Murder Theory Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE NATURALIST

  “[A] smoothly written suspense novel from Thriller Award finalist Mayne . . . The action builds to [an] . . . exciting confrontation between Cray and his foe, and scientific detail lends verisimilitude.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “With a strong sense of place and palpable suspense that builds to a violent confrontation and resolution, Mayne’s (Angel Killer) series debut will satisfy devotees of outdoors mysteries and intriguing characters.”

  —Library Journal

  “The Naturalist is a suspenseful, tense, and wholly entertaining story . . . Compliments to Andrew Mayne for the brilliant first entry in a fascinating new series.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  “An engrossing mix of science, speculation, and suspense, The Naturalist will suck you in.”

  —Omnivoracious

  “A tour de force of a thriller.”

  —Gumshoe Review

  “Mayne is a natural storyteller, and once you start this one, you may find yourself staying up late to finish it . . . It employs everything that makes good thrillers really good . . . The creep factor is high, and the killer, once revealed, will make your skin crawl.”

  —Criminal Element

  “If you enjoy the TV channel Investigation Discovery or shows like Forensic Files, then Andrew Mayne’s The Naturalist is the perfect read for you!”

  —The Suspense Is Thrilling Me

  OTHER TITLES BY ANDREW MAYNE

  Looking Glass

  The Naturalist

  JESSICA BLACKWOOD SERIES

  Black Fall

  Name of the Devil

  Angel Killer

  THE CHRONOLOGICAL MAN SERIES

  The Monster in the Mist

  The Martian Emperor

  Station Breaker

  Public Enemy Zero

  Hollywood Pharaohs

  Knight School

  The Grendel’s Shadow

  NONFICTION

  The Cure for Writer’s Block

  How to Write a Novella in 24 Hours

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Andrew Mayne

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503904347

  ISBN-10: 1503904342

  Cover design by M. S. Corley

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE #FANBOY

  CHAPTER ONE THE POLONIUM GAMBIT

  CHAPTER TWO ARRIVAL

  CHAPTER THREE INCIDENT

  CHAPTER FOUR THE EDGE

  CHAPTER FIVE GATEWAY

  CHAPTER SIX SWAB

  CHAPTER SEVEN PHANTOMS

  CHAPTER EIGHT FUGUE

  CHAPTER NINE REVENANT

  CHAPTER TEN SCAN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN CATNIP

  CHAPTER TWELVE MEMBRANE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN TOXIC

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN WHIRLPOOL

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN KELP

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN RUMPUS

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN VAPOR

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN RUST

  CHAPTER NINETEEN DUSK

  CHAPTER TWENTY ECHO CHAMBER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE MICROGRAPHIA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CONTROLS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE HYDE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR INFERENCE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE DATA POINT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX FURY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN VECTOR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT RUSH

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE BASEMENT

  CHAPTER THIRTY SERIAL

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE VIRAL

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO FRENZY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE HOOK

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR EXTRAS

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE BLACK OPS

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX INTENT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN CYA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT FLOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE PATTERN RECOGNITION

  CHAPTER FORTY BREATHE

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE INTENT

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO PERSON OF INTEREST

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE INTERFERENCE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR PROCESS

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE INNER CIRCLE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX THE ABYSS

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN CONGLOMERATE

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT COLLABORATION

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE MILTON DRIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY DEBRIS

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE COLLECTION

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO POINT-BLANK

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE VISITING HOURS

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR RECOLLECT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE CODEX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX IMPOUND

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN TRANSIT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT HIJACK

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE VECTOR

  CHAPTER SIXTY AFTERMATH

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  #FANBOY

  The helpless man in the wheelchair thrilled him. It wasn’t a physical thrill or something he’d describe as deviant but the fact that it was this man who was unconscious and at his mercy that excited him.

  He pushed the chair to the edge of the concrete patio and turned the man toward him, then sat on the bench. What thoughts, he wondered, were streaming through the man’s unconscious mind at this moment? He had a thousand questions for him, the mystery of human consciousness only one of them. He was even more fascinated by what made this man’s own thinking so unique.

  And it was unique. He gazed at the stars overhead. Sirius stood out, a glimmering spark among a million suns that didn’t shine nearly so bright because they were farther away. He scanned the sky until he found a distant, fuzzy cluster that was actually a galaxy. Yes. This man was like a luminous object from beyond—that’s how special his mind was.

  If only there were time to talk to him, time to interact with that intellect and see how he measured up.

  At that moment, he felt sad. For he had seen how they’d measured up. This man had been clever, too clever by far, yet here he was, unconscious, utterly defenseless.

  The left carotid artery stood out in the moonlight as his head lay slumped to the side, exposing the vulnerable blood vessel. It almost seemed like an accident of evolution to put such a fragile weak spot right there.

