Murder Theory Page 20

  “What is it?”

  “I keep thinking of Todd Pogue in my lab. He was trying to steal data right out from underneath me.”

  Jillian’s jaw drops. “Wait . . .”

  “No. No. Todd isn’t Jekyll. I wish he was half as smart. I just mean that science has as many backstabbers as any other industry—maybe more.”

  “Okay. So, who is Jekyll?”

  “He could be a scientist or a lab technician. I can’t be arrogant enough to assume the smartest person in the lab is the one with the PhD. But a scientist with a PhD would have greater access to resources. He could even teach at a small college and have unsupervised lab access.” I enjoy a bit of wistful nostalgia for a time when I had a little more freedom in my teaching lab.

  “You said you searched for research papers on Hyde, right?”

  “Yes.” I shake my head in disbelief. “I’m an idiot. I’m such an idiot.”

  “I know this already. But tell me why you came to that conclusion,” she says.

  “I was searching published papers. Hyde would be the kind of thing studied in secret . . . like my lab. Most of what we do will never end up in a journal—that would be breaking the law. If Jekyll worked for a similar lab . . . or works for one now . . . then I won’t find out about it in PLOS Pathogens. That kind of research would be shoved into a filing cabinet next to Indiana Jones’s Ark of the Covenant.”

  “That’s frustrating,” says Jillian.

  “Except . . .” I snap my fingers. “While the research results may be hard to find, there’s probably one aspect that would be easy . . . if you had the right clearance. The funding proposal.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If it was a government project, they had to ask someone for money at some point. Most likely the Department of Defense. Those records are electronic and go back decades.”

  “Can you access them?” asks Jillian.

  “Oddly enough, I’m supposed to speak at the Pentagon tomorrow and explain my research. If I play nice, they might let me dig around.”

  “Right,” she says. “Unless they decide to arrest you instead.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  PROCESS

  I’m sitting in a conference room in Virginia within walking distance of the Pentagon because in 1957 a backward, agrarian economy that had starved millions of its own population in a state-instigated famine had managed to be the first nation to send a satellite into orbit.

  Until the moment the Soviets sent Sputnik around the world, the United States government paid more lip service than funding to science. While we’d leapfrogged into the twentieth century with the atomic bomb, other grand-scale projects didn’t receive nearly as much attention.

  After scientists and generals explained the military application of rockets and cutting-edge technology to Eisenhower, he decided we’d never be caught behind again. In less than a year, he established both NASA and DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.

  The problem wasn’t really that we were technologically behind; we were simply unfocused. The Redstone booster NASA would use to launch its own satellite and ultimately Alan Shepard into space was originally the Jupiter-C ballistic missile designed under the supervision of Wernher von Braun, the former Nazi rocket scientist we brought to the United States to help develop our ballistic missiles.

  Von Braun and his team could have beaten the Soviets to the punch, but interagency feuding prevented him from using the Jupiter to send an orbital payload in 1956.

  It was because of Sputnik that von Braun finally got to build his dream rocket successor to the Jupiter—the Saturn V, which would ultimately take mankind to the moon and end the space race, for better or worse.

  My place in all this is to explain to the DARPA overseers why my technology is both cutting-edge and, more importantly, worthy of continued funding in light of the gross mismanagement of my lab by yours truly.

  I walked into this meeting expecting to encounter a bunch of General Figueroa clones; instead there are three scientists, an accountant, a colonel, and another general in addition to Figueroa.

  I was relieved to learn that I was one of five meetings today and mine was scheduled immediately before lunch—suggesting that it would be very short or very long.

  Dr. Geraldine Rosen, a DARPA scientist and administrator, starts the meeting. “Dr. Cray, thank you for meeting with us. We wanted to clear up a few questions about your research. We understand that starting a lab very quickly can lead to some problems further down the line, and we wanted to address those today.”

  This is a different turn than I was expecting. I’ve brought a stack of folders with updates on all the projects we’d been working on. I even put more substance into T-gene.

  “Yes, I have to admit I’m a little out of my element.”

  “Our primary concern is the network intrusion you said you had. Can you tell us what may have been compromised? What should we be concerned about?”

  “Lab data, primarily. Any paperwork related to DARPA was kept on a separate server, and I have no reason to believe it was stolen.”

  Rosen looks through a file in front of her. “Lab data? Anything about military operations or field locations where you obtained samples?”

  “No. Definitely not,” I reply.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I keep all of that separate as well. Nobody in the lab has access to that.”

  “And you’re sure you haven’t been hacked?” she asks.

  “I’ve had an independent audit done. The only incident we’re aware of is the one I uncovered.”

  “And you’re positive that was done internally?”

  “Let’s just say that I strongly suspect that’s the case.”

  “And do you have any idea which employee that could be?”

  “I have a suspicion. I’ve given that person nonessential duties while we investigate.” Todd doesn’t know that he’s formally suspect number one, but I’m sure he’s aware of the possibility.

  “Have the FBI been notified of this?”

