True Evil (34 page)

Chris was literally speechless. After several moments, he asked, "Was this mouse immune-compromised?"

"No. Perfectly healthy."

"Christ, Peter!"

"What?"

"You basically murdered this mouse by giving it cancer."

"Absolutely. And thousands of human lives will one day be saved because of that murder."

"You're missing my point. What I asked you about on the phone…it's
possible.
"

"Well, in theory, I suppose."

"What about in the real world?"

Connolly took a few moments to consider the question. "I suppose if you had some higher primates to test your work on—or, God forbid, human beings—then, yes, it's possible."

Chris gripped the phone in stunned silence.

"I might be worried," said Connolly, "if it wouldn't cost someone millions of dollars to reach the point where they could murder someone using that method. Not to mention that they'd have to sit pretty goddamn high on the intelligence curve."

"But if they did use that method, they could be sure of getting away with murder?"

Connolly's voice took on a clinical coldness. "Chris, if I used this technology against a human being, I could kill whoever I wanted, and the greatest pathologist in the world wouldn't even realize that a crime had been committed. Even if I told him, he couldn't prove it with the science at his disposal."

A deep shiver went through Chris.

"Hey," said Connolly. "You don't think…"

"I don't know, Pete. You mentioned two possible scenarios in this line, didn't you?"

"Right. The second scenario is far scarier to me, because it requires much less expertise. All you'd need is a hematologist or oncologist with the ethics of Dr. Mengele."

"Go on."

"All you do is modify the process of a certain type of bone marrow transplant. Remove marrow cells from your patient; irradiate or otherwise poison them in the lab, causing your malignancy of choice; then reinject them into the patient."

"What would be the result?"

"A cancer factory powered by the victim's own bone marrow. Exactly the kind of thing you described to me, in fact. A spectrum of blood cancers."

"And no one could ever prove what had been done?"

"Barring a confession, no way in hell."

"Jesus." Chris analyzed this scenario as rapidly as he could. "Would you have to use marrow cells for that? Or could you use cells that are easier to get?"

"Hmm," Connolly mused. "I suppose you could use just about any kind of living cell, so long as it contained the patient's DNA. A hair root or a scraping from the mucosa, say. But marrow cells would be best."

Chris had received too much information to process it efficiently. "Pete, can you tell me anything about the hematology and oncology departments at UMC now? Do you know anything about your replacement?"

"Not much. It's been six years, you know? I left there in a hurry, so they made Alan Benson acting chairman until they recruited a new chief."

"I remember."

"They've got a brand-new critical-care hospital down there. The new hematology chief is named Pearson. He came down from Stanford, where he did some groundbreaking work. They've got a terrific bone marrow transplant program, but they're still a ways from getting their NCI designation, which was always a dream of mine."

"Do you know of anyone at UMC who's working on the kind of stuff we've been talking about?"

"Which stuff? Retroviruses? Bone marrow transplant? Radiation?"

"All of it."

"I don't know of any ongoing retrovirus trials there, but I'm not the best guy to talk to. I'd give Ajit Chandrekasar a call. First-rate virologist, and I was damned lucky to have him. There's another guy there, multiple specialties…I used him for difficult histology and culture stuff. His name was…Tarver. Eldon Tarver. I don't know if he's still around."

"I've got it."

Chris heard a female voice in the background. "They're calling for me, buddy. Did I help you at all?"

"You scared the shit out of me."

"Can't you tell me why you need this stuff?"

"Not yet. But if someone I know turns out to be right, I'll have some reportable cases you can write up for the journals."

Connolly laughed. "I'm always happy to do that. Keeps the research money flowing."

Chris hung up and looked down at his notes. He'd been a fool to resist Alex's theories. She might lack medical training, but she had evolved her hypothesis by observing empirical evidence and had thus come to an improbable but quite possible conclusion. He had discounted her ideas on the basis of professional prejudice, nothing more. He felt like the pompous French physicians who had ridiculed Pasteur when the country doctor claimed anthrax was caused by a bacterium. But Chris wasn't like those doctors. Shown the error of his ways, he would become a zealous convert. After all, his life was at stake.

