Mac's Voice-over:
There's another saying that's been running through my mind: 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer'. I wasn't sure yet if Mahey thought I was a friend or an enemy, but he obviously intended to keep me close, or at least keep me where he could find me again easily.
Placing me under protective custody was a way of locking me up without using a cage. I wanted to refuse, but Pete asked me to go along with it. For the Phoenix Foundation, having one of their agents under suspicion for murder placed them in a hard spot diplomatically and politically. So, with me somewhere under the eyes of the law, at least they could say that I was cooperating with the authorities. Should the killer – or killers – strike again, I'd be exonerated.
The trouble was, I didn't like the idea of sitting somewhere doing nothing while someone got killed.
Weapon of Opportunity
Part Three: The Sidewinder
But for right now, I had no choice. Pete rode along with me in the unmarked car as I was driven to the safe house that Mahey had chosen as my new home. Pete had insisted on knowing where I was being kept, and he pulled all the strings he could get his fingers around to make sure we had copies of all the data available on the murders. Since this was an active police case, the Foundation could not become involved until formally asked, and Mahey hadn't gone that far ... yet.
As a suspect, I shouldn't have been able to read the files, so I was surprised when Mahey agreed to Pete's request. An overflowing box of papers and photos rode in the seat between us.
I didn't have the heart to look at any of it at the moment, though. I was trying to control the urge to throw open the car door and hit the ground running.
MacGyver had no chance to say anything; Pete started talking the moment they were alone together in the back of the car.
"Mac, I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I didn't want to bring you downtown like that, but I didn't really have a choice. Mahey wanted to send officers to bring you in, but I convinced him to let me get you to come in on your own. He insisted that you come in cold, without any forewarning."
"It's okay, Pete. If I had refused, it just would've made him think that I am guilty."
Pete watched his friend with a worried face. MacGyver sat staring out of the tinted window, playing with the catch on his seatbelt. Pete tried not to stare, but he was afraid that if he took his eyes off of him for too long Mac would disappear.
Pete spoke softly so that the officers in the front seat could not hear. "Mac, I know what you're thinking. If you give Mahey's men the slip now, it is going to look very bad for you if that killer strikes again."
"Pete, I just don't feel right about sitting around ... doing nothing ... while maybe out there someone is being murdered!"
"You won't be doing nothing. Mahey's given us all the information available on these cases. We'll go over every word of it. There has to be a pattern to these killings, if they really are connected. I wish we could use the resources at the Phoenix Foundation to help. The mainframe computer would be able to analyze the data and maybe come up with some possibilities that the police haven't yet considered."
"Why don't we do that?" Mac asked.
"We haven't officially been invited to help in the investigation. And without that invitation, any evidence we uncover might not be admissible in court."
"If it leads to stopping a killer, it would be worth it, Pete," Mac said soberly. He was softly rapping the knuckles of his left hand on the window, a feeble demonstration of his growing desire to break out.
"You'll have everything you need, Mac. I have a feeling that the Foundation board will offer no objections to a little independent research project. Especially if it clears the name of one of its most prominent field operatives."
Mac didn't answer. He was thinking about the photographs that Mahey had shown him, of a girl who had been alive and healthy only a short time ago. It was far too late to do anything to help her. For Tabatha Carr, it was all over.
It had started to rain. Mac was staring at the window, his chin in his hand. Gleaming drops of water beaded along the pane like mercury. They fought their way up the glass, defying gravity, only to be swept away as if by an invisible hand. Light filtering through the glass fell upon the angles of Mac's face. To Pete, it made his friend's face appear to be streaked with tears. Pete coughed lightly and turned away.
As the car pulled into a covered garage, Mac and Pete were both engulfed by a comforting cloak of darkness. Before the car came to a stop, Pete heard Mac speak softly.
"Forty-eight hours, Pete. I'll give Mahey forty-eight hours, then I have to do something."
The sedan pulled into a garage and the door slid down. Neither the policemen nor passengers noticed the street sweeper that was idling in the middle of the block. When the door was fully closed, the sweeper's motor chugged as the gears were engaged, and the large vehicle slowly swished down the street, resuming its endless route.
The man operating the sweeper looked like any other city employee, though if someone were to inspect the contents of his lunchbox, they would find many unusual items there besides a ham and cheese sandwich. Around the man's neck hung a pair of binoculars. He removed them as he drove and tucked them inside his coverall. Using his teeth, he tugged off one of his gloves and dug out his sandwich. Taking a large bite, he drove with one hand, chewing thoughtfully.
Everything was proceeding according to the plan. Soon, MacGyver would be out of the way, the Police Department and the Phoenix Foundation would be crippled, and then he would be free to make this city his playground.
It was all happening just as the Doctor had predicted.
The man steered the street sweeper around the corner and into an alley. He abandoned it there, taking his lunchbox with him. The rain had softened to a mist. He casually walked several blocks to a park, where he stepped inside the public washroom.
When he walked out, gone were the coverall and battered lunchbox, replaced by an expensive suit and soft leather briefcase. He waited for a few minutes until the misty rain ceased, then he walked on, the dress shoes that he had switched his work boots for gleaming nattily. At the end of six blocks, he walked up to an anonymous dark-colored Buick and unlocked the door. The engine started smoothly and he signaled carefully before pulling into traffic. On the rear bumper, a passerby might have noticed a City Employee parking permit.
He drove to his office, less than a block from the same branch of the Police Department where MacGyver and Detective Mahey had first met. He parked in an available space, left his car, and walked up to the building, looking as ordinary as any man going to work. At the front door, he paused before opening it. The words 'Office of Social Services', followed by a list of names, were etched on the glass. The man removed a handkerchief and carefully rubbed off a smudge over the name 'Dennis Winder'. Then he smiled and went inside.
"Mr. Winder." The man looked up as the receptionist called his name. She was holding several slips of paper out toward him. "Your messages, sir."
"Thank you, Darcelle."
He went into his office and locked the door behind him. He leafed through the messages, then dropped them on his desk. He circled the desk and carefully unlocked a drawer. Inside lay a notepad and a thick book. He removed these items and placed them on the desk. Then he picked up the phone and rang the receptionist.
"Darcelle, call and cancel all my appointments today, please."
"Mr. Winder, are you sure you want me to do that? I've already rescheduled your appointments twice."
A look of anger spasmed across the man's face, but he swiftly controlled it. On the phone, his voice as was smooth and sincere as always. "Yes, Darcelle. I have some important research to conduct. This must take priority."
"Very well, sir."
Dennis Winder picked up the book and sat back in his chair. There were several tags on the well-worn pages, bookmarks and notes peeking from between the leaves. He opened it reverently and began to read.
On the back of the book was the author's photograph. He would have looked distinguished, in his late fifties with thinning hair and a trimmed beard shot through with gray and white, but for the lazy eye that gave him a slightly demented look. The title of the book read 'Applied Logic For A Better World', by Dr. Zito.