  “Yes. They’re waiting for the results of our internal security audit.” I’d already spoken with the DC branch of the FBI that handles DARPA security issues. They’re a million miles apart bureaucratically from the ones in Kentucky.

  “But you’re pretty sure who did this? Right?” asks Colonel Ashbrook, next to Figueroa.

  “Very,” I reply.

  “Did you suspect them right away?” he asks.

  “He was my first choice.”

  “Okay, then can you explain to me why you hired someone you didn’t trust?”

  I’m going to put it all out on the table, admit that I’m a horrible boss. “I had to staff up the lab as quickly as possible. I made some mistakes.”

  Figueroa shakes his head. “A big mistake. You know, you should have gone through my office. We can do talent searches and avoid these problems.”

  I wait to reply, letting the silence after his chastisement hang there for a moment. “With apologies, Colonel Ashbrook, your office did recommend the employee. As I said, I was trying to staff up quickly and just went with who you suggested. Todd Pogue was at the top of the list.”

  “Pogue?” he blurts out.

  Uh-oh. There’s a personal connection.

  Figueroa turns to Ashbrook. “You know the man?”

  Ashbrook hesitates, probably deciding it’s not wise to jump on a grenade for his friend at this moment. “I’ve dealt with him in the past,” he replies vaguely.

  “Okay,” says Dr. Rosen. “Please keep us updated on that. Meanwhile . . .” She flips through some notes. “General Figueroa did an on-site inspection and seems happy with progress. Unless anyone has anything else to ask, I believe we’re done.”

  That’s it?

  Figueroa gives me a small nod from across the table when he sees my confused look.

  I guess he told them it didn’t need to be a long meeting.

  Here’s to friends in high places wi
th missiles and guns.

  I stand up and gather my folders while everyone else gets ready to leave as well.

  “Dr. Cray?” asks Rosen.

  “Yes?” I reply.

  “Have time for lunch?”

  I glance over at Figueroa, but he’s in deep conversation with the other general. I’m one tiny cog in whatever machine he operates.

  “Sure.”

  “Excellent. I have food waiting in my office.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  INNER CIRCLE

  Rosen thanks her receptionist for the delivery box and starts opening containers of Indian food on the coffee table by her office couch, then turns her attention to me. “This is the real meeting,” she explains.

  I glance around the office with the glass windows and view of Arlington. It feels strangely exposed.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “The glass has vibration dampeners, and I won’t ask you anything super secret.” She hands me a plate of basmati rice and chicken vindaloo. “Here.”

  “Okay.” I stick a fork into my food and sit back in my chair, not sure where this is going.

  “T-gene? That’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

  “Um . . .”

  Well, this is odd.

  “I mean, your research is fine, but it looks to me like you’re dragging your feet. Wouldn’t you say that’s the case?”

  Damn, she’s sharp. I can’t decide if I’m walking into a trap or not. Considering the fact that I’m sitting on a couch inside her office at DARPA, it’s kind of moot. I’m already inside the trap—the question is whether I’m going to be skinned alive or kept as a pet.

  “I’m not at a point where I think it will be as productive as my other projects,” I reply.

  “I can tell. You’ve only accepted the barest amount of funding for the project. You could probably get twice as much.” She stares at something on her computer screen. “You’re very cautious about everything and quite understaffed. You’re taking on way more supervision than you need to. Don’t you trust your employees?”

  “Besides the one that’s stealing secrets? I guess so . . . I just don’t want to overwhelm them.”

  “Right . . . You know what your problem is, Theo? You’ve been working alone for too long. You don’t know how to run a lab.”

  “Clearly.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t mean it that way. You don’t see the potential here. I’ll let you in on a poorly kept secret: Figueroa loves you. You’re his warrior scientist. And while you think this is all about the projects, what he’s trying to do is back people. Maybe none of this will pan out, but he’s hoping that you’ll come through with something eventually. Already you’ve impressed people with your biome-tracking project. That result could fund a lab ten times your size.”

  The biome-tracking system was a project to monitor where a person had been by analyzing the trace bacteria unique to every person on the planet. It didn’t just tell you who someone was; it could help place where they’d been. While the results from the research didn’t overwhelm me, it was enough for the DoD to have another lab pursue a field version of the procedure.

  Other than answering some questions for them, I never followed up on what happened. I think Rosen is hinting that lab may have turned it into something even more lucrative than I realized.

  “Do you get what I’m talking about?” she asks.

  “Not a clue. Other than I’m an underachiever and a bad manager. I’ll accept both of those.”

  She throws a paper napkin at me. “Wow, Veronica was right about you.”

  “Veronica?”

  “Yeah, Veronica Woodley. She was one of my students. I asked her about you. I asked a lot of people about you. The consensus is either you’re one of the most arrogant people they’ve ever met or the most brilliant. In my experience the combination of the former and the latter implies the latter is the likely case.” She points to me. “I’ve read your stuff. All of it. I haven’t encountered that many minds that can cross disciplines . . . or rather, that can and should.”

  “Thanks?” I reply.

