by Neal, Toby
Marcella sat next to Dr. Wilson, who smiled graciously as Waxman took them through the high points of the case to the current situation: three main suspects, surveillance teams on each, the lab being watched.
“We just released the lab back to Dr. Truman, and he’s getting back to work today,” Waxman finished. “We have some additional staff from HPD in the lookout room at the moment.” Waxman liked to make up new phrases like “lookout room.”
“Thank you.” Dr. Wilson stood up, went to one of the whiteboards. “I worked up some patterns on each of your suspects. I haven’t had much time to go in depth, but I wanted to give you some initial impressions and see if they assist in narrowing the field. Let’s start with Kim.”
Rogers put a blowup of Peter Kim’s driver’s license photo into a clip at the top of one of the whiteboards, the Korean scientist looking earnest and conservative in a brush cut and button-down. Dr. Wilson slid on a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses and consulted her notes.
“According to comments from various other lab partners, Kim is the most standoffish of the interns. He came from Korea seven years ago. He has well connected family here in Hawaii, and two mysterious deposits to his account in the amount of nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-nine dollars. An e-mail trail connecting him with a lab in Korea has also been uncovered. He reputedly doesn’t have a girlfriend; nor does he appear to be gay.”
She took a sip of water from a glass Gundersohn poured for her, pulled the glasses off to dangle by a beaded chain, and looked up to address the group. “Kim strikes me as a classic first-generation immigrant from an Asian family. He’s a loner, ambitious, hardworking, and focused. He doesn’t have time for extraneous entanglements. He’s focused on success and making his mark, adding to his family’s established successful track record, and making money. He seems to evaluate others in terms of usefulness and will curry favor with those who can help him with his goals. He doesn’t appear to have any sort of religious orientation, which will tend to make him someone who does the expedient thing. In other words, he’d have wanted to profit from BioGreen.
“His motivation for a murder would be something related to his goals. He fits a profile of someone who’d kill for profit or ambition, but not passion. Ergo, I could see him shooting Dr. Pettigrew to prevent her from giving away the BioGreen formula, but not strangling Cindy Moku—a very personal murder that was then dressed up to look like a hanging.” She paused, looked around the table. “How seriously have you considered that there are two killers?”
No one answered immediately; then Marcella spoke up. “I’ve been thinking about that more and more, but the thing that brings us back is the blog entries. They point to one killer.”
“The blogs could be faked, planted to point to someone—namely Fernandez, as they were uploaded from his work computer,” Rogers said.
Waxman waved a hand. “We’ve thought of that. We’re considering the blog entries as one aspect of this investigation, not definitive in themselves. Go on.”
“Well, Kim does not have the markers of a psychopath or antisocial personality disorder—some early ones include cruelty to other children and animals, fire setting, crimes, and conduct problems. From everything I can tell, he’s been a model citizen, if a little cold and detached.” Dr. Wilson slid the glasses back on and picked up another folder. “Let’s discuss Fernandez next. The blog’s uplink location aside, he’s a strong candidate for several reasons: He had a relationship with Cindy Moku. He openly disagreed with Dr. Pettigrew regarding BioGreen’s distribution rights. He’s known to have an abrasive manner, a diagnosis of Tourette’s, and an early record of fire setting. He has engaged in some potentially suspicious behavior since being surveilled, though again, nothing that couldn’t be explained by the pressures he’s been under.”
Rogers slipped an eight-by-ten photo of Fernandez’s surly face under one of the clips at the top of the whiteboard as Dr. Wilson went on. “Apparently, he is also quite brilliant and contributed an essential piece of the BioGreen research that broke the formula through to the next level. Coworkers say he felt he had a proprietary interest in BioGreen and did not agree with any free distribution of the research.”
“That’s all information we already gave you, Dr. Wilson,” Waxman said impatiently. “What we want is your take on it.”
