Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle

by Tim Downs

  “Okay,” Nick said. “I should be getting back to earth now.”

  Lumpkin ducked back under the tape and Nick returned to the laboratory. The detective in charge of the investigation was standing in the doorway giving instructions to one of his officers.

  Nick walked directly up to him and said, “You need to start over.”

  The detective looked at him. “Who are you?”

  “Dr. Nick Polchak—I’m a forensic entomologist.”

  “Who sent for a bug guy?”

  “This was more than a simple theft,” Nick said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “What was stolen?”

  “Look, I don’t know who you are, but you’re not part of this investigation, so I’m going to have to ask you to—”

  “A laptop computer, right? Let me guess: The killer left the power cord and mouse behind, right? He didn’t care about the computer—he just wanted what was on it. He took some glassware and some containers—does that sound like the kind of thing your average thief would steal? This was not about lab equipment—somebody was trying to steal his research.”

  “And who would want to do that?”

  “Apparently somebody he knew. He was shot in the base of the skull, right? Not the sort of shot you make from across a room. Somebody was able to get up close.”

  “Maybe they snuck up on him.”

  “Look where the body’s lying and look where the doorway is—nobody could have snuck in without being seen. And look around the lab—do you see anyplace to hide? No—he knew the guy, and he was willing to let him walk right up behind him. A friend, a colleague, a professor—maybe even a family member.”

  The detective shrugged. “It’s a thought. We’ll run it by his wife—see if she can give us a list of acquaintances.”

  Nick spotted a technician attempting to lift fingerprints from a piece of glass lab equipment. “Don’t touch that!” he shouted.

  The detective stared at Nick. “Is there a problem, Dr. Polchak? The guy’s just trying to do his—”

  “Don’t touch the lab equipment,” Nick said. “You’re looking for the wrong thing. Forget the fingerprints—the important thing is what’s on the inside.”

  “What’s on the inside?”

  “I don’t know—that’s why you have to look.”

  “You need to go,” the detective said.

  “Look—don’t make the mistake of treating this like an ordinary homicide. If you do, you might destroy something that’s really important.”

  “You let us worry about that,” the detective said.

  “Wait a minute, if you’ll just let me—”

  “Officer, would you escort Dr. Polchak back to the perimeter? And make sure he stays there.”

  The officer took Nick by the arm and hustled him down the hall.

  Nick pulled out his cell phone and hurriedly punched a button.

  “FBI. Special Agent Donovan.”

  “Put your wife on the phone.”

  “Nick—you called me at work. Macy and I are married, not joined at the hip.”

  “One of you needs to get down here right away.”

  “Was the date that bad?”

  “I’m serious, Donovan. A grad student was murdered here last night, and the local police are treating it like an ordinary homicide.”

  “And you don’t think it was?”

  “I have a feeling the guy might have been working on something serious—the kind of thing Macy would want to know about.”

  “Do you have any evidence of that?”

  “No—and if you don’t get down here and take over this investigation, there might not be any. Their forensic techs are trying to lift latent fingerprints from some of the lab equipment. They might use iodine or silver nitrate for that, and they’re both disinfectants—they could kill anything inside.”

  “What’s inside?”

  “How would I know? Get down here and find out.”

  “So once again I’m supposed to make a decision based only on your instincts.”

  “Have you ever been sorry that you trusted my instincts?”

  “Are you seriously asking me that?”

  “Call somebody, Donovan—yank somebody’s chain and get these people out of here. Tell them it’s a federal investigation and you’re claiming jurisdiction.”

  “And how do I justify that?”

  “I don’t know. Flex those big muscles of yours—they must be good for something.”

  “Good idea, Nick. I’ll do my double lat spread—wait until the attorney general sees that.”

  “Just get somebody down here, Donovan—and fast.”

  38

  Macy’s desk phone buzzed and she punched an illuminated button. “Macy Donovan.”

  Macy’s “Macy—it’s Alexei over in Dulles. Are you at a computer?”

