Point of Control

by L. J. Sellers

  With the help of GPS, the medical examiner’s office was fairly easy to find, a few blocks off the 880 highway. But the parking was limited, and she had to find a space a block or so away. Inside, she showed her ID, waited while the receptionist made a call, then followed her back to the autopsy room. A dark-skinned man with a glistening bald head greeted her with a slight Indian accent. “Ms. Bailey. Thank you for coming. I’m Dr. Sharish.” She nodded, relieved he didn’t offer his gloved hand.

  “Where’s the body?” Too abrupt, she realized.

  “This way.” He spun toward a wall of large stainless-steel drawers, pulled one open, and removed the white covering.

  Bailey stared at the dead man. His skin was purple and his limbs contorted.

  “You can see from the bruising that he took quite a beating, then died immediately afterward.” Dr. Sharish scowled, the wrinkles on his forehead rippling up toward his scalp. “But there are no edges to any of the contusions and they overlap, so I can’t determine the weapon.”

  Nick Bowman had been pushed out of a plane or helicopter. A rather elaborate way for a mentally ill man to commit a revenge murder. But Thurgood was a scientist, and he may have had a reason. She looked up at the medical examiner. “This man was dropped from the sky, and I need to know exactly when.”

  The ME’s eyes widened. “That would certainly explain the condition of the body.” He stepped back and checked a clipboard on a nearby counter. “I estimated his time of death at between five and ten a.m. Saturday morning. It’s fortunate that his body was discovered so quickly. He could have just as easily lain there for weeks.”

  Someone had flown over the state park and dumped him in the dark or early morning. Had the killer planned to push him out or had Bowman caused a problem during the flight? Who had been piloting the craft while all that went on?

  She was starting to think Thurgood might be another victim rather than the killer. On her flight the night before, she’d researched rare earth metals. China produced 95 percent of the world’s supply, and in the five months since it had stopped exporting, the shortage of gallium, indium, and dysprosium had become critical for computer and cell phone manufacturers. Other industries—such as electric cars, wind turbines, solar cells, and batteries—had been hit hard too. The US government was pushing to ramp up mining in American facilities, but the biggest problem was extraction, which was complex and expensive. Meanwhile, cell phone production everywhere except China had nearly come to a halt. The price of electronics had shot up, and in some cases, they were disappearing from retail shelves. The whole industry was in turmoil, and manufacturing companies were in a state of panic. The biggest problem was the lack of dysprosium, which had magnetic qualities and was used to make speakers, microphones, and hard drives. Because it was scarce and hard to extract, Bailey assumed companies and researchers had to be desperately trying to produce a replacement material, which was Bowman’s specialty. What if someone had coerced or kidnapped the scientists because they needed both of their vital skillsets or knowledge?

  But where was Thurgood? And why had they killed Bowman? If the kidnappers had known they were going to kill him, they probably hadn’t filed a flight plan. Still, the plane or helicopter had taken off from and landed somewhere, and she would investigate that.

  Bailey looked over Bowman’s body, noting his once-excellent muscle tone and appendix scar. “May I have gloves?”

  The ME hurried to grab some. Bailey pulled them on and lifted Nick Bowman’s right hand. “Anything under his fingernails?” She didn’t expect the scientist to have struggled.

  “No, but he was bound by his wrists, at least for a short while.”

  She’d noticed the red mark against the white skin on the inside of his wrist, one of the few places he wasn’t bruised. But she was interested in the skin condition of his palms. In the grooves was a brown discoloration, like a stain or burn. “Please test his hands for chemicals and tell me what you find. I want his toxicology as soon as possible.” She smiled and made a don’t-hurt-the-messenger gesture with her hands. “I know the blood work could take weeks, but you need to pressure the lab to prioritize this one.” She leaned toward Dr. Sharish and whispered, “This case is related to national security, and the bureau needs your full cooperation.”

  “Of course.” The ME blinked. “What chemicals? Was he making bombs?”

  “I can’t say, but you’ll be in the loop when I know more.”

  Bailey studied the corpse, searching every inch of his bruised and broken skin. “Let’s turn him over.”

  The ME started to protest, then clamped his jaw shut and stepped to the other side. They rolled the body so she could see his back. Not nearly as much bruising, but he still looked contorted by the broken bones. Bailey spotted a round reddish mark and leaned in.

  “That’s a burn,” the ME said. “Most likely from a stun gun.”

  Tasers had two prongs. “Where’s the second mark?”

  “His right leg, to the inside.”

  When had they stunned him? When they originally grabbed him? Or later, in the plane, to control him? The kidnappers’ MO was critical, especially if more scientists were at risk. She pulled a business card from her pocket and handed it to Dr. Sharish. “Here’s my email address. Please send me the full autopsy report immediately. And I’d like the toxicology details in a few days.”

  He swallowed hard. “I’ll do what I can.”

