What Lies Behind

by J. T. Ellison

  “Once the plane taxied back and the passengers disembarked, he had multiple opportunities to shoot whomever he wanted. The tarmac was full of people. He was waiting. We’d told Denon to make sure he was last off the plane. I did not engage until it was clear the principal was in mortal danger.”

  At that, Xander leaned forward, caution forgotten.

  “I didn’t shoot until I saw his finger go for the trigger, Mr. Lawhon. I wouldn’t kill a man in cold blood for the fun of it. That’s not how I roll.”

  Lawhon watched him for a moment. “No,” he said softly. “I don’t believe you would. So here’s the deal. We’re going in with a justifiable homicide claim. You were protecting your boss, whose life was in danger, who hired you to look after him. I think that will fly, no problem. If not, we’ll take it up with the judge. He’ll see reason.”

  “Jesus, this isn’t going to go further than this, is it?”

  “You mean to arraignment and a trial? I hope not. It’s going to be up to Grant how far he wants it pursued.”

  “Then let’s get him in here and I’ll give a statement. I’m ready to talk, to explain my side of things. I can’t sit here anymore, pretending all is well with the world.”

  “First, we need to talk about a media strategy.”

  “What?”

  “Regardless of how this goes down, Xander, you’re going to be the lead at the top of the hour on every news channel in the country. Your name and image will be put out there. Like the cops sitting outside this door, half the people will want to congratulate you, half will want you prosecuted. Unfortunately, it’s the latter half who are the most vocal. So we need to be prepared. I want you safe, out of harm’s way and out of a jail cell.”

  “Okay. If you say so.”

  “Good.” Lawhon smiled again. “Now, tell me everything.”

  Chapter 16

  Georgetown University Medical School

  THE MOMENT THEY were given the go-ahead, Fletcher and Sam got into his car and made the short drive to the Georgetown University campus. The dean of the medical school, Dr. Nate Simpson, and Sam’s immediate boss, Dr. Hilary Stag, were waiting for them in the dean’s office.

  Hilary looked genuinely upset; the smile lines around her usually merry eyes were set and grim. The dean looked no better—a happy, rotund man with a white goatee and wire-rim glasses, Sam had always thought he looked a bit like Santa Claus, minus the red suit, but this morning he was frowning and dour.

  What, exactly, had Tommy Cattafi done?

  After the introductions were made, Dean Simpson settled down to business. “No sense beating around the bush. If Cattafi survives, and I do hope he does, despite all of this, you can ask him yourself what he was up to.”

  Hilary crossed her long legs. She was wearing sheer hose that made a shurring noise each time she moved. “He was found in the gross anatomy lab, Samantha. In a state of undress. One of the corpses had been...interfered with.”

  The expression on Fletcher’s face was priceless. Sam wasn’t quite as fazed; it happened, more than people realized. Whether a natural proclivity toward necrophilia, or an attachment formed during the semester, Cattafi wouldn’t be the first student caught diddling a corpse, nor would he be the last.

  “Why wasn’t I told about this?” Sam asked. She was teaching a new class of forensic gross anatomy to the first years. It was part of the new pathology program.

  “It wasn’t in your lab, to start with—it was Dr. Wilhelm’s. And we chose to handle it internally because we had no real evidence that the boy had been doing anything of a...sexual nature.”

  “Then why was he undressed?” Fletcher asked.

  “We asked Mr. Cattafi the same thing. His shirt was unbuttoned—we asked why. He refused to answer.”

  Sam sat forward in her chair. “If it wasn’t sexual, Hilary, what exactly was he caught doing? You need to tell us everything.”

  The dean glanced at Hilary, then nodded.

  “Please understand, we must ask that you keep this confidential. If word got out, it could severely damage the reputation of the school.”

  Fletcher started to say something, but Sam put a hand on his arm. “No problem. We’ll keep this just between us, unless it becomes absolutely necessary to the investigation. Deal?”

