True Evil

by Greg Iles

  “What is it?” Chris groaned.

  “I just saw Dr. Tarver. I was in the elevator with him yesterday and didn’t even know it.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In his office. You almost done?”

  “Yeah. Don’t talk to him without me.”

  “Hurry, Chris.”

  She shut the door and went back down to Tarver’s leg of the hall. His door was still closed. She was tempted to knock, but what excuse did she have to start a conversation? The only thing they shared was facial disfigurement. The guy would think she was coming on to him.

  “Okay,” Chris said, rounding the corner with a pale, clammy face.

  “Can you make it?”

  “I think so.”

  She turned to the door and knocked hard, but there was no answer. She waited, then knocked again. No response.

  “He’s gone?” she said. “That’s weird.”

  “Why? I’m sure he just—”

  “Oh, hello,” said the now familiar bass voice. “What can I do for you?”

  Chris held out his hand. “Dr. Tarver, I’m Chris Shepard, an internist from Natchez.”

  Dr. Tarver shook his hand. “Have you come to see me?”

  “I suppose so. Pete Connolly recommended you as an expert on oncogenic viruses, and specifically retroviruses.”

  Tarver looked surprised. “I’m not sure I would put myself forward as that. I hold several degrees, but I’m not board-certified in virology.”

  “Nevertheless, both Pete and Dr. Pearson seem to think you’re quite knowledgeable in the area.”

  “I do have quite a bit of practical experience.” Dr. Tarver looked at Alex. “And you are…?”

  “Nancy Jenner. I’m Dr. Shepard’s chief nurse.”

  Dr. Tarver’s eyes twinkled. He looked at Chris and said, “I envy you.”

  Chris cut his eyes at Alex, but she ignored him.

  “Why don’t we step into my office?” Tarver said, glancing at his watch. “I have about five minutes before I’m due somewhere.”

  He admitted them to an office much less spacious than the one occupied by Dr. Pearson. Bookshelves lined three of the four walls; the fourth was studded with framed photographs, many of them black-and-white. Tarver was older than she’d thought, Alex realized. There was a picture of him with President Richard Nixon; Nixon was pinning something on his chest. Another showed Tarver standing in front of a familiar-looking building with a long banner hanging over its entrance: FREE AIDS TESTING TODAY. In one picture Tarver was surrounded by emaciated black children, all reaching for him as though he were Albert Schweitzer. Alex studied the photos while Chris questioned the doctor.

  “A cluster of cancers in Natchez, you say?” asked Tarver. “I wasn’t aware of that. Natchez is in Adams County, correct?”

  “Yes. Blood cancers, specifically,” said Chris. “Several local doctors are starting to wonder if these cases might have a common etiology.”

  “A viral etiology?”

  “Well, we don’t know. I was thinking radiation exposure, but we can’t pin down a common source. Most of the patients work at different places and live in different parts of town.”

  “Which militates against an environmental cause, as well,” said Tarver.

  “That’s how I got onto the virus angle. I know that several cancers have been proved to have a viral etiology, or at least a viral mediator.”

  “That’s more true in animals than humans. I can’t think of a single case in which a virus has produced a cluster of cancers.”

  Chris looked surprised. “Surely there must be some cervical cancers like that, in urban areas with a high degree of sexual promiscuity?”

  Tarver nodded in surprise. “I’m sure you’re right. But those studies haven’t been done. The process of viral oncogenesis is a long one. Decades long, in some cases. It’s not like tracking a herpes epidemic. You could be in the midst of an HPV epidemic and not even know it. In fact, in some places I think we are. Sexual promiscuity is one of the best things that ever happened to the virus as an organism. In the Darwinian sense, I mean.”

