six-six, well over 300 pounds."

"I know," said David softly, with a hint of a grin playing around his lips. "These guys make even you look like you haven't gone through puberty yet."

Colby gave him a nasty look. "Thanks a lot."

Tony Rubacek didn't get to be a head coach in the NFL without being a keen reader of people. He was watching the agents' faces, and as he saw the smiles on the faces of the two agents talking across the room, he relaxed a bit. They didn't appear to be uptight types with an ax to grind. The guy that was introduced as Charles Eppes also didn't look very threatening – in fact, he looked like an awestruck kid as he peered up at Worth. Tony had talked to Mansell about the investigation beforehand, and knew that Charles was the SAC's brother from Cal Sci; he guessed that maybe the head agent had called him in as a favor, to give him a chance to see an NFL team close up – why else would anyone bring his kid brother to an investigation like this? His eyes strayed to the SAC. Don Eppes might be another story – he carried himself with cool confidence and his face was unreadable. Maybe a problem, and maybe not. The woman in the doorway looked sharp, but the fact that she'd showed the half-clad guys some respect by staying in the doorway meant that maybe she was probably someone easy enough to work with. All in all, they weren't giving Tony any vibes that they carried pre-conceived notions about guilt or innocence; in other words, this wouldn't be a witch hunt. That was a good thing – maybe this wouldn't be so bad, after all. That thought lasted all of five seconds.

Don Eppes stepped forward. "Thank you, Mr. Mansell. We will try to be as quick as possible, but this will be a thorough investigation and it begins now." He waved a paper in the air. "This is a search warrant, to search your lockers. It will commence as soon as you leave the locker room, and we will require a search of your person and any bags when you leave, starting immediately. "

"Aw, shit," said Tony under his breath, and he felt a surge of annoyance. He wasn't really afraid of the agents finding steroids or illegal drugs, because use of those substances would have surfaced when the players were tested – but who knew what they might find in the lockers? Team rules did not allow alcohol or weapons in the locker room. They wouldn't be an issue with regards to the investigation - guns and alcohol were certainly not illegal as long as the weapons were registered and the person had a permit, but if they were found in the locker room, it would be a violation of team rules. At the start of the season, Tony came down hard on the players as far as those rules went and carried out regular inspections, but as the season wore on he had had slacked off – and he hadn't done a locker check in a while. If a player was found to be flaunting team rules, Tony might have to consider a game suspension, and he couldn't afford to suspend anyone, not now, with the playoffs looming. But if something was found and he didn't punish the rule-breaker, the guys wouldn't take the rules seriously in the future. This was putting him in a bad position. It would have been nice to have some goddamned notice...

Don Eppes looked at Mansell. "I understand that there is an adjoining locker room around the corner, there -," he nodded at the far end of the room, "- with its own exit. I will station two agents in that room, and the rest of us will remain here. We will search the players as they leave. When all of the players are out, we will start the locker search in this room – you are welcome to observe."

Mansell's jaw was tight and Tony figured that he hadn't known about the search warrant either, but all Mansell said was, "Very well," and to the team, "You heard the man. Let's clean up and get out of here, and stop on the way out so they can check your bags. Good practice today."

...

At the far end of the room, Leshawn Wilkinson gave Joey Cancetta and Deondre Wiseman a pointed look, and then walked quickly around the corner into the adjoining locker room, hoping they got his hint and followed him before the other players and agents joined them. To his relief, they did, and as soon as they were out of earshot, he hissed, "I got a used needle in my bag."

Deondre's eyes grew wide, and he whispered back, "Magic?" and at the same time Joey hissed back, "You dumb-ass!"

"I didn't have time, I was running late to get here, and then I forgot to get it out of there," Leshawn whispered, and they moved to Deondre's locker as other players began to file into the room behind them. "Coach checks the lockers sometimes, but he never checks our bags – I figured I'd have a chance to get rid of it later."

"Listen," said Joey softly, with a quick glance behind them. "Take it out of your bag and leave it in your locker."

"But my locker's in the other room - that's where they're gonna start searching," whispered Wilkerson.