“I’m getting to that.” Dr. Wilson gave the SAC a quelling look over her glasses. Her crystal-blue gaze was authoritative. “Fernandez is a complex individual with some definite mental health issues. He meets criteria for a schizotypal personality disorder, with additional markers for antisocial personality disorder and the accompanying Tourette’s.
“In layman’s terms, he has a twisted and egocentric outlook on the world and sees other people as lesser than himself. He despises women and yet worked under one and engaged in a relationship with one that may or may not have had an abusive element. In my professional opinion, he has the means and ability to be the killer of both victims, and for the reasons just stated: Dr. Pettigrew was not recognizing him as he felt he deserved, and Cindy confronted him about killing Pettigrew—and he strangled her for it.”
Everyone digested this. Marcella gazed at the photo, thinking about the various behaviors Fernandez had demonstrated. His verbal abuse toward her—which may or may not be Tourette’s—his apparent “breakdown” in the kitchen, bold body language when he thought he was unobserved, even his quick thinking in calling his uncle Bennie.
“Whether he killed these women or not, Fernandez is a very disturbed individual. That brings me to your third suspect, Zosar Abed.” Dr. Wilson took another sip of water, adjusted her glasses, and opened another folder.
“Dr. Abed also has a ‘love-hate’ relationship with these two women. An Indian native, he is ambitious and driven to make a name for himself, but for reasons other than the first two. He apparently adores his mother and put Dr. Pettigrew on a pedestal as a replacement for her during his time in the lab. He is emotionally labile, demonstrating mood and behavior swings, and he was ‘in love’ with Cindy Moku, who had rejected him. He also felt an investment in the rights to BioGreen, as they all seem to. He could have killed Pettigrew because she failed him in some essential way, thus falling off her pedestal—and Cindy he could have killed out of jealousy.”
Waxman looked at the notes in front of him. “So it sounds like you are saying all three of our suspects are capable of the murders, or even just one of them—but for different reasons.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I have one last suspect bio—Dr. Ron Truman.” She flipped open the next folder. “I know you said the first three were your main suspects, but I think Truman is a strong candidate for one reason—ambition.” She took off her glasses and her vivid eyes passed across Marcella’s face, leaving her feeling naked. “Truman is basically inheriting Dr. Pettigrew’s position and will be next in line on the published papers—which I have on good authority may be submitted for a Nobel Prize—putting him as primary researcher in a very enviable position. And let’s not forget he’s having an affair with Natalie Pettigrew, niece and heiress to Pettigrew’s fortune. This man has means, motive, and opportunity. A handsome face and charm have hidden any manner of monsters before; don’t let them fool you this time, either.”
A long pause followed this. Marcella wrote, Truman? on her notepad. She hoped it wasn’t him—she liked him, and reminded herself it was dangerous to do so.
“So really, who is your best suspect, based on psychology alone, not including other physical evidence?” Waxman asked.
“I’m reluctant to say, as physical evidence is critical. The best profile in the world can be ruled out by a single hair.”
“Give it a shot anyway.” Waxman bit off his words, clearly impatient with such digression.
“Well then, I have to say Fernandez. I see him as the most antisocial. He’d be able to kill for his own reasons and remain relatively untroubled by it.”
“Something’s bothering me
,” Marcella said. “Cindy Moku. This is a girl who had it all—she was the hero of her family, bright, well liked, attractive. Why did she go for Fernandez rather than Abed? Or even someone a little out of her reach, like ‘Dr. Handsome’ Ron Truman?”
Dr. Wilson looked back at her notes. “I read all you gave me on Cindy Moku, and I think the answer to that lies in Cindy’s mind. She might have been tired of being the good and perfect girl with all her family’s hopes and dreams pinned to her. A part of her might have wanted to sabotage that, to be punished somehow. She sought out someone emotionally unavailable who was never going to do anything but use her.”
