The Death Row Complex (The Katrina Stone Novels Book 2)

by Kristen Elise Ph. D.

  NOVEMBER 26, 2015

  5:35 A.M. PST

  Sean McMullan parked his government-issued unmarked car in the dirt lot at the Torrey Pines Gliderport in La Jolla, California. It was 5:35 a.m., Thanksgiving Day, and the lot was mostly empty. McMullan’s immaculate black sedan contrasted starkly with the two dusty SUVs parked nearby.

  As McMullan stepped out into the early morning mist, a pair of surfers came into view over the crest from the beach below. Both wore full wetsuits, currently stripped to the waist, and carried short boards. Neither wore shoes. They approached the SUVs in the parking lot and waved at McMullan, and he nodded politely.

  McMullan briefly wondered if the surfers would go to work that day, or if they even had jobs. He had no idea that one of them was Jeffrey Wilson, a world-renowned chemist from the nearby Scripps Research Institute, or that Wilson had just been awarded the Nobel Prize.

  A posted sign warned “Unstable cliffs. Stay off the staircase.” In fact, the “staircase” was no more than a treacherous path of embedded rocks, large logs, two-by-six boards, and sandbags that led down to the beach below. Locals called the path Ho Chi Minh Trail. McMullan ignored the warning sign and approached it.

  On a dry morning, he could jog down some parts of the trail. On a misty morning like this one, he was forced to move slowly or risk a slip on the slick rocks that could send him tumbling. He trod carefully down the irregular path, taking care to favor the tender right knee that had earned him a Purple Heart in the first Gulf War.

  When he reached the beach at the bottom, he turned to begin running along the thick sand above the high tide line. The cliffs loomed above to his left, and the Pacific Ocean spread out to the right under the morning mist.

  Jogging toward McMullan was a stark-naked man. As he approached, the two men began dancing awkwardly from side to side in an effort to pass each other, the stranger’s limp penis swaying to and fro from the motion. Finally, the man ducked past him and McMullan continued on.

  It was Katrina Stone that had recommended this route, but she had failed to mention that the beach at the bottom of Ho Chi Minh Trail was clothing optional. McMullan had been caught completely off guard on his first visit. But after the initial surprise, he came to like Black’s Beach for the same reason Katrina liked to run here—it was almost totally secluded. Vehicular traffic to the beach was prohibited; the access road that rose up from the sand was chained off to all traffic except for police vehicles. And with the exception of the trail from the gliderport, additional points of entry were miles away.

  McMullan also liked the fact that the run back up the mountain on the access road was a bitch of a workout with no motor vehicles to contend with. Now, as he reached the road, the morning mist was burning off, and the southern California sun was warming the air. He took a few deep breaths and started up the steep switchbacks.

  Jogging ahead of him was a large group of men, all sporting the same close-cropped haircut that McMullan himself had worn in the Marine Corps. He found himself marveling, not for the first time, at the density of military personnel in San Diego.

  To the south, near downtown and the airport, was the Naval Base San Diego—the largest Naval port on the West Coast. Its neighbor on Coronado Island contained the North Island Air Station and Naval Amphibious Base. In addition, San Diego housed the Outlying Field in Imperial Beach near the US-Mexico border, the Naval Auxiliary Airfield on San Clemente Island, and the Miramar Marine Corps Air Station. Thirty miles north was the one hundred twenty-five thousand acre Camp Pendleton United States Marine Corps Base.

  The heavy military presence around McMullan would normally have offered a sense of security. Now, it seemed ominous. As he jogged up the mountain behind the Marines, he was acutely aware that if someone wanted to both punish and cripple the United States, there was perhaps no better target than “America’s Finest City.” The military would make San Diego difficult to hit with traditional forces. But it was the perfect location for a biological terror attack.

  10:54 A.M. PST

  Josh Attle halted in the doorway as his eyes fell on the mostly vacant space in front of him. Katrina and a large sweaty man were leaning over a folding card table in the center of the room. Both were wearing hard hats. A blueprint was spread over the table.