  “He was taking tissue samples from the reproductive organs, the brain, the heart, the liver. We saw this on film, of course, after he was caught. When the janitor walked in on him, Mr. Cattafi’s bags were packed, his shirt was open and he had a needle in Mr. Anderson’s vas deferens.”

  Sam saw Fletcher glance at his crotch and bit back a smile.

  “How new to the program is Mr. Anderson?”

  “I believe he arrived only a few days before the incident.”

  Fletcher looked blank. Sam said, “We use fresh cadavers. There is a regular supply.”

  “I see,” Fletcher said, grimacing.

  “Was Cattafi going after sperm, do you think?” Sam asked.

  “I don’t know,” the dean said. “Why would he be?”

  “I’m wondering, Dean, if Cattafi was as advanced as everyone says. Perhaps he was simply experimenting.”

  “Or he’s some sort of freak, and we didn’t weed him out early enough.”

  Hilary put a hand on the dean’s arm. “I hadn’t thought of it before, this situation has been so alarming and unsettling. But I think Samantha might be on to something. I knew Thomas. He didn’t strike me as the aberrant type. He was very interested in stem cells and regeneration. He’d done work in the field, even landed a plum internship last summer at Stanford in their Regenerative Medicine program. He’s interned for several prestigious firms.”

  The dean was anything but mollified, but he backed down. “Be that as it may, as I said before, Mr. Cattafi refused to speak to us about the matter. We told him if he didn’t defend himself, he’d be expelled, and he simply shook his head and shrugged. I found it highly perplexing. Mr. Cattafi was one of our finest students. He had another two years of research ahead before he came back for his clinical work, yes, but I have no doubt he would have graduated at the top of his class when all was said and done. He already had offers from research teams, from residency programs—the Pasteur Institute wanted him. He was something special, and everyone who came in contact with him knew it.”

  “I’ve been hearing this all morning. What exactly was so special about him?” Sam asked.

  The dean scratched his chin. “He is...a genius. Ahead of his time. Conceptually, experimentally. As Dr. Stag said, he had a fascination with regeneration—of cells and tissue, but eventually, whole body. He was applying his talents to a cancer vaccine, and from what I know, was damn close to having a breakthrough. He believed he would eventually conquer death itself, and I have to tell you, Dr. Owens, I believed him. If anyone could, it was Thomas Cattafi. The boy’s as talented as any I’ve seen in my tenure at this school.”

  “Yet you kicked him out.”

  The dean’s face whitened, his hand gripped the arm of his chair. “I had no choice. He refused to defend his actions, to explain his rather unorthodox situation. And now he’s been stabbed, and might not live. Trust me, Dr. Owens, I’ve been rethinking my decision since the day it happened.”

  Fletcher closed his notebook, crossed his legs, spoke conversationally. “Between us chickens, do you have any idea what Cattafi would be doing with cholera and E. coli and a few other unsavories in a refrigerator at his house?”

  They both looked startled, and Sam knew that was news. It started her thinking, though. From all she’d heard, it sounded as if Cattafi was stealing tissue samples, bone marrow and semen and the like, not trying to get his jollies with the corpse. If he believed in regeneration, maybe, just maybe, he’d hit on something that he thought could be used to prevent the illnesses he had
in his refrigerator. Or something in his cancer work was applicable to the pathogens he had.

  Dr. Frankenstein.

  You’re making leaps again, Owens. Keep that to yourself. You’re not in a bloody science-fiction film.

  “Did Thomas have any benefactors here in town? People who were helping him, off campus?” she asked.

  Hilary nodded. “He’d recently accepted a fellowship with David Bromley, at GW’s med school. They were in Africa until just before the semester started. You know we’ve been working hard to cross-pollinate the two universities for a massive International Medicine program. Bromley took one look at Cattafi and began his seduction. From all accounts, they were inseparable.”

  “What’s Bromley’s specialty?” Sam asked.

  “Virology,” Hilary answered. “He’s one of the preeminent virologists in the world.”