  Alex was moving from photo to photo on the office wall. The birthmark made it easy to pick out Dr. Tarver, even in large group shots. Though it wasn’t technically a birthmark, she remembered. It was something to do with malformed arteries and veins. As she studied the pictures, a fact she’d learned back at Quantico bubbled to the forefront of her mind. Many serial murderers suffered from some physical deformity that set them apart during their childhood. It was crazy to suspect Tarver, of course—a guy she had simply gotten onto an elevator with—and yet…he certainly had the sophisticated knowledge that their high-tech murders would require. And there was something about him, a quiet forcefulness and logical precision that made him seem capable of decisive, maybe even extreme, action; whereas Matt Pearson seemed more conventional.

  Chris was speaking medical jargon now, an esoteric version far above her level. As his voice droned on, one photograph caught Alex’s eye. In it, Dr. Tarver and a man wearing an army uniform stood on either side of a beautiful blond woman. Behind them stood a fortresslike building with a sign on its front that read VCP. The breast of Tarver’s lab coat bore the same legend: VCP. Tarver was much younger in the photo, with a full head of hair and no beard. The military officer reminded Alex a little of her father. And the woman…she had that brainy look like the models in magazine ads for saturation language courses, the ones that made businessmen think they could get laid overseas if only they would learn a little French.

  At the first pause in the conversation, Alex said, “What’s VCP?”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Dr. Tarver.

  “In this photo, you’re wearing a coat that says VCP.”

  “Oh.” Tarver smiled. “That stands for the Veterans’ Cancer Project. It was something the government sponsored in conjunction with the NIH and some private corporations, to look into the high incidence of cancer in combat veterans.”

  “What era?”

  “Late Vietnam. But we were seeing a lot of men from World War Two and Korea as well. Pacific-theater vets, mostly. That island fighting was hell, days of shelling, a lot of flamethrower use.”

  “No Agent Orange?”

  “Sadly, no. No one was talking about that back then. Mainly because the incubation period of the cancers caused by that compound is so long. As I was saying about viral etiologies. Same problem.”

  Before Alex could ask another question, Chris said, “Do you retain blood samples from patients who’ve died on the oncology ward?”

  This question made Alex’s pulse race, but she turned away and went back to looking at the photographs. Some of “her” victims had died in this very hospital. If their blood had been preserved, might it be possible to discover some common carcinogen that would prove mass murder?

  “I know it’s done in some research centers,” Chris went on, “so that new information can be gained after new testing technology is developed.”

  “I know the pathology lab retains all specimens for ten years. We probably retain samples of blood and neoplastic cells in some cases. You’d have to talk to Dr. Pearson about that.”

  “I could give you a list of the patients we’re concerned about,” Alex said.

  Dr. Tarver gave her an accommodating smile. “I suppose I could pass that on to Dr. Pearson for you.”

  Struggling to mask her excitement, she walked to his desk and took a pen from a silver cup there. “May I write on this prescription pad?”

  “Of course.”

  Supremely conscious of Chris’s eyes on her, Alex wrote the name of each person she believed to be a victim of the killers they sought, excepting those who had not died of cancer.

  “This may sound a little nuts,” Chris said, “but I’ve been wondering if it’s possible that someone might be purposely inducing cancer in human beings.”

  Alex looked up from her list. Dr. Tarver was staring at Chris as though he had suggeste
d that priests might secretly be killing babies during baptisms.

  “Did I hear you correctly, Doctor?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “That’s one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever heard. What makes you suggest something like that?”

  “Intuition, I guess. Nothing else seems to explain these cases.”

  Dr. Tarver gave him an understanding look. “That’s frequently the case with cancer, specifically blood cancers. They remain some of the most enigmatic and intractable opponents we face.”

  “The other thing,” Chris said in a Will Rogers drawl—his version of Columbo?—“is that all these patients were married to wealthy people who wanted to divorce them.”

  Tarver looked incredulous. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “Are you suggesting that someone is murdering people by giving them cancer?”

  “More than that. I think it’s a doctor.”

  Dr. Tarver laughed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to say to that. Do any law enforcement authorities agree with your hypothesis?”