  “Damn it,” Josh exclaimed, and pivoted on his heels to exit.

  Katrina and the contractor looked up in unison and Katrina giggled.

  Josh turned back around to look at her. “Um, have you seen our molecular biology lab? I thought I left it here.”

  Katrina laughed louder. “I keep doing that, too. I think our molecular lab is currently in boxes, but if you find a way to do your experiment anyway, I’ll give you a Scooby Snack.” Katrina smiled sweetly at Josh and then returned to the blueprint.

  The lab was now a construction zone, in the process of being expanded to almost twice its original size. Douglas Tsoukas, the immunologist next door, had initially been furious upon learning that he was being evicted from his lab space, effective immediately, with very little explanation. The financial compensation he was offered, and the gorgeous new lab that miraculously began appearing in a new high-tech complex across the street, had quickly smoothed over his anger.

  Katrina had wasted no time moving into the former Tsoukas space. In addition to the multiple Ph.D. staff scientists she was provided with, a dozen temporary employees had been assigned to the move and to the development of the lab space itself.

  Octopus the Robot was relocated into what had been Tsoukas’ main lab space. Within days, Octopus was joined by seven additional robots and their supporting equipment. Two robotics experts were brought on board to man the machines full time under the scientific direction of Jason, Josh, and Oxana.

  The three biologists also began a relentless collaboration with a new team of organic chemists that was designing the chemical compound libraries. It was those compounds that would be screened to identify new inhibitors of the Death Row Complex. Li and Todd would follow up with the inhibitors, evaluating lead molecules for toxicity, efficacy, and stability in cells.

  When molecules showed potential in test tubes, the next step was to move them into animal testing—first mice and rats, and eventually, primates. Before now, the animal work in Katrina Stone’s lab had been severely stunted by a lack of funding. She had established a pulmonary anthrax model in mice—the functional equivalent of inhalational anthrax in humans—at the Sorrento Valley BSL-3 facility. But primate testing had been far too expensive.

  Now, lack of funds was no longer a problem. The issue was lack of time.

  The San Diego State University vivarium and the Sorrento Valley BSL-3 facility were effectively taken over. Streamlined teams of pharmacokineticists, drug metabolism experts, bacteriologists, and veterinarians assembled to move compounds out of mice and rats and into a new test group of monkeys. The tension in the animal facilities was palpable as researchers struggled to select the most promising compounds prematurely, based on data that was still grossly incomplete.

  The greeting card that had been mailed to the White House in October had specified that a terror attack would take place on Christmas Day. It was now Thanksgiving, and the work had just begun.

  Josh Attle was halfway out the door of the lab when a young woman in skintight jeans and a babydoll T-shirt shoved him back inside.

  Katrina glanced up from the blueprint just as the woman stepped into the lab. The neck was cut out of the tight T-shirt, and Katrina saw Josh cast a quick glance at her prominent cleavage. Aside from her breasts, which were obviously medically enhanced, the woman was very thin.

  “Where the fuck is Jason Fischer?” she demanded.

  “Um, I, uh, I don’t know… ” Josh stuttered, staggering backward, his eyes darting back and forth as if looking to Katrina for guidance.

  Katrina watched the exchange with the composition of a person experienced with outbursts of this nature. She tipped the hard hat off her head and set it casually on top
of the blueprint. “Who wants to know?” she asked.

  “I’m the chick who’s about to kick the living shit out of Jason Fischer. Where is he?” As she snarled the words, the woman brushed past Josh and began to approach Katrina.

  Katrina did not back down, but rather, strode toward her confronter. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m not going to just offer up my postdoc to someone who wants to ‘kick the living shit’ out of him. You’ll have to provide a little more explanation or you’ll have to leave.”

  “Well, that son of a bitch gave me herpes! How’s that!”

