Murder Theory Page 17

  “And?” asks Figueroa.

  “There are problems. First of all, our definition of a terrorist. While you and I may define that specifically as nonstate actors who primarily use violence against civilians, that’s still too broad. The temperament of a mastermind who funnels money and weapons around the world is very different than a manic-depressed suicide bomber who got talked into blowing up a shopping mall. A lone white supremacist who builds pipe bombs is different from a community activist who decides to plan a riot and smash the nearest Starbucks.”

  “What are you saying?” asks Figueroa.

  “We can’t even decide what a terrorist is, much less determine whether certain genes incline one toward the activity.”

  “Then we focus.”

  “Okay. Do I look for the charisma genes that Osama bin Laden had? What if George Washington had them too?”

  Figueroa’s nostrils flare. “Are you comparing Washington to bin Laden?”

  “What? No! Washington fought on the front lines and put himself in harm’s way. Bin Laden was a coward who hid behind his women and human shields. I should have been more specific. What may stand out about both men might be simple things, like both were tall. Height may be an advantage when it comes to persuading people to a cause. I can’t be too indiscriminate. Genes often work with other genes, and many of them may not be active.”

  I think about Figueroa’s visceral reaction to my clumsy Washington comparison and come up with a strategy. “Let’s say we find that suicide bombers have certain genes? Maybe it’s some kind of extreme emotional swings, plus an adrenaline addiction? What if we find that some of our best special-forces troops have the same genes? How would that look to someone on the outside evaluating our research? Are we making our guys equivalent to the bad guys?”

  Figueroa leans back and thinks this over. I’ve given him enough of an idea of the complexity of the issue to realize that this could backfire on him if not done properly.

  When I first raised the idea of the terrorist gene, I was casually thinking about a highly specific behavior and wondering why some personality types might be more inclined to partake in it. Everyone else heard me say that there might be one gene that makes a terrorist—which is an astronomically stupid notion if you have a basic grasp of genetics and behavior. The problem was that I was talking to a roomful of people that didn’t understand the basics beyond the misleading headlines they see online about genes that allegedly explain away entire conditions or behaviors.

  The gay gene is one example. While science can eerily tell who is likely to be gay and who is not through certain genetic markers and environmental factors, it’s not like there’s one gene that makes you straight or gay.

  Figueroa shakes his head. “This isn’t very satisfactory. We promised people something more specific.”

  He doesn’t seem angry at me as much as disappointed about the overall prospects of the project. It’s easy to forget that he has bosses to answer to as well. If I can’t make them happy, I might be in jeopardy, which means closer attention paid to aspects of my life that I’d rather not have exposed right now.

  I think of telling him about the Hyde virus. The prospect of a virus that influences homicidal behavior may be extremely interesting to the military—but that’s also the problem. While I trust that Figueroa isn’t the kind of man to unleash something like that over North Korea, that doesn’t mean that someone else wouldn’t—or worse, that research could fall into the hands of someone less morally sympathetic to civilians.

  “What I’m trying to do right now is focus specifically on suicide bombers,” I decide on the spot. “While ten percent of the population could be radicalized into doing something like that, if we had a good genetic profile and behavioral background, we might be able to figure out who to focus on when choosing surveillance targets.”

  This is so Orwellian I want to throw up. Am I playing the game or making it worse?

  “A behavioral profile for genetics?” Figueroa asks.

  “Yes. It could tell you who is more likely to commit a violent act. It’s not a tool for implicating guilt, but how to efficiently use resources in an investigation.”

  This still makes me uncomfortable, but if used as a forensic tool, it might do the least damage. And if it’s a bad tool, it’ll more than likely be abandoned.

  I hope.

  “We can work with that,” says Figueroa. “How far are you?”

  I think of the stack of research I threw together in the folder and suddenly realize that I’d asked for permission several months ago to work with an Israeli lab on a different project, but whose research could apply to this.

  “Right now I’m being held up by red tape,” I reply.

  “What red tape?” he asks.

  “I want to confer with some researchers at Sandstone Labs in Tel Aviv but need clearance first. I asked about it shortly after we talked about the T-gene.” I’ll let Figueroa fill in the blanks.

  “The Israelis? I bet they’d love this, assuming they haven’t already done their own research. That could be good. Real good. He’ll love hearing that we’re working with them on this.”

  I don’t ask who he is. It hits me that Figueroa’s superior may be much, much higher up than I realized.

  “If you can facilitate that moving through, that would be a big help,” I tell him.

  But not too quickly.

  “Yes. I’ll get on that right away. I can probably have the clearances in a day or so.”

  “That would be wonderful,” I lie. “And once we have our security check completed, I’ll feel comfortable moving ahead on that.”

  “Right, right,” says Figueroa. “We need to get on that.” He looks toward the door. “It’s that Pogue guy? Isn’t it?”

  “I don’t really know,” I answer cautiously.

  Figueroa chuckles. “Cray, I’ve seen enough turkey shoots to know one when I see it. You set that little fucker up to dangle in the wind like a pro.”