"Trust me," said Joey. "I got a plan. You can't walk out with it – they'll search you. Just get it out of your bag and leave it there – hide it in your locker, but someplace you can grab it quick. Meet us in the back hallway." Other players were starting to drift within hearing, and Joey grinned, like they were talking about going out for a drink or a bite to eat, and slapped Wilkinson on the shoulder and said in a louder voice. "Sounds great, man. Meet you outside."

Leshawn tried to muster a grin and gave them a cocky nod, and strolled off toward his locker, passing Agents Granger and Sinclair on the way. He gave them a nod too, trying to appear cool even though his stomach was flipping. If they got their hands on that syringe and tested any residue inside... well, Leshawn was no chemist, but even he knew that the find would blow this whole thing sky high. A drop of sweat rolled down his neck as he headed for his locker – under the watchful eyes of the Eppes brothers and the woman agent.

There were players on either side of him, and it really wasn't too hard to block the view of most of his locker with his body, unzip the inner pocket in his bag and slip out the syringe. He wasn't quite sure where to put it, but couldn't afford to rummage around in his locker too much, so, with his hands still inside the bag, he slid the syringe into a dirty sock and then pulled the sock out of the bag and tossed it on the floor of the locker. He had no idea what Joey had in mind, but if it didn't work and they ended up searching his locker maybe they wouldn't look too hard at a sweaty, stinky sock. That done, he dressed quickly and shouldered his workout bag, and headed for the door.

There was a line there already, and the head agent, Eppes himself, was there with the woman. She went through the bags while Eppes patted the players down, and Leshawn was uncomfortably aware of the SAC's cool gaze, appraising them as they stood in line. Leshawn forced himself to make eye contact and gave Eppes a nod, and then let his gaze wander over to the agent's brother. He looked like a college kid; he probably wasn't much older than Leshawn himself - and Leshawn was only two years out of Alabama. The young man was making his way through the lockers, which were marked with plates with the player's names and numbers, and was checking off the names against a copy of the roster and a schematic of the locker room. Leshawn watched him idly until it was his turn, and as soon as he was through the check he headed for the stairs, trying not to look like he was in a hurry until he was out of sight.

He made his way around to the back hallway outside the other locker entrance; the back hallway was the one they went down to reach the 'tunnel' – the hall that led to the stadium entrance. Joey, Deondre, and Jack Worth were waiting for him there. They had gone out directly into the back hallway through the door in the back locker room; the one where the agents named Granger and Sinclair were stationed. Not too many others had gone out that way; the front locker room door, the one that Leshawn had used, was the fastest way to the front of the stadium and the parking lot. Anyone who had come out the back locker room had already wound around the other way through the hallways, back to the front, to get to the parking lot – no one had any reason to linger in the back hallway but them. The group was alone.

...

Colby and David got done with the players in the back room first, and Don had Colby step in with Megan and finish processing the last of the players in the front locker room and strolled over to David, stripping off his latex gloves. Over David's shoulder, he could see Charlie making his way down the row of lockers, checking off names on the roster. "Back room's clear," David said. "They all were all clean; so were their bags."

"They're clean so far on this end, too," said Don. "As soon as Megan and Colby get done checking players, we'll start going through the lockers."

David looked back over his shoulder. "What's Charlie doing?"

Don shrugged. "I think he's got a diagram of the lockers; he's checking off the names against the locker positions. I think he's trying to establish some kind of relationship matrix. He was asking the coach questions about which players hang together."

David's eyes strayed to Clayton Mansell and Tony Rubacek, who stood watching Megan and Colby's search of the last few players. "I take it they're sticking around for the locker search."

Don's eyes followed his. "Yeah. I told Mansell I needed him, and two of them are even better. We need witnesses from the team if we find anything."

...

"What took you so long?" said Worth, as Leshawn walked up. Worth looked agitated; the others had probably already told him about the syringe. He played defensive line, and was as big and mean as they came – and had a hair-trigger temper. Leshawn wondered if it was the Magic that made him so mean; steroids were supposed to do that to a person – although none of them really knew if the stuff they called Magic was some new kind of steroid. Worth was pacing and he glared at Leshawn, but Leshawn was a defensive end, and even if not as big as Worth, was known to be pretty mean and aggressive himself, and he glared back.