  Sam’s mind started spinning. Maybe she wasn’t as far off as she’d first thought.

  Fletcher glanced at his watch. “I hate to do this, but we have another meeting. Thank you so much for your time. I will do my best to respect your wishes about keeping this incident private, but please understand, if it becomes necessary, I will have to include it in the files.”

  The dean stood and extended his hand. “We understand, Lieutenant. Thank you for coming.”

  Hilary rose, as well. “Samantha, Stephanie and I would be happy to cover your classes for the next couple of days, if you need to see to this.”

  Sam was tempted to protest, but knew it would be for the best. Between this and Baldwin’s new cases, she might just be out of pocket for a little while.

  “Thank you, Hilary. That would be a great help.”

  * * *

  The rain had pushed through by the time they finished. The skies were lightening in the west. A fresh breeze swept Sam’s hair off her shoulders. Virology, an undercover FBI agent, a student playing with fire. Fletcher’s instinct had been right on the money—there was something more here than met the eye.

  As they walked back to the car, Sam said, “I’m beginning to see a story emerge that makes sense, at least on Cattafi’s side.”

  “Yes. Genius doctor does freaky stuff to bodies, news at eleven. So now we just need to figure out what he was doing with Amanda Souleyret and a fridge full of pathogens. You said you needed to stop by your place, look at your files. Let’s head to your house next, then.”

  She shook her head. “No, that’s all right. It was my imagination. Guess I won’t make much of a profiler, after all. Cattafi was the target, I’m sure. With all the stuff in his fridge, his connections to Bromley, his bizarre actions—someone wanted something he had. Either Souleyret was in the wrong place at the wrong time...”

  “Or she brought him the pathogens and was going to take whatever he stole from the bodies in the lab.”

  “Or that. We do need to find out where his lab was, visit this Bromley fellow at GW. And Souleyret...I don’t know, Fletch. Let’s get to the briefing, see if we can’t flesh her out a bit. Victimology always helps. We just need more information.”

  A lot more.

  “Your wish is my command.”

  She smiled. “Careful. I might start wishing all sorts of unsavory things, and then you’ll be in trouble. Tell me, the girls who found him. What’s their story? Do you think they’re telling the truth? What were they really doing there in the middle of the night?”

  “The kid claimed it was a booty call,” Fletcher said.

  “And you believe her?”

  “I do. She was drunk enough last night that her belligerence rang true.”

  “So he’s a popular guy with the ladies.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Is Lonnie the lead on this?”

  “Hart? Hell, yes. He’ll keep me informed as things change. You know how this goes—he’s in the information-gathering stage. We’ll have a better idea of who this cat was, and what the woman was doing there, and why Cattafi had a fed die in his apartment when we get out of this meeting with State, I’m sure.”

  Sam stared out the window, unseeing. Nothing made sense right now. She forced away the small thrill of excitement that went through her, recognizing an adrenaline burst at the idea of a case.

  You’re hopeless, Owens. You’re turning into a regular Miss Marple.

  She realized suddenly that she was incandescently happy at the thought.

  Chapter 17

  McLean, Virginia

  ROBIN DRESSED CAREFULLY, very proper D.C. in a black skirt, white silk top, cropped black jacket, pumps. She twisted her blond hair into a knot at the base of her neck, put a Glock .27 in a shoulder harness, nestled under her arm. Felt like she was dressing for a funeral, which, in a way, she was.

  The drive into the city would only take fifteen minutes; she was just over the Potomac on Chain Bridge Road. The Gold Coast, they called it, for good reason. The real estate along the Potomac had always been pricey; in the past fifteen years, it had ballooned comically. A buyer would be hard-pressed to find anything without six zeroes on the end of the list price on her street.