  “Yes, I’m at my desk.”

  “Log on to us, will you? I’ve got a live feed coming in from Zvesda—it’s a Russian news channel. Yuri Semchenko is giving a speech—I thought you might want to take a look.”

  Macy’s fingers clicked across the keyboard and the home page for the National Counterterrorism Center appeared. She entered her State Department ID and a security password and waited; a moment later the log-in screen vanished and she found herself looking at a white-haired man standing behind a lectern.

  “I’ve got it,” she said.

  “That’s your boy at the podium.”

  “Yes, I recognize him from his file photos.”

  “Look at the old goat—he must be in his late seventies, but he looks like he could still work a plow.”

  “He looks like he could pull a plow.” Macy watched Semchenko as he spoke. The old man was dressed in a gray suit and dark tie that made his close-up look almost like a black-and-white photograph. His snow-white hair was coarse and plastered back, though defiant strands stood out from the sides of his head. He had a cauliflower ear on the right side—a result of the repeated beatings he had endured during his gulag experience. His face was stoic, almost expressionless, but his sonorous voice resounded like thunder.

  “What’s the occasion?” Macy asked.

  “It’s sort of a press conference,” Alexei said. “The Ministry of Transport is announcing a modernization program for one of their Black Sea ports. Apparently Semchenko has been spearheading the effort so he gets to take a bow.”

  Macy turned up the volume a little. “It’s all in Russian.”

  “Yeah—that’s what they speak over there.”

  “Very funny. Can you translate for me?”

  “So far it’s mostly been grandstanding and flag waving—the old guard loves that stuff. ‘Our nation is blessed among the nations of the earth,’ he says—sounds like something our side would write. Did you ever wonder if there’s just one group of speechwriters that work for all politicians?”

  “Can we skip the commentary, Alexei? What’s he saying now?”

  “He says that Russia possesses one-fourth of the world’s forest area and half of the world’s softwood timber . . . He says they have coal, oil, gas . . . but the greatest resource they possess is one they take for granted—land . . . He says Russia is the largest country in the world—almost twice the size of the United States . . . He says Russia, Ukraine, and Kazakhstan together possess 13 percent of the world’s farmable land . . . but they produce just 6 percent of the world’s grain.”

  A satellite image of a coastal area flashed up on a screen behind Semchenko; he turned and pointed to it.

  “What’s the photo?”

  “That’s Novorossiysk—it’s the largest seaport they’ve got. He says Novorossiysk is small and overcrowded . . . that it can’t handle the increasing export traffic . . . He says it’s their only deepwater port and they have to share it with the Russian navy . . . He says they only have one berth that can handle a really big ship. Hey, I’m starting to tear up—I wonder where I can send a check?”

  Macy saw Semchenko turn
back to the audience again.

  “Here we go—he’s getting to the sales pitch now. He’s announcing an agreement between the Ministry of Transport and the Russian Grain Union . . . He says they’ve agreed to double the port’s export capacities in the next couple of years . . . He says from now on Novorossiysk will only handle grain, container cargo, and oil . . . and they’re building a modern grain export terminal to handle increased demand.”

  “His increased demand,” Macy said.

  “No kidding—Semchenko stands to profit more than anyone else. He also says there are plans for more air connections to all their Black Sea ports . . . and a second railroad line to Novorossiysk . . . and new highways too.”

  “That’s a fortune in infrastructure,” Macy said.

  “They need it. During the Soviet era the Russians had seventeen ports on the Black Sea—now they only have four. Everything Semchenko produces has to go out through one of those ports. There’s no sense growing corn if he’s got no way to ship it.”

  “I get the feeling he’s planning to step up production.”

  “It makes sense to get the infrastructure in place first. Smart guy.”

  “No one’s questioning that.” She noticed that Semchenko began to speak with more passion and intensity. “What’s he saying now?”