CHAPTER 28

Alex sat in a low chair opposite the desk of one of the two associate deputy directors of the FBI. One of those deputy directors she considered a friend; the other had long ago revealed himself to be an enemy.

That man was the one she was facing now.

Outside of the Bureau's Washington headquarters, Mark Dodson was said to have been eugenically bred as a bureaucrat. He had spent little time in the field, because he'd set his sights on FBIHQ from the beginning. By judicious use of his family's political connections, Dodson had insinuated himself into the Bureau's halls of power with almost unprecedented speed. He'd honed his skills in the ethically bankrupt, cover-your-ass environment of Washington, until his character consisted only of what remained after countless compromises made not for the good of the service, but for advancement in the Bureau's rigidly delineated hierarchy. His title said it all: Associate Deputy Director, Administration.

Dodson had taken a set against Alex early during her Washington service. She had no idea why this should be so, but in the Byzantine corridors of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, one could never be quite sure why anything was so. After the fiasco at the Federal Reserve bank, Dodson had pushed relentlessly to have her fired. Had it not been for the intervention of Senator Clark Calvert—Alex's staunchest supporter—Dodson might have rammed his agenda through. Today, however, there would be no last-minute charge by the Seventh Cavalry, and Alex had only herself to blame. Dodson stared across his desk with open satisfaction.

"You had a good flight, I trust?"

"Can we not play games?" Alex asked wearily. "Can we just not do that? I'm really too tired."

The good humor instantly left Dodson's face. He leaned across the desk and spoke in a harsh voice. "Very well, Agent Morse. Tomorrow morning at nine a.m. you will meet with three representatives of the Office of Professional Responsibility. Before the interview, you will be ordered to take a drug test. Failure to submit to that test will constitute grounds for dismissal from the Bureau. Failure to answer every question truthfully and fully will also constitute grounds for dismissal. Do you understand?"

Alex nodded once.

"You're not going to skate this time," Dodson went on, prodding her for a reaction.

She gave him nothing.

"I mean, what the hell were you thinking down there?" Dodson asked. "As far as I can tell, you've been carrying on a one-man murder investigation in Mississippi. You've broken so many rules and laws that I don't even know where to begin. You've also influenced serving agents to break rules and laws, and it pains me to say that they have probably done so out of misguided loyalty to you. Do you have any comment, Agent Morse?"

Alex shook her head.

"Is there some purpose to your silence?" Dodson asked with narrowed eyes. "Are you attempting to communicate the fact that you despise me?"

Her eyes flashed. She hoped he could read her mind.

Dodson jabbed a forefinger at her. "You won't look so goddamned high-and-mighty at tomorrow's meeting. You'll be living proof that even blue flamers can crash and burn."

Alex studied her fingernails. Two had broken in last night's struggle. "Are you finished gloating?"

Dodson leaned back in his seat. "Lady, I'm just getting started." He was about to go on when the phone on his desk buzzed. He reached out and pressed a button. "Yes, David?"

"Director Roberts's office just called, sir. The director would like to speak to Agent Morse personally."

Dodson's face tightened. He leaned forward and pressed the button again, then picked up the telephone and said something too low for Alex to hear. She heard him say, "Now? Right now?" Then, as she watched in amazement, Dodson hung up the phone and spoke without meeting her eyes.

"You're to go to the director's office immediately."

She stood and waited for the deputy director to look up at her, but he never did. She left Dodson's office and walked down the hallowed corridor to the office of newly appointed FBI director John B. Roberts.

The director's office was considerably larger than Dodson's. His window overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue, just as J. Edgar Hoover's had done. But Hoover had watched the inaugural parades of seven presidents pass beneath his window, whereas no FBI director since had enjoyed anything like that kind of tenure. Some hadn't even lasted long enough to learn the names of their SACs. Alex wondered how long Roberts would survive.

A dark-haired man of fifty-five, Roberts had been appointed to lead the Bureau after the initial wave of post-9/11 reforms had stalled. His predecessor had spent almost two hundred million dollars on a new nationwide computer system that never worked, while terrorists roamed the country with sacks of cash to keep them off the digital grid. The street buzz on Roberts was good; as a U.S. attorney, he had taken on some of the largest corporations in the country, proving again and again that they had colluded to defraud American consumers and investors.