  He could take the scalpel from his pocket and end the man’s life in seconds, watch him bleed out, drifting further and further into his unconscious until he was gone.

  It would be a painless way to die. In a sense, the man was already dead. The sentient part that asked questions, made conclusions, and took actions wasn’t really there at this moment. One slice of an artery and it would never return.

  He removed the scalpel and slid the plastic sheath off the end. As a test of his own will, he pressed the point to the curve of the artery—not enough pressure to puncture the skin, just enough to crater the flesh.

  Yes. He could do it. It’d take only a pound or two of pressure—less than a firm handshake the two men might have exchanged. In one moment the diamond-shaped blade could slide into the skin, through the epidermis, and slice the carotid, severing it in two.

  All that blood being pumped by the heart to sustain th
e brain—that brain—would gush out. It’d leave a terrible mess. Nothing short of arson would hide all of the man’s DNA if they ever came looking for him.

  But that didn’t matter. If they came . . . when they came, it would be too late. Not just for this man. But for all of them.

  Plans were already in motion. The deed had been done.

  Finding this man was merely an unexpected twist. A delightful end to a . . . he’d never decided precisely what to call it. Although he was certain they’d have a name for it. They could put a name on any tragedy. They could put a face on it, too.

  How long before they put his face on it?

  He didn’t expect them to take forever to find him, but he also assumed that something so peculiar as this could take longer than he expected.

  When this man had shown up, he’d thought for a moment that they’d discovered him sooner. But no. Only this man showed up. His reasoning had made leaps where others had merely crawled. And that had led him here. Alone. Putting him in his current vulnerable position.

  The man capped the scalpel and placed it back in his pocket. He removed the pistol from his waistband. It was an ugly weapon he’d used only a few times. It was as far removed from his preferred method of killing as he could imagine.

  He cradled the gun in his hands like a prayer book, contemplated it for a moment, then looked back up at the man in the wheelchair as he began to stir.

  He’d be alert soon. They say you should never meet your heroes. Killing them only makes things more awkward.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE POLONIUM GAMBIT

  I’m in a basement below the United States embassy in Moscow, sitting across from an outwardly nervous man. His name is Constantine Konovalov. He’s already been questioned by embassy officials and CIA operatives, but that’s routine for foreign employees of a US embassy. I’m a mystery to him, and his eyes keep darting to the large black aluminum case sitting on the table in front of me. He knows the Americans would never use torture on a Russian citizen in a situation like this. Or rather, that’s what he’s been told by his Russian handlers, who prepared him for this job and routinely debrief him.

  The United States has more than twelve hundred employees in the Russian embassy and related properties. The majority of them are Russian citizens. Hiring this many locals is a practical necessity and a security nightmare.

  Konovalov is a spy. Technically, all the Russians working in the embassy are. While they may not be Russian Federal Security Service employees or professional intelligence gatherers, they’re regularly grilled for information.

  We do the same to US citizens working for the Russians in our country. The difference is that I’ve been brought in to find out if Konovalov is a killer.

  Six days ago, another Russian, Timothy Artemiev, spoke to embassy officials about the possibility of defecting. Artemiev ran a small software firm whose primary contract was with the Russian government. He built bots for hacking other computer networks. After the third time Russian authorities turned down travel permission for him to go to a conference in another country, he realized they were never going to let him leave. He was too valuable.

  Artemiev died four days ago while hiding out in one of our safe houses outside Moscow. He was poisoned with radioactive material, either thorium or polonium.

  Intelligence officials have narrowed down the potential suspects to two dozen people. We’ve been holding them for several hours. In another two hours, we’re going to have to let them go or risk a diplomatic crisis.

  Catching the killer also means finding out who inside the embassy leaked Artemiev’s location. We can put pressure on the person we think did it, but fingering the wrong individual will surely backfire.

  I’m not an interrogator. I’m not even a spy. I’m a scientist. Specifically, I’m a computational biologist who uses computers to model living systems. I was asked to come here because of my so-called unorthodox methods.

  “Mr. Konovalov, I’m going to need you to provide some samples,” I tell him as I open the latches of the case.

  “Are you a doctor?” he asks in mildly accented English.

  “Just a technician.” I remove some vials and swabs. “It’ll only take a moment.” I slide on a pair of thin gloves and get up from the table and walk around to him.

  Konovalov is nervous but doesn’t protest as I take an earwax sample. He’s oblivious to the hair sample I collect as my hand braces his head.

  “There we go,” I say, returning to my seat. “Just spit in that vial and we’re done.”

  He obliges, more confused than concerned. If he’s our man, then he knows that none of the samples I collected will show traces of contact with polonium or thorium.