"There was a long line at the other door," he said.

"It's okay – we can't do anything until the rest of the team clears out anyway," said Joey, matter-of-factly. Deondre was silent; he looked scared. "Look, here's how it goes," Joey said. "They're gonna start in the front locker room."

"Yeah, and that doesn't help, 'cause that's where my locker is," shot back Leshawn.

"Hear me out," said Joey. "You go back around through the hallway to the front door – wait until everyone that is leaving is out of there, then get as close to the door as you can without them seeing you, and wait just outside. We'll go to the back door and make some kind of noise in the back locker room – maybe run in and slam a locker door shut, then run out of there. I guarantee, they'll all run into that room to see what made the noise, and then you duck in the front room, grab your syringe out of your locker and get back out the front door." He handed Leshawn a plain gray hooded jacket. "Put this on and put the hood over your head. If they come back in before you make it out of there maybe they won't see your face. You can outrun anyone in there. Hell, you can outrun anyone on the planet except Deondre and me."

"I don't know," said Leshawn doubtfully.

"Look, what other choice do you got?" said Joey. "Just grab the needle, get out and run down the hall. Once you're away, take off the jacket and stuff it in your bag – you don't want the cameras in the parking lot to record you coming out wearing this jacket, especially if they get a look at you in it. Just walk normally out to your car, like you always do after practice. Take a drive and ditch the needle on the way home."

Leshawn looked at him. "Who's gonna handle the other end? You know, making the noise."

Joey looked at Deondre and Worth. Leshawn could see him thinking. Worth was quick for short bursts, but a lot slower over longer distances than the rest of them because of his size, and Deondre, who could run like the wind, looked too scared. "I'll go in," said Joey. "I'll slam a locker door or something to make some noise, and run out. They'll chase me, but I'm fast enough that I should be able to get out of there and down the hall and around the corner before they can get out the door to see who it was. Deondre and Worthy -," and Jack Worth cracked a small grin at the use of his new nickname, " – before I go in, you two go down the front hall almost all the way to the entrance and stop there, like you just stopped to bullshit after practice for a minute. Leshawn and me will go blowing past you – he'll probably be first, because he's coming out the front door and it's closer. When the feds come running up and they ask if you saw anyone, you tell 'em no one came running out that way. They'll turn around and run the other way toward the tunnel – or even if they don't, it'll at least slow them down for a minute while they talk to you. It'll be enough for Leshawn and me to get out to the parking lot." He looked at Leshawn. "Once we hit the lot, we slow down and walk, like we're just headin' to our cars after practice."

"Well, if Deondre and me are standin' in the hall, what if they think it's us that made the noise?" said Worth.

"They won't. You'll be just standing there, not breathing heavy like you were running, and just standing there will make you look like you're innocent. Besides, they'll know it had to be someone fast, and that rules you out, Worthy." He punched Worth in the shoulder, trying to be funny, but Worth growled at him. He didn't like being told what to do.

"Okay," said Deondre, shifting from foot to foot, nervously. "They should be about cleared out of there. We should hurry up and do this."

"Let's go look," said Joey.

He seemed almost too cool – like he was enjoying the game, Leshawn thought, or maybe he was just pretending to be cool to calm Deondre down. They headed down the hall, slowing as they approached the back door of the locker room.

Joey looked at Leshawn. "Okay," he said with a jerk of his head toward the hallway to their right. It led toward the front of the stadium, and from it, a branch led back around to the other locker room door. "Get going. Walk around and park yourself outside that other door and text me when you're there and ready. Listen for the bang, then go in."

Leshawn nodded and took off. Joey knew it would only take him seconds to get around to the other side, and waited for his text before he approached the door to the back locker room. The other two came with him, Worth crowding him, Deondre hanging back. "Shh," said Joey. "Let's take a look. Then you two need to get out of here and out to the front."

He eased open the door, and immediately shut it again. "Shit," he whispered.

