I didn't get very far down the hallway with my red cape before some FBI agents stopped me.
"Miz Fargo, our SAC wants to have a word with you if you don't mind?"
"I have a choice? Then I choose no. Starbucks is calling me."
"Uh, Miz Fargo. This way, please."
Due to their large boxy size and matching suits, it appeared I didn't have a choice. Plus, they were blocking my way. Oh, I could have pushed the issue, but what's the point? If you buck the system, they put you on the most watched list and fuck with your dogs. Or maybe they fuck the dogs. I can't remember. It's been awhile since I worked with the FBI, those dog fuckers. Actually, I knew some good agents. These appeared to dress the same but had no personality. I obliged.
The room was dimly lit just with a couple of business chairs which were surely right out of the 60's. Lurch, the big one, motioned me to the red chair.
"Budget cuts? I figured you guys would get some chairs with a little more pizazz by now. Where's the water boarding chamber?"
They were not amused.
I sat there for some time. Of course I looked around. Duh. It was a typical interview room with an institutional decor and little happiness. In fact, it was down right depressing. And the glass. I love the glass. I walked over to it and spit on my fingers to smooth my hair but I smeared it on the window. I wonder what they would do if I picked my nose and ran it down the middle...like right where the eye level is. That used to drive me nuts. I leaned my forward on the glass just like the bad guys and tried to look to the other side. I mouthed some bad words and tried to fart. Surely, I was racking up points.
After acting like an asshole didn't fancy me anymore, I took to the chair.
Before too much longer (like hours), a fat man similar to Joe Friday appeared and greeted me.
"Good day, Miz Fargo. I'm Agent Stangard. Do you mind if I have a word with you?"
"Oh, I have a choice?"
"Well, I won't take much of your time."
"You talk.I'll listen."
"Well, I would like to ask you some questions. First, how do you spell your name?"
I said nothing-waiting for my Miranda Rights. I was NOT going to ask the dumb ice breaker question, "Am I under arrest?" Duh. I had done nothing wrong.
"Miz Fargo? It's just identity."
"Big F as in eff this a-r-g-o."
Take that, Friday.
"Ok. Miz Fargo." He took out his notebook and plopped a big stack of papers down. I didn't know if they were real papers or fake papers to get me to question what was in front of me. The best thing I could do was act like I didn't give a hoot.
"Do you like guns?"
This was an odd question. I decided to stare blankly.
"Miz Fargo, it's a simple question."
"Well, not really. I mean do I like them for a purpose or do I like them as a friend? That's a big difference."
I was picturing Full Metal Jacket in my head.
"I don't really see what you mean, but I will rephrase. Miz Fargo, why do you like guns?"
"Because...could you elaborate. Because why?"
"Because. Final answer."
"Miz Fargo, I'm not here to be difficult, but just asking some simple questions. Could you please be more specific?"
"I think it is a fine answer. My mom and dad always answered with 'because' when I was a kid and now I think it fits."
"Ok. You like guns, yes or no?"
"Depends on what?"
"For what purpose. I don't like a .22 rifle for duck hunting."
"You just finished in a senate hearing with the committee on gun control. How many firearms do you think are adequate for one person to own?"
"I have to put a number on it? I choose to pass that question. I'll take world history for 200, Alex. Is this a game show? Like Jeopardy only not with trivia or any smart questions?"
He was not amused. It seemed this was a serious "chat" and not just an informal "Hi, How are you doing? We used to be cops." type of conversation. I needed to find out where this was going and be careful not to tread on the lawyer questions. I mean, WTF? Did they not like my red cape? Surely they were not the fashion police nor jealous of my bold attire? I think it made a statement.
"You didn't like my red cape, did you?"
Clearly ignoring me like a husband, he moved to his questioning.
"Do you think, Miz Fargo, there is a type of overkill attitude with those who own high powered rifles with rapid fire capability?"
"Does it make me look fat?"
"Miz Fargo. I don't give a shit about your cape. Is there a type of overkill attitude with those who own high powered rifles with rapid fire capability? Isn't it true those are the people who want to kill or are up to something sinister?"
"Are you really Hillary Clinton dressed as a man?"
"If so, I see the likeness."
"These are not questions normal cops ask. It feels like a set up."
"I understand your frustration. We are here just to sort out some additional concerns and try to find better solutions so we can resolve the issue."
"First of all, that is negotiation language 101 BULLSHIT. Don't give me that soft language. Resolve what issue? I don't have issues. You might have issues. You should get them fixed."
"We are trying to find a solution to all these active shooting incidents."
"Don't you have a Behavioral Science unit? Why don't you get your smarty brains on it? And what does figuring out a mentally broken person have to do with gun control? Don't you study each case down to the last few years or entire life of the suspect to figure out the path they took and why?"
"You aren't really FBI agents."
"What? Yes we are."
"Where's Fox Mulder?"
"Show me Fox Mulder and I might believe you."
"He isn't real."
"Neither are you."
This was so fun! I think he was getting genuinely miffed.
"How many serial killers are you tracking right now?" Clearly steering them on a different path. Duh.
"Uh, that is classified information."
"John Douglas says there are between 35 and 50."
Stangard's face was getting red. I could tell this was not the direction he wanted to go.
"Do you think mostly women or mostly men are the victim targets. And mostly college aged?"
"Miz Fargo. I would like to get back to the topics."
"John Douglas says you have a matrix of all these serial killers. Are most of them wiry long-haul truckers or are they slumpy fat guys who drive a white van? I bet most of them live in mommy's basement. When a cop makes a stop on a white van, do you think that a shovel should be PC that you might have a serial killer? John Douglas says religion is part of the facade in their minds. What do you think?"
"John Douglas Smouglas. He doesn't work for us anymore! All he is a glorified fat guy who travels around trying to make big news and extort money from these poor families. Just like Mark Fuhrman! It is embarrassing!"
"Man, you are kind of bitter about that. Go ahead. Tell me more. I can understand those who retire think they are know it alls and big shots. Talk to me."
"That's right. While we sit here in the trenches and they try to glorify themselves as the best FBI agent or best cop in all of time and they get paid millions. Meanwhile I sit here making middle class wages. It's bullshit."
"Yep. I totally get that. I..."
The metal door slammed open and in came Mr. Chairman.
"Stangard. Leave, you buffoon. It's obvious you can't do anything right."
"Hey, Stangard. Just so you know...in the 90's John Douglas did a profile on a missing person case which I got assigned to in 2004. His profile was all wrong and such a general summation of anyone in the US that I laughed when I read it. A six grader could have written it."
"Thanks, Fargo. You're alright in my books."
The door slammed shut behind him and I was face to face with Mr. Chairman all dolled up in his suit and long trench coat like he was fucking Batman. Well, maybe he was. I don't know. Batman is pretty private and doesn't keep a girl long.
About right then, I figured things were going to get interesting...