  I’m actually performing a more indirect test. Three of them, in fact. The people in the other room watching on closed-circuit television are monitoring every single step of the process.

  Right now, a thermal-imaging system is measuring his internal body heat. Another system, built into the table, is using millimeter radar to look for skin responses.

  I take a swab of his saliva, put it into a vial, and give it a shake.

  “Are you seeing if I’m part monkey?” he asks, making a joke.

  “No, Mr. Konovalov. I’m just testing for iodine.”

  Iodine pills can help with some of the symptoms of radioactive exposure. People who know they’ll be handling radioactive materials sometimes take the pills prophylactically in hopes of limiting their risk.

  The vial turns blue, and I make a note of this, doing my best to ignore Konovalov’s reaction. I think I catch a flicker in his eyes, but he’s too well trained to react openly.

  I put the vial away. “Thank you, Mr. Konovalov.”

  He starts to get up, but I stop him before he reaches the door. “One more thing.”

  Konovalov’s hand is on the doorknob. Something is running through his head. If he’s our guy, then right now he’s trying to decide if he should make a run for it.

  I pick the vial up. It’s now bright red. “Could you sit down again?”

  Our hit man is not going to fall for a bluff he knows isn’t technically accurate. I have to be very careful.

  I reach into the briefcase and pull out a pair of black gloves with a silver sheen to them.

  Konovalov’s eyes narrow.

  Interesting.

  These are radiation gloves lined with lead to limit exposure. They’re actually Russian ones I purchased for this exact purpose.

  I take out a small box from my case and set it on the table. There’s a broken seal across the top that reads Oak Ridge National Laboratory.

  “I just need to get a skin scraping,” I explain as I remove a tiny needle.

  Konovalov’s face goes pale. This isn’t needle response—this is a fear of death.

  Whoever killed Artemiev used something similar and would know that Oak Ridge National Laboratory is where the United States government produces its own nuclear materials.

  I stand and walk around the table to him again.

  Konovalov shouts, “Nyet! This is bullshit!”

  I keep a careful distance. Konovalov is probably our guy and more than likely an expert in hand-to-hand combat.

  The door bursts open, and two marines enter, followed by Charles Kaman, head of embassy security.

  “Constantine, why don’t we talk in my office?” Kaman suggests in a conversational manner.

  Konovalov is escorted out of the room and to some other place where he’ll presumably be grilled, threatened, and then bribed.

  I toss the vial into the garbage can and gather the props. Reed Stanworth, who I assume works directly for the CIA section chief, walks into the room and sits in Konovalov’s seat.

  “Great show, man. Great show.”

  Reed is a secret embed at the embassy who officially runs their social-media team. He spent two years at Snapchat and projects a Southern California bro vibe. I suspect all of it is an act.

  “We’ll see,” I repl
y.

  “Good to let the others go?”

  I flip through a folder and stop on a name. “You should talk to Isolde Ershova, too,” I reply. “She also had a strong response.”

  Reed shakes his head. “The redhead? She’s clean. She lost her father in the Kursk submarine mishap and has no love for the politicians. In fact, out of everyone, she’s the least likely candidate for a spy.”

  “Don’t you think that makes her the most suspicious of all?”

  He gives me a dismissive headshake. “That’s not really how it works. We have profiles we look for. Things we check.”

  “Sure. Don’t you think the Russians know that, too? If I was trying to sneak operatives in here, and not just informants, I’d send in people who fit the profile of least suspicious. I’d also want to know who the person who did the actual hiring thought was the most attractive.”

  Reed’s carefree manner fades away, and his eyes narrow like Konovalov’s. He glances down and realizes he’s sitting in the hot seat—the chair they use to measure emotional responses.

  Reed isn’t a double agent, at least as far as I know. He’s sloppy, which is just as bad. His carelessness is what led to the hiring of Konovalov and Ershova, which ultimately led to the death of a man we could have used in this post–Cold War conflict.

  The door opens, and Charles Kaman enters for a second time. “Reed, I think we should talk.”

  Reed glares at me. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Just a scientist.”

  At least that’s what I tell myself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ARRIVAL

  I step off the plane in Atlanta and head to the center of the terminal, trying to will my body into accepting this new time zone. It’s never the traveling that gets me; it’s adjusting afterward.

  While away, I did my best to keep the lab in Austin going but leaned heavily on Sheila, the office manager, to provide parental supervision.

  I spoke to her on the plane trip back and got the latest updates. Our lab is in the middle of a biome research project that will hopefully make it easier to track where somebody—cough, terrorists—has been by looking at their gut bacteria.

  The only looming concern I have about the project is that our current patron, General Figueroa, a well-meaning but intense man, is pushing for me to deliver a technology that can determine “terrorist genes.”