  She, lucky girl, had not the money for the area, but rented a cottage on the grounds of a larger home. Something simple, easily managed. She wasn’t one for big responsibilities. Though she always felt an odd qualm as she drove off the grounds, as if she was driving past a country club she wasn’t allowed to join. Her landlords were friends, a French couple she’d met in Algiers who’d been stationed in D.C. during the nineties. When he retired, they kept the house, all eight bedrooms and twelve bathrooms of decorated-to-the-hilt glory. As was common with their kind of people, wanderlust kept them on the road continuously, and the D.C. house remained largely unoccupied, which Robin thought was a shame. It should be filled with kids screaming and their friends hanging out and secrets, a miasma of colors forming a life, a home.

  François and Jacqueline had invited her in with open arms, and she appreciated knowing she could have a safe, secure place in their forested backyard, her own aerie overlooking the churning brown waters of the Potomac.

  Being back in D.C. was in and of itself a good thing, though she missed her old life, missed waking to strange, spicy smells, the sharp metal of guns and shimmers of cobalt and roan in the air. She liked not knowing what the sunrise would throw her way. Liked being off balance. That’s where she operated best, on the screaming, bleeding edge.

  She’d lost a step after the bombing.

  She hadn’t wanted to admit it. But when she’d recovered and the wounds knitted, she’d gone out on her first mission, something easy—a quick assassination, intelligence already gathered, a target needing to get dead right away. It was designed to get her back in the saddle, and instead she’d frozen halfway through when an unexpected surface-to-air missile roared overhead, left herself exposed, lying stock-still in the sand like a wounded deer—Red! Red! Red!—unable to pull the trigger. Through the scope, she watched her target get into his truck and drive away, whistling. The moment was lost, the mission parameters unmet, the intelligence, hours and hours of work, squandered.

  She’d requested leave. It had been granted. And she red-assed it back to D.C. to her little cottage on the river and didn’t come out for months.

  Until Riley Dixon had come banging on her door, sick of hearing her excuses, and started the colors again.

  She smiled a little thinking of the row they’d had that night, which had ended horizontally. Then she remembered Mandy, stopped smiling. Got behind the wheel of her black Lexus—a hybrid, not out of any love for the environment, but so she could drive the D.C. area HOV lanes unencumbered by extra passengers—and set off into the city.

  Logic dictated she go to the cops immediately, identify herself as the victim’s grieving sister. Find out the details, the smallness of her sister’s last moments, her last brea
ths. Start putting answers to why into the ether.

  She’d go to Amanda’s place first, then go see the cops.

  Because she was a coward now.

  * * *

  Capitol Hill was already teeming with life, gazellelike interns in stilettos running the last two blocks from the Metro to their offices under the appreciative glances of the black-clad police, armed with M4s, standing sentry on every corner; men in blue suits and bow ties and horn-rimmed Wayfarers walking with purpose; taxis speeding by; tourists and locals all mixing it up on the sidewalks. She cast a longing glance at the Hawk and Dove bar as she drove by, ever a favorite of her people.

  A few more turns and she was away from the commotion and into the more residential area off Constitution Avenue.

  Amanda’s town house was a three-story shotgun on Lexington Place, with a small plot in front that served as a landscaped garden. The house boasted a tiny porch, and a one-car garage in the back. Robin took a lap around the block to see if anything felt off, then went down the alley and parked in the driveway. The place was quiet; the young men who rented from Mandy were surely already off to work. She didn’t see anything unusual, other than an overlay of dew on the small back deck, like the neighbor’s sprinklers had run. It was threatening rain but it hadn’t started yet.

  Which was odd. It was late September. What little grass the neighbors had wouldn’t be around much longer. Why waste money trying to keep it alive for another few weeks?

  She stepped closer to the fence to glance over, was met with the sudden barking of a dog, deep and throaty. Ah. That’s why. Someplace for Rover to squat.

  Reading something into the dewdrops, Robbie. That’s why you’re out of the field.

  She edged up onto the back deck and inserted her key in the lock. Waited a moment, then slipped inside and closed the door behind her.

  It was too quiet.

  It didn’t smell right.

  No coffee dregs. No breakfast dishes in the sink. The air was stale and old, and very, very cold.