Marcella’s arched brows drew down in a frown. “I’m just not buying that. Cindy had every reason to choose someone who’d enhance her career. She wasn’t promiscuous, didn’t have any bad habits. Maybe Fernandez has a side we aren’t seeing.” Marcella went on to describe the changes in demeanor Fernandez had shown. “Maybe he was someone else with her in private, someone more intriguing than we’ve been able to see.”
“Well, we’ll have ample opportunity to study all of them,” Waxman said, stacking the folders. “Thank you, Dr. Wilson. It doesn’t narrow our suspect pool the way I was hoping it would, but we know more of what to look for and how to conceptualize our suspects’ motives.”
“Glad I could help,” Dr. Wilson said. “I’ll keep working on it, and I still have to review the tapes from your interviews with each of the interns. If something new emerges, I’ll let you know.”
Marcella followed Dr. Wilson to the doorway. “Thanks, Doc. I for one found this helpful, though I don’t agree that Cindy somehow attracted an abusive relationship.”
“I never said he was abusive,” Dr. Wilson said. “Want to get a cup of coffee and discuss it?”
“Can’t,” Marcella said. “I have to get to the ‘lookout room,’ as they’re calling it, and get eyes on our researchers firsthand. But here’s my number. Maybe when I’m off work, we can get together.” She handed her card to the psychologist with an inward sigh of relief that those sharp blue eyes wouldn’t be seeing into her soul.
Marcella hurried to get down to the garage. She beeped open the “Bu-car” as Bureau-issued transport was nicknamed. Rogers got into the black Acura and shut the door. Marcella fired up the engine.
“Where’s the fire?”
“I just want to get down to the lab, see what they’re up to,” Marcella said, tamping down the depression that rolled around her gut.
Kamuela was really gone. He’d done what he said he would and transferred off the case. There was a good chance it’d be years before they ran into each other again. Yes, she’d kicked him to the curb, and she missed him—missed the fizz of chemistry between them that woke her up when he was nearby. Missed his dark chocolate voice. Missed his presence on the case, his persistent but levelheaded approach. Missed his strong arms…
She hated that she missed him, hated that she hated it. Was mad that he’d listened to her and left. Mad at herself for caring, and mad that he’d got his hooks in her enough to feel like this.
Dammit all to hell.
She needed to keep moving—she needed action. Someone to take down, and soon. Preferably with a little police brutality involved.
Chapter 15
Marcella revved the engine and backed out of the stall. It wasn’t long before the she and her partner stood in front of a keypad to the room directly above Dr. Pettigrew’s lab, and Rogers punched in the code. The team from HPD, Ching and Hernandez, sat on a bank of video monitors with headphones on.
Ang, wearing a leather tool belt loaded with tech gear, was crouched on the floor doing something with wires. She looked up and acknowledged them with a brisk nod. Ching turned to greet them, lifting up one of the earphones.
“Hey, good to see you.” He stood up from a folding metal chair set in front of the video screens. “Would love for you guys to give us a break so we could grab some food.”
“Sure.” Marcella surveyed the empty space, bare but for several steel tables set at right angles to form a bay for the equipment. Audio was on, and as she approached the surveillance area, she could hear the strains of classical music coming from the speakers. Each of what remained of Dr. Pettigrew’s team was hard at work with pipettes, slides, microscopes, or computers.
Ang’s cell beeped. She glanced down at it, and her curved black brows shot up over wide eyes as she looked up at Marcella. “Blog went live again!”
“Which computer?”
All heads swiveled to look at the lab below in the surveillance cameras. Only Truman was on a computer, the one in the back office that had been burgled for the formula.
“I have an IP address,” Ang said. She hustled around to the monitors and slid into Ching’s seat. “The entry is time stamped, so all we have to do is find out who was on at that time.”
She pulled up a list of the IP addresses of the computers in the room. “It’s the one over near the back. It’s just out of video range. But we should still be able to see who goes back there.” She glanced down at the phone again. “Unfortunately, my trip wire is about thirty minutes behind the time stamp. I’m going to have to roll back to half an hour ago.” She turned to look at the detectives. “I got here fifteen minutes ago from our team meeting at the Bureau. Do you guys remember who was on this computer half an hour ago?”