  “He’s really pounding the pulpit—looks like he’s working up to a big finish. He says the Americans are not better scientists than they are . . . He says we’re not better soldiers either . . . He says we’re better businessmen—and he wants that to change . . . He says a businessman is a soldier, and a soldier will do whatever is necessary to achieve victory . . . He says—oh, I love this.”

  “What?”

  “He says, ‘Business is war, and war is business.’ Catchy, huh?”

  Macy watched as Semchenko left the stage to thunderous applause.

  Semchenko’s personal assistant leaned close to the old man’s ear and shouted over the applause, “You have a phone call from your grandson—on your private line.” He handed him a Nokia cell phone.

  Semchenko took the phone and followed the assistant backstage to a small private room. The assistant closed the door and left the old man alone.

  “Pasha,” he said.

  “Dedushka. We have a small problem.”

  “Yes?”

  “Jengo Muluneh—he is no longer part of our business.”

  “What happened?”

  “He had a change of heart. I tried to persuade him, but his decision was final.”

  Semchenko paused. “What will this do to our project?”

  “Nothing. Jengo’s research was complete. I have his records and samples. All that remains is replication—Habib can accomplish that.”

  “Are you certain Jengo did not speak to anyone?”

  “He spoke to me first,” Pasha said. “I was concerned that he might become . . . impulsive. I thought it best to deal with the situation.”

  “Is the situation resolved?”

  “Jengo’s decision was final—so was mine.”

  “Then we can still proceed?”

  “Yes. There should be no further problem.”

  Macy’s phone buzzed again and she checked the caller ID. She smiled and picked up the phone. “Hi. How’s my favorite FBI agent today?”

  “No kidding?” Donovan said. “I’m your favorite?”

  “Top of the list.”

  “How long is the list?”

  “I’m not telling—you’ll get complacent. What’s on your mind, Nathan?”

  “Are you free tomorrow morning?”

  “I can check my schedule. Why?”

  “I just got the lab results on that murder down at NC State.”

  “And?”

  “There’s a 6:50 out of Reagan on US Air—we need to be on it.”

  39

  The third-floor hallway was no longer cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape. The hallway had been reopened to allow students and faculty to return to their daily schedules. One specific laboratory remained locked and sealed, and the door was now guarded by a man in a navy FBI windbreaker. Nick Polchak waited beside him.

  Nick turned to the agent. “Why can’t I go in?”

  “Sir—that’s the third time you’ve asked me.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “This crime scene is under the jurisdiction of the FBI, and the man in charge of the investigation is Special Agent Nathan Donovan. The door will remain locked until he opens it—okay?”

  “But I’m meeting him here.”

  “Yes, sir, so you said.”

  “So why can’t I go in and wait for him there?”

  “Sir—I understand you have a PhD.”

  Nick stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the wall. “I despise waiting.”

  “Yes, sir, I figured that out.”

  The elevator door at the end of the hallway opened, and Macy and Nathan Donovan stepped out. Nick stood in the center of the hall and called out, “Well, it’s about time. I’ve been waiting an hour with Chuckles here.”

  “Our flight was held up,” Donovan called back. “Don’t blame us—bad weather at your end. They say you’ve got a hurricane coming in.”

  Macy nodded a greeting. “Hi, Nick. Thanks for making time.”

  As they approached Nick’s eyes were drawn to Macy’s bulging midsection. “Wow, you really are pregnant—look at the size of you.”

  “Thank you, Nick. What every woman longs to hear.”

  “When are you due?”

  “In a couple of months.”

  “You’ve still got a couple of months to go?”

  “Nick, please. Do you mind? You’re making me feel like a beached whale.”

  Nick looked at Donovan. “Can you believe you’re responsible for that?”

  “Why? Do you know something I don’t?”

  “I mean, look what you did.”

  “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “You two are pathetic,” Macy said. “What does a man really contribute to making a baby, anyway? One little cell, that’s all. And he doesn’t even deliver door-to-door, he just drops it off in the general neighborhood and the poor little thing has to find the rest of the way all by itself—and then when his wife gets pregnant he acts like it was a personal accomplishment. That’s like dropping your kid off at a swim meet and then claiming the trophy for yourself.”