  I shrug. Todd is minor league compared to the other sociopaths in my life. “I have concerns.”

  “Right. Now, do we think he’s talking to foreign intelligence?”

  I shake my head. “No. I think he just wanted to get rid of me. He backed up the data in case I cut him off or wiped everything in the event of my dismissal. He wants to work for you.”

  “He wants to be you,” Figueroa replies. “I think he’s been plotting with Osman.”

  I shrug. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “I’ll handle this. We’ll put tabs on him,” says Figueroa. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “I appreciate the help, General.”

  This is turning out better than I expected.

  “It’s why I’m here. Just one more thing.”

  I begin to stand up. “What’s that?”

  “What were you doing in Kentucky?” I sit back down as my legs go numb.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CYA

  I feel like Todd must have felt when I brought up the network intrusion. His perfect little plan was only perfect as long as it played out the way he thought it would. In his mind he was safe because his files were heavily encrypted, and not even a court order could decrypt them if he didn’t want them decrypted. What he hadn’t thought about was that I would preemptively use his unwillingness to cooperate as a way to imply his guilt.

  Now it’s my turn.

  Figueroa is no dummy. When Osman went to him with Todd’s talk of my erratic behavior, Figueroa clearly decided to check up on the eccentric Theo Cray. I can only imagine what resources he has at his fingertips. Whatever they are, they told him I was in Kentucky. Anything else Figueroa knows, he’s keeping close to the vest.

  I have to play another game of little truths. Telling him the whole scheme might get me off easily, but it also runs the risk of creating another T-gene problem.

  “I’m hunting another serial killer,” I reply.

  “This Butcher Creek Butcher?” asks Fig
ueroa.

  “It’s related,” I say vaguely.

  “Related? Like he’s working with someone else?”

  I think over the word he and the reality hits me: I’m the Butcher Creek Butcher. While I didn’t kill anyone, I did butcher people . . . corpses, but still bodies of people.

  “I don’t know that,” I reply. “I’ve been tracking down some other seemingly unrelated murders that I think may have a . . . an unexpected component.”

  “Could you elaborate?” asks Figueroa.

  “It’s too early to say.” That’s a horrible answer.

  “Well, let me put it to you this way: Could you elaborate in a way that would help justify why you’re using laboratory resources on this investigation?”

  Damn. Figueroa knows way more than I suspected. What if Todd isn’t his only source on what goes on here? I start to think about Sheila, Darnell, and the others . . .

  Focus, Theo. There’s a chance he already knows about the Hyde virus. Hell, I told the FBI all about it.

  Okay. Assume he knows everything. Respond, but spin it. “It’s a very radical idea. I spoke to the FBI, and they dismissed it outright. But I decided to persist.”

  “I’ve noticed that your far-fetched hunches have a habit of turning out to be correct,” Figueroa replies.

  Yeah, except the time I was seven and tried to dig a hole in the backyard to what I suspected would be an entrance to Middle Earth.

  “It’s actually tangentially related to T-gene,” I explain. “We know that some genes aren’t activated unless there are certain environmental factors . . .” My voice trails off as I think about an aspect of the Hyde virus I’ve never considered—even though it’s right in front of my face.

  “Cray?” says Figueroa, interrupting my minifugue.

  “Right. I had a thought. Anyway, some genes are turned on by starvation, the presence of bacteria, deficiencies, abundances, et cetera. What if there are genes that control behavior that can be switched on and off? What if there was a gene that regulated psychopathic behavior? Or a group of genes that could be triggered by a pathogen?”

  “Something that makes you a killer?” he asks.

  That’s what I’d originally been thinking; now I don’t know. “Maybe something that flips some genes and changes the way your brain works. A virus that exploits an on/off switch. One controlling violence.” Let’s steer him away from Hyde. “I’m looking for genetic profiles of killers that may suggest a vulnerability to an infection.”

  Figueroa considers this. “Interesting. Very interesting. This sounds a lot like the T-gene project.”

  “Well, yes, but it’s very speculative. I didn’t want to encumber that project any more than it already is.”

  “How many of your lab employees know about this?”

  I think this might be a test to see if either this is a real explanation or there’s a reason that Todd didn’t tell Osman the whole picture. I take a gamble on the latter.

  “I’ve compartmentalized this information. It’s not even on the network. Todd Pogue knows some. Darnell, one of our lab techs, has been running tests. But other than that, I’ve kept the full scope of it secret.”

  “And funding for this?” asks Figueroa.

  “Other than lab time, which has only been a few days, it’s been self-funded.”

  “Self-funded?”

  “I was asked by the FBI to give some advice. It didn’t seem appropriate to use our funding for something that’s their problem.”

  “Right. Right. If they want any more, they should fund you themselves.”

  That’ll happen right after the first snow-cone machine in hell opens for business.

  “Agreed.”

  “Okay. I think I understand now. We can fold this into the T-gene project.”

  “We can?”