  Katrina’s eyes flashed, but she continued to step forward to meet the girl. The two women stood toe to toe, almost matched in height. Their faces were inches from one another. The younger woman was slightly taller than Katrina, and Katrina’s eyes were tilted upward to meet her gaze.

  Katrina rose slightly onto her toes to look downward into the woman’s eyes. “Look, lady,” she said through her teeth, “Jason’s personal life is not a drama that needs to unfold in my lab. Now, if you don’t get out of here and talk to him on his own time and in his own space, I’m either calling security or kicking your ass myself.”

  After she spoke the last sentence, Katrina heard a man deliberately clearing his throat. She looked past the woman toward the sound.

  Roger Gilman was standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. He was chuckling and shaking his head. “Oh that’s lovely, Dr. Stone. Are you in the habit of threatening teenagers with violence in front of your students?”

  “I’m not a fucking teenager,” the woman spat. “I’m twenty-two. And who the fuck are you?”

  “Special Agent Roger Gilman,” Gilman answered cheerfully. He glided toward the two women and offered his hand to the stranger.

  She did not take it. Instead, with a last spiteful glance in Katrina’s direction, she whirled to pass Gilman and exit the room.

  “Ah, Dr. Stone,” Gilman said after the woman was gone, “the professionalism with which you conduct your affairs never ceases to impress me.”

  Gilman had to trot to catch up with the young woman in the parking lot. By the time he reached her, he was panting heavily, and he moved directly into her path as if to block her from moving forward. “Ma’am… ” he said between desperate breaths, “I need to… ask you a few questions.”

  “What?!” The woman stepped around him.

  Gilman jogged alongside her brisk walk. “We’re investigating… a series of murders.”

  “Good for you. If I get my hands on that motherfucker, you’ll be investigating one more.”

  Gilman fumbled through his pockets for his notepad and pen as he ran. After locating the items, he took a deep breath and let it out quickly, then continued. “What is… your name?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions.” Her breathing was normal as she maintained the rapid pace through the parking lot.

  “Well yes… actually… you do. As I mentioned… I’m… a federal agent investigating… a series of murders… for the government. If you don’t… answer my questions… you are obstructing justice… and committing… a federal offense. So lose… the attitude… answer my questions… and slow down!” Gilman stopped jogging, leaned over, and cupped his hands over his knees.

  The woman reluctantly stopped walking and turned back toward him. “My name is Lisa Goldstein. What else?”

  Gilman wrote the name on his notepad and continued. “What is… the nature of your… relationship with Jason Fischer?”

  “There is no relationship. We had a one-night stand. I haven’t seen him since. He’s probably off giving herpes to some other chick dumb enough not to make him wear a rubber.”

  “And do you… work at this university? Are you a scientist?”

  The woman ejected a sarcastic laugh. “Do I look like a fucking scientist?”

  “I don’t know.” Gilman’s breathing was returning to normal, but he was sweating profusely. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, which he used to mop his brow. He caught a few more breaths. “I don’t really know what a scientist looks like anymore.”

  “Well, I’m a stripper,” the woman said. “And spare me the moral judgment on that, because frankly, I’m not up for it right this minute.”

  Gilman was uninterested in Lisa Goldstein’s choice of career. He was contemplating the notion of a Ph.D. biologist in a band who worked on anthrax and picked up strippers in his free time.

  DECEMBER 2, 2015

  3:15 P.M. EST

  Roger Gilman could not stop smiling as he and Dawn strolled slowly through Lafayette Square. Directly in front of them stood a large statue of Andrew Jackson waving his hat atop a rearing horse. Centered behind the statue was the White House; behind it, the Washington monument stretched toward the heavens.

  It was an unusually cold fall in D.C. A light dusting of snow already covered the square, and both Gilman and his wife wore long coats, scarves, and hats. Each of them had removed one glove, and his large hand enveloped her small one. It was just perfect.

  “Mary is doing so well,” Dawn was saying. “She’s reading almost all by herself. When you first left town, she was crying a lot. But then she got this new determination all of a sudden.” Dawn laughed at the memory. “She just comes to me and says, ‘Mommy, I’m not going to cry for Daddy anymore. I’m going to learn how to read really good and then when he gets home I’ll surprise him!’