To Alex's surprise, Roberts wasn't the only senior officer in the room. Seated in a club chair to his left was a ruggedly handsome man of forty-eight, Associate Deputy Director Jack Moran. Moran handled investigations, not administration, and he had been a good friend to Alex during her Washington years, often running interference to keep Dodson off her back. Though there was little that Moran or anyone else could do to save her today, it warmed her heart to see him here.

"Hello, Alex," Moran said. "You look tired."

"I am."

"I don't believe you've met the new director. John Roberts, Alex Morse."

Alex stepped forward, held out her hand, and said, "Special Agent Alex Morse, sir."

Roberts took her hand and gave it a firm shake. "Special Agent Morse, I regret extremely the circumstances in which we now find ourselves. I'm a close friend of Senator Clark Calvert, and I'm well aware of the great service that you performed for his family."

The director was referring to Alex's career-making case, a kidnapping-for-ransom of a U.S. senator's daughter. The Bureau's play had ended in a dangerous standoff in rural Virginia, but after nine hours of nerve-racking negotiation, Alex had talked the barricaded kidnappers into releasing their four-year-old hostage. To preserve the illusion of the invulnerability of government officials, no word of this incident had reached the media, but Alex's career had been kicked into overdrive. Even now, her work that day was paying dividends.

"I've asked you here today," Director Roberts said, "to find out whether there might be mitigating or extenuating circumstances that I'm unaware of—circumstances that might justify your recent behavior."

Alex knew that her amazement showed on her face.

"Please have a seat," said the director. "Take your time and think about my question."

She tried to gather herself, to marshal what arguments there might be in her favor, but in the event she couldn't find any. "I have no excuse, sir," she said finally. "All I can say in my defense is that I'm convinced my sister was murdered, along with at least eight other people." Alex saw Jack Moran's face falling, but she pushed on. "I don't yet have objective evidence to prove these assertions. All my actions over the past few weeks have been directed toward uncovering such proof. Last night I was almost killed by a man attempting to stop my investigation. The Natchez, Mississippi, police department can verify that."

Director Roberts stared at her for some time without speaking. Then he said, "It's my understanding that neither the Mississippi State Police nor the local police departments in the various towns involved believe that any such murders ever took place. That view is supported by our field office in Jackson."

Alex tried to keep all emotion out of her voice. "I know that, sir. But these are not conventional crimes. They are, in effect, very sophisticated poisonings—almost in the sense of biological weapons. The deaths occur so long after the administration of the poison or biological agent that forensic evidence is difficult or even impossible to obtain."

"Weren't some of these deaths the result of cancer?"

"Yes, sir, they were. Six of nine that I know about. But I believe there have been more. Possibly a lot more."

"Alex," Jack interjected in a gentle voice. "You lost your father last December. Your sister died from an unexpected stroke only a month ago. Your mother is dying of ovarian cancer as we speak. Is it just possible—and I say
possible,
mind you—that under this phenomenal amount of stress, your mind has latched onto an explanation that's outside the realm of what's probable?"

She didn't answer immediately. "I've thought about that a lot. It's a reasonable question. But I don't believe that's the case. I also believe that I've identified the next victim of this killing team."

Jack's chin sagged onto his chest.

Director Roberts rubbed his left cheek and spoke in a harder voice. "Agent Morse, I want you to listen to me very closely. I would like you to take a voluntary leave of absence from the Bureau. We'll list your absence as extended compassionate medical leave. During that absence, I'd like you to voluntarily undergo an extensive psychiatric evaluation." Roberts glanced at Jack Moran. "If you will agree to this, I'll cancel the OPR interview tomorrow morning, pending the results of your evaluation. I'm making you this offer because of your exemplary record as a crisis negotiator for the Bureau. But as a condition of this offer, you must here and now agree to"—Roberts looked down at a piece of paper on his desk—"‘cease and desist from all efforts relating to the death of your sister; the attorney Andrew Rusk; your former brother-in-law, William Fennell; and your nephew, James William Fennell Jr.'" Roberts looked up at her again. "You must also agree to terminate all contact with former agents of your acquaintance. Such contact can only damage their careers as well as yours. If you agree to these conditions, termination can be avoided. You might conceivably be reinstated as an agent in good standing in this agency."