  “Yes. Doesn’t it seem obvious that this is related?”

  I guess it does, but I don’t want the two connected, even if it means that I’ll have a little more freedom. After it’s all done, I’ll have to package this and present it to the DoD. God knows what will happen next.

  “There’s been some research into this before,” Figueroa continues. “It showed promise but then didn’t really go anywhere.”

  “It could be another blind alley,” I reply.

  “Okay. Is your fieldwork in Kentucky done?”

  I guess it is. I already have my cameras in place. I’m twitching to check the latest feed. “Yes. Until they catch the bastard. I’d love to get a look at his genome.”

  “I bet you would. Anyway, get your lab back in order. Figure out staffing. And get that pissant out of here as soon as you can.”

  I’m on sketchy legal grounds if I fire Todd. I need to walk lightly and let Figueroa be the one who sends him packing. In the short term, that still means having Todd around the lab.

  “Will do,” I reply.

  Figueroa thinks something over. “Excellent. I’ll need you in Washington in four days to do a formal presentation before the committee. They’ve been hounding me for a progress report. It’s probably better if I let you do the talking. To be honest, I can’t tell which is bullshit and which isn’t, but as long as you show results, I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  “Ha,” I reply. Washington? Fuck my life. This is the last thing I need.

  “And Theo,” he says, using my first name, “as a personal favor, don’t go hunting any more serial killers without telling me. You’re a valuable government asset at this point. I need you out of harm’s way and under the radar.”

  That’s a difficult ask, considering that my handiwork is now being shown on the news around the world.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  FLOUR

  I’m sitting on a stool at the back of Jillian’s small bakery after hours, watching her knead dough. There’s something attractive about the determined look on her face as she works her fingers through the thick paste while flour splashes liberally all around.

  My computer back home is processing the images from Butcher Creek, so I decided for the sake of domestic tranquility to drop in on Jillian.

  “Want to try?” she asks.

  I think it over for a moment. The chemistry of cooking fascinates me. I love watching how Jillian can combine unrelated flavors or ingredients and come up with something that tastes spectacular. Her salted crusts and chocolate crème pie can leave me awake at night. The way she uses just a hint of lemon with her vanilla frosting is a trade secret she’s threatened to kill me over if I ever divulge it.

  As much as I want to step over to the counter and push my fingers through the dough, sliding through the spaces between her fingers as I smell the light lavender bath oil scent on her neck, I decline.

  It wasn’t that long ago that these hands were used to do unspeakable things to dead bodies. The thought of the gore somehow lodged underneath my fingernails, or the fatty oils absorbed into my own pores mixing with Jillian’s pure white dough, is too unsettling.

  The rational part of my mind thinks about all the bacteria and other organic matter that drifts into the things we eat in even the most sterile kitchens, but it’s not the physical aspect that bothers me the most; it’s the acts these hands have taken part in.

  “I’m good. It’s more fun to watch,” I explain.

  “It’s more fun to eat,” she replies, giving me a smile over her shoulder.

  I love the way her ponytail bounces around her neck as she gives me the grin. There’s something so girl-like about her that’s never going to go away.

  Strangely, I can see that smiling face under a Kevlar helmet in the middle of Iraq, still keeping her spirits up even as her friends are dying all around her.

  And when things were at the worst, when she had to bury her husband, I can still see that face carrying a kind of inexhaustible resolve that helped her through the darkest of times.

  Our relationship started as a heat-of-the-moment fling that kept going. My occasional emotional inaccessibility somehow compl
etes that part of her that will never be able to love another man like her husband. My absences and aloofness aren’t so hard on a widow who’s already gone through the most extreme absence a lover can offer.

  Still, I’m afraid of drifting apart from her without realizing it. Like a boat stretching its anchor line to the point that one day it snaps without warning.

  “You know I love you more than anything,” I tell Jillian.

  “I know,” she replies.

  But is that love good enough for her? I’ve made her life as easy as possible. The house is everything she’s wanted. The bakery started as an act of charity on my behalf but turned out to be the opposite.

  She grabs a cherry from a bowl, holding it by the stem, and dips it into some molten chocolate, then lets it cool in the air.

  “I know you have your little projects and plans, Theo.” Jillian walks over to me, dangling the cherry at eye level. “And I know you’re dealing with some dark things.” She raises the cherry to my lips. “Just promise me you’ll let me know before it swallows you whole.” At the last moment, she devours the chocolate-covered cherry.

  “Cruel,” I reply.

  “I don’t know how long this phase is going to last. I’m prepared for it to be forever. I hope not, but I’m prepared for it. I’ve also resigned myself to the idea that one day you’ll stop calling or texting,” she says seriously.

  “I’d never forget about you,” I reply. “I sometimes get lost in my work.”

  “It’s not your work I worry about. It’s that someday you’ll get too close to one of these killers or maybe cross some line you’re not supposed to cross, and then it’s no more Theo.”

  “That sounds pessimistic.”

  “Or realistic? That thing in Kentucky. The Butcher, is that you?”