  “Yes,” Alex said sharply. She wasn’t sure why Chris had gone this route, but she wasn’t about to leave him twisting in the wind. “Dr. Tarver, I’m actually a special agent of the FBI. And I can tell you that the Bureau is looking deeply into these cases.”

  “May I see your identification?”

  Alex reached for her back pocket, then froze. She had never felt so ridiculous in her life. It was like having her credit card denied, only the embarrassment was magnified a thousandfold. “I left my ID at the hotel,” she said lamely.

  Dr. Tarver was looking at them with obvious discomfort. “I’d like to do all I can to help you, Dr. Shepard. But I must tell you, if Dr. Pearson knew that this visit had anything to do with legal matters, he would be very upset. I should terminate this interview until we can continue it on an official basis.” He looked at his watch. “Besides, I’m late for my meeting.”

  He gathered up some papers from his desk, then ushered them to the door. Once they were in the hall, he locked the door, said “Good day,” then hurried down to the elevators.

  “I don’t know why I did that,” Chris said, walking slowly up the corridor.

  “A shot in the dark is better than nothing,” said Alex.

  “Not always. Once Pearson hears about that conversation, I’ll be persona non grata at this institution.”

  “Not if you really refer that many patients up here. Money talks, brother. And my mother’s a patient. They can’t kick me out.”

  Chris angled toward a bench opposite the elevators and collapsed on it. Dr. Tarver had already vanished. Probably into Dr. Pearson’s office.

  “Are you all right?” Alex asked.

  “I don’t know. I need to get back to the hotel, at least until my stomach settles down.”

  “That’s fine with me. I need to charge my phone.” She pressed the elevator button. “What do you think about Tarver?”

  Chris shrugged. “Typical specialist. That AV anomaly on his face is bad.”

  She nodded. “He gives me a weird feeling.”

  “He wants to get into your pants.”

  “Not that.”

  Chris chuckled as though it hurt to laugh. “I know what you mean. But we’re just desperate.”

  The bell dinged, and the elevator opened.

  Chris had already boarded the car when a thought struck her. “You go ahead. I’m going back to ask Dr. Pearson something.”

  Chris held the door open. “What?”

  “It’s stupid, really. I’m just being OCD. Wait for me downstairs.”

  “Tell me, damn it!”

  “In one of Dr. Tarver’s photos, he’s standing in front of a building with a sign that says FREE AIDS TESTING. It looked familiar to me. I think it was a restaurant in downtown Jackson that my dad used to take me to when I was a kid. We’d have breakfast there. It was called Pullo’s. I just want to know if I’m right.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yeah. And I want to know why they were testing for AIDS there. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Chris started forward.

  She gently pushed him back into the elevator. He was so weak that he could hardly stay on his feet. “I’ll be right down. Sit on a bench and wait for me.”

  He sagged against the elevator wall. “Okay.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Eldon Tarver stood behind the trunk of a large oak tree, his eyes locked on the entrance of the new adult critical-care hospital. He had watched Shepard emerge into the cloud of smoke generated by the patients and nurses getting their nicotine fixes outside the entrance, then retreat back into the building. Where was Morse? Was she canvassing the faculty? Or was she at this moment recounting specific suspicions to Dr. Pearson? Eldon wasn’t afraid, but the part of his brain that handled threat assessment was lit up like a small city.

  He couldn’t go back to his office. Nor could he return to his house. Even going back to the primate lab was a risk…but it was one he had to take. He doubted that anyone had the Noel Traver alias yet. He didn’t see how they could. But then how had they gotten this far? Rusk, he thought angrily. A stupid fucking lawyer, what else? Eldon congratulated himself on yesterday’s decision to pull out early. Fate had revealed that it was not early at all.

  It was very late.

  The conversation with Morse and Shepard was one of the most remarkable he had ever experienced. Not only had he murdered Morse’s sister, but Shepard…Shepard was a walking dead man! Yet there he’d stood, questioning a specialist with his pathetically inadequate knowledge of medicine. Eldon wondered if Shepard knew he was doomed. If he didn’t, he would soon. But unlike the other victims, who believed they’d been randomly selected by fate for premature death, Shepard would know that the cancer devouring his body had been placed there by another human being. By his wife, in fact—or at least at her request.