  “Which brings me to the purpose of this meeting and what I’m trying to spell out for you. There’s a very big future for you. That small lab of yours could be a research park. We’re looking to build an interdisciplinary research group that could rapidly tackle problems as well as perform cutting-edge research.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.” Or rather, I’m afraid I know exactly what she’s saying.

  “You could be a director of a much larger lab. You could do whatever the hell you wanted and lend your considerable expertise to a lot of different projects.” She hastily adds, “Management would be handled by people who like doing that. You wouldn’t have the administrative overhead you have now. You’d just be Theo.” She lowers her voice. “Some of the people who fund you know a lot more about what you do outside the lab than you may realize. There have been conversations about how someone like you could be used to speed up certain projects.”

  “Military projects?” I reply.

  “Yes. Intelligence, too. The problem is that these people are a little worried about your extracurricular activities becoming a liability. Having the FBI show up at your doorstep to question you about a serial killer in Kentucky doesn’t look good.”

  I get a knot in my stomach from the realization that she knows a lot more about me than I’m comfortable with. It would make sense, I guess. So far, the government has trusted me with millions of dollars. Apparently, that funding comes with methods of monitoring that I’ve not been aware of.

  Suddenly I become a lot more paranoid. I’ve been careful enough to keep a step ahead of the police . . . well, mostly. But how do I hide from people who have spy satellites and surveillance equipment that I can’t even imagine?

  “Don’t panic,” she says. “You’re interesting because you’re a rogue. We just need to make sure you’re not too rogue. Think about what you could do with your own research institution. We could steer a few low-hanging contracts your way, staff you up, and then throw more interesting problems at you, like Moscow.”

  I think this is what are called golden handcuffs. Big, huge, diamond-studded, golden handcuffs. But not everything adds up. Is the only catch that they want me to stop hunting serial killers? Done. That was never my choice.

  Rosen has an agenda here, but I’m not smart enough to see it.

  “What kind of research?” I ask.

  “You know, the usual. More trackers. Maybe some field systems. I know the DoD is looking for ways to minimize battlefield infections. There’s always interest in viruses . . .” She watches my reaction.

  A cold shiver goes down my spine. This is all about Hyde. They don’t care about the T-gene or anything else. While I may have baffled Figueroa with bullshit, Rosen saw right through it. She probably knows what I told the FBI, too . . . and she was talking to Veronica Woodley. Damn it.

  Part of me wants to run out of the room. But that would be dumb and not get me what I want . . . What is it that I want?

  Jekyll. Full stop.

  He’s out there and becoming a greater danger. While I’m safe in my bubble, eating Jillian’s muffins and handling petty intrigues, he’s killing people.

  Hold on . . . stick to the plan, Theo. You came here because Figueroa ordered you to and because you wanted to find out if the DoD may have been involved with Hyde at some point.

  Rosen may have just opened the door for you. Play it cool. Don’t bust out with, “That sounds great!” She’ll read you a mile away.

  “Fine.”

  “Really?” Her face brightens. “I’d expected a little more hesitation from you.”

  “No. It’s perfect timing. I actually have a side project that could go really big. This works out great.”

  “I’m thrilled to hear this. What project is that?” she asks.

  “It’s an offshoot of T-gene, actually. Virus related.” I pause and shake my head. “The problem is that I’m h
aving trouble finding prior research. I’d really rather not reinvent the wheel.”

  “That’s an easy fix. Are you going to be in DC for a few days?”

  “I can be.”

  “Good. I’ll get you access to the Pentagon research archive. You have the clearance, and I can have a clerk help you find whatever you want. It’s a mess down there, but they know where to look.”

  Unbelievable. Just like that, I’m actually getting access to the Ark of the Covenant.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  THE ABYSS

  A Pentagon escort leads me down the basement hallway and to a nondescript door that has a black plastic sign next to it reading ARCHIVE 8B.

  A soldier sitting at a brown desk that was probably requisitioned while Lyndon Johnson was in office slides a clipboard over and asks me to sign. He then picks up a phone and asks for someone named Mackenzie.

  Two minutes later, a tall man in a sweater-vest greets me at the door. “Dr. Cray, let’s step inside.” He nods to the escort. “I’ll call when he’s ready to go.”

  The door to the archive leads down another bland hallway with occasional flourishes of faux-mahogany paneling—as if the decorator decided that the brief flourishes of faux mahogany would make the underground denizens feel like they had been transported to a magic forest glade.

  I have no idea how people can work down here. As Mackenzie gives a friendly wave to a woman pushing a large cart of files, I realize that the key is getting along really well with your fellow inmates. I’m sure there’s an entire subculture in this part of the Pentagon basement.

  “Dr. Cray,” says Mackenzie, “I hope you brought your reading glasses. We pulled a few files for you. But first, let me give you the rules.” We stop at a door. “That way is the reading room, where your files await. In the event that the wonderfully talented archivists down here didn’t find what you’re looking for, you’ve been given certain privileges to search on your own.”

  He pushes open another door. Inside are rows and rows of metal shelves filled with filing boxes. The corridor goes on so far it almost looks like an optical illusion.