  “So James has been working on it with her. Every day, he comes home from kindergarten and she’s waiting for him to teach her what he learned that day. It’s so cute to see them camped out in their PJs, with her sounding out the words while he corrects her by sounding out the same words.”

  Gilman’s eyes welled up. He was not ashamed. He wiped the tears softly with the gloved hand not holding Dawn’s, and then stopped walking and pulled his wife into his arms. For a moment he just stood with her, not wanting to miss a moment of this time. “What about the rest of them?” His voice was on the verge of breaking.

  “Oh, they’re fine,” Dawn said. “The older kids are a lot more used to having you gone for a while. They know you’ll always be back. They’re just going to school, going to church, doing their homework… sports… business as usual… you know.”

  Dawn fell silent as they began walking again. Wordlessly, they changed direction and began heading east, and then south along 15th street. It was as if Gilman was responding to an inexorable pull, a magnet drawing him toward FBI headquarters.

  “What time is your flight in the morning?” Dawn asked.

  “My driver is coming to get me at 4:50.”

  “Ouch!” she laughed.

  “I know, but I practically had to beg just to get an overnight stay at all. This meeting is only supposed to last about an hour. Bob was going to put me back on a plane to San Diego this afternoon.”

  “Well I’m glad the begging worked. The kids are thrilled you’ll be there when they get home from school. Speaking of which, I do have to go. Mary and James will be out soon.”

  For a moment, they stood at the northwest corner of Freedom Plaza, Dawn’s kind eyes shining up into his. He sighed. “I need to get to work. But I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  “Good,” she said with a hint of mischief in her voice. “I’m making pot roast.” Pot roast was Gilman’s favorite dinner in the winter. He smiled gratefully and hugged his wife for a long moment, his round belly pressing into her flat one.

  Minutes later, Gilman was across a conference table from Teresa Wood and Director Bob Wachsman. Beside him was Sean McMullan. In front of each of them was a copy of the same status report. Bob appeared to be reading it when Gilman approached. Gilman had familiarized himself with the information on the airplane.

  Teresa had written the report. “There are two primary pieces of evidence that have come to light on my end,” she said after Gilman sat down. “The first is a fiber from a piece of clothing. I’ve had this material analyzed and tracked, and it helps us—wel
l, maybe a little. It is most likely a fiber from a white lab coat. There are many other standard-issue white uniforms, all of which are generated by the same clothing manufacturer. But given all of the other evidence in this case, Ockham’s razor tells me it’s probably a lab coat, probably from a researcher or a doctor.

  “Second piece of evidence: there was also a microscopic hair in the envelope with the card. Medium brown and fine, although the fineness of this one tiny sample doesn’t necessarily mean your perp has fine hair overall. We’ve done a DNA analysis. It’s from a Caucasian female.”

  Gilman and McMullan looked at each other. Neither spoke.

  “Now, I understand we have some suspects that fit the description?” Teresa continued.

  Gilman nodded grimly. “That and every other description on the planet. McMullan and I have been combing through the backgrounds of all of our San Diego-based suspects since October. Our counterparts in San Francisco are doing the same work at San Quentin. It’s taking a long time. The heavy metal guitarist alone has hundreds of friends and even more enemies.”

  “Well,” Teresa said, “get me a DNA sample from your top ten Caucasian suspects—even if they are male, because that could potentially bring a familial connection to light. Obviously, we can’t rule anyone out based on the fact that their DNA is not on the card, but if we find a match then we have a pretty clear winner.”

  “We’ll get the DNA,” McMullan said. “What’s your next move?”

  “Well guys, I’m at a fork in the road. I have exhausted all of the assays that can be done to the card using non-destructive methods. I have not found any prints, which doesn’t surprise me. I’m sure your perp probably had the brain to wear gloves when handling the document.