  Of course, the cancer did not yet exist. Eldon had simply initiated a cascade of events that, left unchecked, would terminate in carcinogenesis on the cellular level. And no one was going to stop that lethal cascade for Chris Shepard. Because the only man alive who could do so was Eldon Tarver. And for Eldon, Shepard’s death represented valuable research data. Alive, Shepard was useless, and in conjunction with Alex Morse, possibly even dangerous.

  Eldon needed to speak to Edward Biddle.

  He couldn’t risk using his cell phone; the FBI might already be monitoring it. But problems like this were easy to solve. Under a stand of trees twenty yards away stood a small knot of nurses greedily smoking cigarettes. He recognized two from Oncology. With a quick glance at the hospital entrance, he crossed the open ground and addressed the smaller of the two nurses, a short-haired brunette who had always greeted him in the halls.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “My cell phone died, and I need to make an emergency call. It’s about a patient. Would you mind if—”

  The nurse was already handing him her phone.

  “Thank you,” Eldon said with a grateful smile. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  He punched in the number of Edward Biddle’s cell phone. The phone rang and rang, then kicked him to voice mail. Dr. Tarver hung up. Was Biddle not answering because he did not recognize the number? Was there some problem because he was airborne? That was unlikely, since he was almost certainly in a corporate aircraft. Or was there some deeper problem? Eldon dialed the number once more and got the same response.

  Cursing inwardly, he gave the phone back to the nurse, then hurried across the grass to his car. He would have to risk meeting Biddle at their original rendezvous. He didn’t like the idea, but when he thought back to the demeanor of Morse and Shepard in his office, he felt that the worm had not quite turned. If they had anything concrete on him—or more important, if the FBI were handling this officially—they would have played it differently. He looked back over his shoulder as he walked. Morse and Shepard had st
ill not emerged from the hospital.

  Alex put on a smile and pushed open the door of Dr. Pearson’s office. The beehive lady was still at her post, but the door to the inner office was cracked open.

  “Hello again,” Alex said. “I forgot to ask Dr. Pearson one question.”

  The secretary did not hide her irritation. “I think it’s better if you call with it.”

  Alex raised her voice, trusting to Pearson’s goodwill. “It’s just one question, nothing medical at all.”

  Dr. Pearson poked his head out of his door, like a curious cat, though not so sleek. “Hello again.”

  He’d at least remembered her face. “Yes, I was actually talking to Dr. Tarver a moment ago. He invited us into his office—”

  Beehive lady snorted.

  “—and he had some very interesting pictures on his wall. I grew up in Jackson, and one of them is really bugging me.”

  Pearson looked perplexed. “Well, I grew up in California, so I doubt—”

  “It’s a long building with glass windows, and it says FREE AIDS TESTING on a banner in front. It looks like a restaurant my dad used to take me to when I was a little girl.”

  Pearson’s eyes lit up; he was genuinely happy to be able to help. “Yes, of course. That used to be Pullo’s restaurant, until Dr. Tarver bought it.”

  A fillip of excitement went through Alex, almost déjà vu, but slightly different. “Dr. Tarver bought Pullo’s?”

  “Yes, about four years ago, I believe.”

  “I’ve been living in Washington, D.C., for quite a while now.”

  “I see. Well, Eldon wanted a site that would be easily accessible to the indigent residents of the city, the homeless, the poor children, the medically underserved.”

  “Easily accessible for what?”

  “His clinic. It’s a free clinic for the poor.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “Dr. Tarver gives a great deal of time to that clinic. He tests for many of the common viruses that afflict the lower socioeconomic classes: AIDS, hepatitis C, the herpes family, human papillomavirus, all that stuff. He treats them as well. He’s won a lot of grants. Of course, the records of his work are quite valuable in a statistical sense.”