Worth had been able to see in, but his big body blocked Deondre's view. "What?" hissed Deondre, licking his lips nervously.

"That agent's brother is in there," whispered Joey. "He's walking around writing down locker numbers or something. We're gonna have to wait until he leaves and goes back into the front locker room."

Worth smiled; a gleam in his eye. "Let me handle this. This is right up my alley."

Joey scowled at him and hissed. "No way. You're not quick enough."

Worth glowered at him, and spoke in a stage whisper. "Who says you get to call all the shots? I'm tired of you tellin' us what to do."

Joey glared back at him. "You're too slow. You'll get caught."

Worth shook his head vehemently. "No, I won't. I'll hit the light switch so he can't see who it is, and rush in and knock the little puke down. It'll hold them up longer – by the time they pick up his pieces off the floor, we'll all be outta here. "

Deondre's eyes widened. "That's assault, man. If they catch you –,"

"You know what?" Joey broke in, scowling. "Screw it." He glared at Worth. "If the asshole wants to get himself arrested, fine." He pointed a finger in Worth's face. "Just keep your trap shut and don't sell out the rest of us when they catch you."

"No worries," said Worth smugly.

"Come on," hissed Joey, and took off down the hall, with Deondre at his heels.

Jack Worth eased the door open a crack. The young man was standing a few feet away with his back to him, and the light switch for the locker room was just inside the door. Jack knew it was nearly pitch black in the back room when the light was out; there were no windows. There would just be some faint light from the other locker room around the corner – just enough to see his target. As a lineman, he was at his best over short distances – quick powerful lunges across the line – distances just like this one. With a smile, he eased the door open a little further, reached in and doused the light.

...

Charlie looked at the list of names on his chart and frowned. He had wandered into the back locker room by himself, looking at who they were assigned to. The lockers were not arranged either by the player's number or by alphabetical order. The coach had given him a somewhat nebulous response when he asked them if certain groups of players tended to hang together, and whether they were allowed to choose their own locker location. Rubacek had alluded to some kind of restriction, but then said apart from that, the players could pick their own locker spots. Before he could elaborate, the body searches at the door began and the coach excused himself and went over to observe. Charlie had contented himself with trying to watch the players' behavior as they lined up to be checked, but he wasn't familiar enough with them yet to know who he was really watching. In street clothes without numbered jerseys it was hard to tell who was who, and even harder to tell which players might truly be friends, and which ones were just being social with a teammate. Besides, he was no trained observer of human behavior – far from it.

He had spent some time looking over player stats before he got there, and had come up with a group of four players who seemed to be inordinately gifted, and another four or so who were good performers with stats above the average, but not quite the standouts that the first group was. There was some overlap between the two subsets, and Charlie was looking for other factors that might unite a group of them – such as friendship, or association outside the practice field. If some of them were taking some kind of performance-enhancing drug, their shared illicit activity might bring them together...

"Of course!" he muttered to himself as he looked again at the roster, and checked the names against the locker chart. The players were divided in the locker room by offense and defense – with the defense out in the first room, and the offense in the back room, where Charlie was now. That way the two groups could work with their respective coaches at practice and half-time without interrupting each other. That must have been the restriction the coach was referring to – unfortunately, that arrangement could split the suspects up into two groups at least, which muddied the waters. The locker arrangements probably weren't going to tell him much. He sighed. It was probably better to rely on surveillance outside the stadium to see who spent time together – although now that the players knew the investigation was on, they might be careful not to associate with each other. "Heisenberg," he muttered to himself. "An object that is being observed behaves differently..."

His musings were cut short as the lights suddenly went out. "Hey, I'm in here!" he protested, whirling around. The lights had been bright and his eyes were having a hard time adjusting, but he could just make out a dark form by the doorway a few feet away – and then, nearly as soon as his brain registered that someone was there, the form was on him, a big black mass rushing toward him in the gloom. He gasped and backed up a step instinctively and tried to duck out of the way, but the lockers were behind him, and his assailant hit him like a freight train in the chest. He slammed into the locker doors with a bang, and the world went black.

...

End, Chapter 3