Ching and Hernandez looked at each other. “No,” Ching finally answered.
“Shit.” Ang’s fingers flew over one of the keyboards. “I set this up last night to go live this morning after you gave the go-ahead to open the lab to Pettigrew’s team. Only reason I’m here now is that I’m checking all the feeds and the visibility angles, and a good thing too.” She pointed a short, unpolished nail at one of the monitors. “See? That shelf blocks our view of that computer. I should have caught it earlier, but it’s hard to make sure all the angles are right before we’re live.”
All eyes watched the rapid replay of the video, and as they approached the time stamp in question, she slowed the feed.
Abed, Kim, and Fernandez all stopped in at the computer during the thirty-minute window of the upload.
“Could someone be uploading the blog post and doing something else at the same time? Or have it on a time delay?” Marcella asked.
“Possible. But if he’s that computer savvy, he wouldn’t be uploading a personal incriminating blog on a work computer in the first place.” Ang tapped the screen. “I wish my trap were closer to the time stamp, but the good news here is that we can rule out Truman. He never used that computer anywhere near the time the blog was uploaded.”
“Can we get a copy of the text?” Rogers asked. Ang nodded and retrieved the content for their review.
Blog Entry
Back in my space where
Destinies
Are discovered
Back where my microscope
Measures blueprints of worldbits and splices
The ordinary into the supreme.
Smells a little musty in here
Like cops and suspicion—like that
Bitch agent with the shiny teeth, and shoes that go
Click-clack.
I’d like to stuff them
Somewhere the sun don’t shine.
It’s funny that Dr. P’s
Paranoia was the thing
That brings my work back
To me.
Thanks Dr. P.
Finally
I almost feel sorry
That I killed you.
Posted 2:05 p.m.
The bald words, with their poetic spacing, seared Marcella’s eyes—especially the hostility aimed at herself. It creeped her out that one of those innocuous-looking scientists was a double murderer and had her shoes on his mind.
“We have to be able to narrow it down,” she said. “Let’s go through this footage more slowly.”
Rogers and Marcella clustered next to Ang as they replayed the digital from within thirty minutes of the time s
tamp more slowly while the HPD detectives watched the current feed.
“Wonder what they’re doing on there,” Rogers said, as Abed, his small frame enveloped in a white lab coat, disappeared behind the shelf. They could see the hem of his white coat protruding off the seat of the chair. He was there for around five minutes, then got up and left. A few minutes later Kim came and occupied the chair, then Fernandez.
“I’m sorry, guys,” Ang said, pushing a hand through her hair in frustration. “I put the trap on there, and it only beeps me when there’s been an entry within thirty minutes. And with this bad angle, I can’t see what they’re doing on the computer. So just because the blog post is time stamped, doesn’t mean the time is exactly when it was uploaded. We have to get in there and adjust the cameras. So—they don’t know they’re being surveilled, correct?”
“Correct,” Marcella said. “The UH president knows. It was our condition for allowing them back into the lab, and our suspect pool is so narrow, we had compelling reason to get a judge to approve it. What we need to do is shake those guys up, see if something pops. How about Rogers and I go down, nose around, and adjust the camera while we’re at it? You and the HPD guys can monitor from here. They know they’re all still under suspicion. I don’t think a visit from us is going to seem too out of line or tip them off to the surveillance.”
“Sounds good.”
A short time later Marcella pounded in the combination that opened the lab door. Rogers shot her a side glance.
“Where’s the fire?” he hissed for the second time, as Marcella threw her shoulder against the steel door, depressing the handle. It flew inward, hitting the wall.
“Sorry,” she said to the three startled faces that looked up from their tasks.
Truman came to the door of the inner office, hands fisted on hips. “Quite an entrance, Agent Scott,” he said. “Got some news for us or something?”