  She hurried out, eager to talk to witnesses and dig into the investigation. Agents in the San Jose field office had filed a report, but she would go back over the same territory. The local agents hadn’t known what they were dealing with when Nick Bowman’s wife reported him missing, so they hadn’t asked the right questions, or enough questions. Investigators often assumed missing adults had walked away on their own—for good reason, since it was nearly always true. Although two disappearing metallurgists created a whole new investigation. Her next stop was New Age Fabricators, the company Bowman worked for. His coworkers had been the last people to see him.

  Outside in the bright sun, she focused on the food cart she’d noted on the way in and turned left. As she reached the corner, she realized her error. Wrong direction. Her topographical disorientation had tripped her up again. The short walk to her car had seemed easy, especially after registering the food cart as a direction signal. Had the owner moved the damn cart?

  Bailey backtracked and found the rental car without further mishap. Before GPS had become commonplace in cars and phones, her life had been more challenging, including getting through the fieldwork segment of the bureau’s training. But her IQ and analytical skills had made up for it. The agency’s psychological exam had worried her the most. Though lying was easy for her, knowing when to lie on the test and what they wanted to hear had taken a lot of preparation—but she’d gotten through. As long as she was good at her job, what difference did it make?

  New Age Fabricators took up half a block in an industrial area south of San Jose, a concrete-bunker-style building with a row of glass-framed offices on the top floor. She could never be one of the workers on the ground floor with no windows, but that was their choice. She parked next to the entrance in the open visitors’ space. Who would drop in at a company that produced unusual metals? Not spotting any security, she pushed through the double doors into a small lobby. Beyond its back wall, the hum and thump of machinery vibrated the walls. She ignored the guest chair and stepped through an open door to the left. A claustrophobic office space with an old guy behind a cluttered desk. The tag on his wrinkled white shirt said Security. She suppressed a smile and introduced herself.

  “You’re here about Dr. Bowman?”

  Doctor? Oh right. Bowman had a PhD in materials science and engineering, and obviously exploited the title. She added arrogance to his profile. “Yes, and I need to speak with Clare Jones and David Seabert. Ms. Jones first.” The last two people to s
ee Nick Bowman alive. She’d gleaned the names from the field office report.

  “Clare’s on the second floor, left side of the building.” The old guy coughed up some phlegm. “Mr. Seabert has the corner office on the top floor.”

  No surprise. Seabert ran the company his father had founded. But little information was offered on their website, and she wanted to know more about the company’s research, particularly what Bowman had been working on. Bailey remembered to say thanks as she walked out. She didn’t see stairs so she took the elevator, then encountered a chubby middle-aged woman as she got off on the top floor. Based on the field office report, Bailey took a guess. “Ms. Jones?”

  “Yes?” Her eyes registered fear.

  “Agent Bailey, FBI. Let’s go to your office and talk about Nick Bowman.”

  “I don’t know anything. I already told the other agent that.” Her voice was thin and childish and didn’t match her appearance.

  Bailey decided to dive right in. “Tell me about the last time you saw Bowman.”

  The woman let out an exasperated breath. “We walked to the parking lot together, then got into our cars and left. That’s it.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I mentioned a restaurant I wanted to try.”

  “Did Bowman say what his plans were?”

  “Just that he was stopping for a drink.” Jones rolled her eyes, then blurted out, “But he was having an affair. It was so obvious.”

  That hadn’t been in the report. “With who?” Now she had to consider a jealous husband as the suspect. Maybe the scientists’ shared career was a coincidence.

  “I have no idea. Can I go now?” Jones seemed flustered and probably regretting sharing the gossip about Bowman’s love life.

  She would need special handling now. “You seem like the kind of person your coworkers would confide in. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you about the affair.”

  A pleased expression swept over the woman’s face, even as she shook her head. “No, Nick probably knew I wouldn’t approve. He has a lovely family.”

  “Did his wife know about the affair?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Does she strike you as a volatile personality? The type to get angry enough to take revenge?”

  Jones’ eyes and mouth popped open. “You mean would she kill him for cheating on her?”

  “It happens.”

  A blank stare now. “I don’t know his wife at all.”

  Bailey dreaded talking to the widow. Distressed people’s emotions got in the way, and it took forever.

  “Thanks for your time.” She had to move on. The likelihood of finding a witness to the abduction was slim—unless she found Bowman’s mistress or could trace his steps on the evening of his disappearance. Bowman’s car hadn’t turned up, and no one had seen him after he left work. The local agents had requested the dead man’s phone and financial records, and she would soon have access too. But first, she needed to know what the scientist had been working on. Matching his research to another company’s needs could be the key to finding the suspects. She headed for the corner office to question the CEO.

  David Seabert was forty-something, wore a dark-blue pullover, and sported a well-groomed beard. Not a scrap of paper cluttered his high-gloss desk. Just a palm-sized recorder and, near the front, a business award he’d won. A nonconformist and a control freak. She would have to work him carefully. Bailey introduced herself, and he offered a quick handshake but no smile.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” she said. “I know you’re a busy man.”

  “Have a seat.” He gestured and sank into his own chair. “How can I help you?”

  “Tell me everything you know about Nick Bowman’s research.”