  “I think we’d better change the subject,” Donovan said. “She gets into these moods and things can get dangerous.” He showed his credentials to the agent guarding the lab. The agent immediately turned and unlocked the door, pushing it open and stepping aside to allow them to enter.

  The agent whispered to Donovan as he passed: “Is he always like this?”

  “Nick? No. It’s still early—he gets much worse.”

  When the three of them had entered the lab, the agent shut the door behind them and locked it again.

  The minute the door closed Nick said, “I was right, wasn’t I? This was no ordinary homicide—you found something or the two of you wouldn’t be down here.” He looked at Donovan. “Admit it, Donovan—I was right, wasn’t I?”

  “It’s hard to believe,” Macy said to her husband. “I’ve finally met someone who gloats as much as you do.”

  “I told you,” Donovan said. “It’s a guy thing.”

  Nick looked at each of them. “Well? Was I right or wasn’t I?”

  “We found something,” Donovan said, “but we’re not sure what it is yet.” He opened a folder and laid it on a lab table. “The victim’s name was Jengo Muluneh—I think I’m saying that right. He was a citizen of Ethiopia, here completing a PhD in plant pathology. He was doing research on plant toxins that attack corn. He was looking for ways to genetically modify the corn plant to make it more resistant to common diseases—blights and rusts and things like that. That means you’d expect him to be working with viruses and bacteria and fungi—and that’s pretty much what we found on his lab equi
pment.”

  “There must have been something out of the ordinary,” Nick said.

  “There was,” Donovan said. “The Bureau sent a tech team down from Quantico to make sure we got it right. They swabbed everything in sight; they ran residue tests on every piece of glassware and equipment in the lab.”

  “And?”

  “They found traces of an unusual fungus—they had to send it down to the USDA’s regional lab in Athens, Georgia, to identify it.”

  “What sort of fungus?”

  Donovan checked his notes. “It’s called Stenocarpella maydis. The fungus produces a form of ear rot called Diplodia. It causes a thick white mold to grow on the ears of corn. It renders the corn useless—you can’t even use it to feed livestock.”

  “How serious is it?”

  “We’re not sure yet. Macy’s waiting on a call from a specialist at the USDA—he’ll be able to give us more details. Diplodia is a common plant disease; it shows up every year in the Midwest. I remember my dad mentioning it. I grew up on a farm, remember? Most of the time it’s no big deal—standard fungicides keep it under control.”

  “Then what’s the big concern?”

  “The concern is: That fungus shouldn’t have been here. Our people talked to Muluneh’s faculty supervisor—some guy named Bernard Lumpkin.”

  “I know him,” Nick said. “He’s a mycologist—a fungus specialist.”

  “Lumpkin told us about Muluneh’s research—he told us exactly the kind of toxins we should have found in this lab, and Diplodia had no business being here. We’d like to know why it was here and what he was planning to do with it. Our people agree that this was no ordinary homicide and the motive was more than simple theft. Whoever murdered Muluneh wasn’t doing it for profit. We think somebody wanted his research—or they wanted to keep anyone else from finding out about it.”

  “Any idea who that might be?”

  “A colleague, a competitor maybe—but what was the motive? Not profit—there’s no money in the kind of research he was doing. If he’d been working on some kind of exotic hybrid maybe, the kind of thing you can patent and some seed company might pay a fortune for—but Muluneh was working on toxins. That’s what worries us—we’re concerned about the possibility that Muluneh was manipulating the fungus genetically for the specific purpose of making it more destructive. It’s just a theory, mind you. We don’t know for sure and it’ll take time to find out—but it’s possible. The only way to know for certain is to sequence the DNA in the Diplodia residue we found on Muluneh’s lab equipment, then compare it to the DNA of the ordinary fungus. If any of the sequences are different—if the genome has been altered in any way—then we’ll have to try to determine how the alterations would affect the behavior of the fungus.”