  He drew back, eyes tightening. “You think his death is connected to his work?”

  “Yes.”

  “I just heard he was having an affair. Maybe it was a domestic issue.”

  “Unlikely. What was he working on?”

  Seabert folded his arms across his chest. “Our research is proprietary.”

  “I understand, but this could be a matter of national security.” She would appeal to his ego. Bailey leaned forward and touched his hand. “I’ll tell you something confidential in exchange. Another metallurgist from Australia disappeared two weeks ago. I don’t believe Nick Bowman’s death was a domestic issue or a random act of violence. Something big is happening here, and I need your help.”

  For a long moment he stared past her, vacillating. Finally, he said, “I can only give you a broad idea of Nick’s research, but it involved the development of a new material, something that could replace dysprosium in manufacturing.” He met her eyes. “Do you know what that is?”

  “A rare earth metal in very short supply.”

  “It has been all along, even before China’s embargo. So Nick had been working on it for years.” The CEO finally relaxed his arms and confided in her. “China’s control of the supply has always worried the technology industry, but no one expected them to completely shut down exports. It’s chaos here in the Valley. Employees are either being laid off or recruited at crazy salaries.”

  “Already?”

  “Five months is a lifetime in the tech industry. But our company is somewhat immune, because we produce a variety of specialty metals.”

  “What about your competitors? What company would have the most to gain by appropriating or stopping Nick Bowman’s research?”

  Seabert’s eyes narrowed. “Everyone in the digital device business could benefit. As well as companies that make hard drives and lasers.” He stroked his short beard. “But dysprosium is essential to cell phones, and startups with only one product line, such as Celltronics and ZoGo, will be the hardest hit. I heard Celltronics is facing bankruptcy.”

  Bailey had dossiers on both. She’d only had time to glance through them, but she’d noted the name of ZoGo’s CEO: Shawn Crusher. A search of the databases had revealed his birth name as Shawn Ming Crutcher, but he’d changed it to Shawn Crusher at the age of twenty-two, when he’d left college to start his technology career. A smart move, even if it had been driven by a fragile ego. He’d gone to work for qPie, the search-engine giant, and had quickly been promoted up the ranks, his new moniker giving the news media easy wordplay shots at his propensity for crushing the competition. Then, just five years into his reign, he’d been fired. Speculators claimed it was over a cell phone he developed that didn’t make it through focus groups—after qPie had spent millions on it. Now he manufactured his own burner-style phones. Recent business reports called him “brilliant” and “prescient” for investing in low-end phones before the crisis began to render high-end electronics unaffordable for many consumers. The analysts also admired his marketing skills, claiming he possessed “a rare combination of technical and promotional savvy.” ZoGo was one of the few companies holding its own in the new shortage-driven market.

  Mark Ziegler, Celltronics’ CEO, was nowhere near as flashy or high-profile. He was older and had started his company after a long career in software design. Celltronics made middle-of-the-road phones and marketed them to large employers who bought cell phones by the thousands.

  While Bailey couldn’t rule out the big three—Apple, Samsung, and Nokia—it seemed highly unlikely that someone inside one of those reputable companies had suddenly gone rogue. Not that it couldn’t happen. People like her, with little or no conscience, could easily step outside social boundaries in their quest for power or money. But it made sense to start with the newcomers, who were vulnerable and fighting hard for their share of the pie.

  CHAPTER 7

  Tuesday, March 17, 9:15 a.m., Mountain View, California

  Shawn Crusher’s phone rang, interrupting his morning scan for market-share data. Annoyed, he glanced at the caller ID. No name appeared, but
he recognized the number. This wouldn’t be good. He popped in a tiny earpiece and pushed the Answer button on his Tones, a new neck-wraparound wireless device. “Hello, Max.” It was the only name he had for his financier, and Shawn suspected it was phony.

  “We have a couple of problems.”

  Even though he’d known blowback was coming, the man’s cold, flat tone made his neck muscles tighten. The voice was enough to intimidate him, and he hated that. “Yeah? Like what?”

  “What the hell happened with Nick Bowman?” Max had quickly switched to shouting.

  How did he know? Had Bowman’s body surfaced already? “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t bullshit me. Someone found the body. What the hell is going on?”

  Shawn swallowed hard. Nick Bowman’s death was unfortunate. He’d never planned to harm the scientist. But Shawn had already tucked away his guilt and moved on. That’s how he survived. Besides, what he was trying to accomplish was far too important to let other people derail him.

  “Bowman was totally uncooperative from the beginning,” Shawn explained. “When he caused a problem on the transfer flight, my crew had no choice but to deal with him.” He’d been a lot less complacent when Harlan and Rocky had reported the incident.

  “There’s more.” Max resonated with controlled anger now. “My source in the bureau tells me someone made a connection between Thurgood and Bowman, and now they’ve sent an agent to investigate.”

  Fuck! Shawn had a dozen questions, but he knew his contact wouldn’t stay on the phone much longer. “Who is the agent and what do you know about him?”

  “Andra Bailey. And I hear she’s brilliant.”