Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

  ``I do,’’ Brant said, smiling.

  ``Anyway, as I told the other officer, I seen some movement out of my eye. Over there by the CVS pharmacy.’’

  Ray nodded with his head toward the buildings lining Boylston Street. Brant followed his line of sight.

  ``What kind of movement?’’

  ``Some people. First I thought they was going at it. They were so close. The big one, the guy, was holding the other one real tight. Right next to his body, like.’’

  ``What makes you say it was a man? How far away were you?’’

  ``Well, I was standing just about here,’’ Ray said, pointing his finger toward the sidewalk.

  ``And these people. They were next to the CVS pharmacy?’’

  ``That’s right, officer.’’

  ``Hard to get a good look when you’re this far away. How could you tell it was a man?’’

  ``He was big, my brother. That wasn’t no woman.’’

  ``What was he wearing?’’

  Ray shook his head in thought. ``Difficult to say. It was early morning and my old eyes aren’t as good as they used to be.’’

  ``Give me a rough idea. Suit? Leather jacket?’’

  ``One of them hoodies, I guess is what you’d call it. His head was covered. I couldn’t see his face. But the more I looked, the more I could see they wasn’t going at it after all. No sir.’’

  ``What did you think they were doing?’’ Brant asked.

  ``I don’t really know and I wasn’t stupid enough to stick around and find out. I’m a survivor, officer. I’ve lasted long enough out here to know not to stick my nose where it don’t belong.’’

  ``But you’re sure it was just two people?’’

  ``Oh yes, I’m sure about that.’’

  ``Would you recognize the man again if you saw him?’’

  Ray furrowed his brow. ``Well, you understand I never saw his face?’’

  ``I meant the general body type? You’d be able to recognize the man by the shape of his body if you saw him from a distance?’’

  ``Pretty sure I could, yes. He was a big one. Broad shoulders. He wore jeans now that I think about it.’’

  ``So big guy. Early morning. Say four or five?’’

  ``That’s about right, yes.’’

  ``Any idea of the actual date?’’

  ``Well, that’s a good question. What day is it today?’’

  ``Wednesday.’’

  ``In that case, I’d say about a week ago. Maybe a day or two longer.’’

  ``Thank you,’’ Brant said, pulling a twenty dollar bill from his pocket and handing it to Ray. ``Go get yourself something to eat. And stay safe, my friend.’’

  Ray took the bill, his eyes brightening as he fingered the paper. ``God bless you, sir. God bless.’’

  ``See if you can get some CCTV footage, Junior,’’ Brant said as they headed toward Boylston, Ray waving in the background. ``I’m sure there’s a camera around here. Check with headquarters first. They should know. We’ve got a rough idea when the body was dumped. Start reviewing the files a couple hours on each side of the timeframe our friend here just gave us.’’

  ``Think there’s anything to it? Old Ray isn’t exactly the most reliable witness.’’

  ``Just check the footage. And stay in contact with Ray. We’ll need him again if we get a suspect.’’

  ``Where are you going now?’’

  ``I’m going back to school.’’

  Tufts Medical Center was a beacon of hope on Washington Street, a stone's throw from Volodin's haunts. Brant shook his head at the irony.

  He was standing on the sidewalk outside the entrance foyer, baking in the heat of the day. An overhead pedestrian bridge connected the main building with the academic offices where he was headed.

  Young doctors in white lab coats hurried in every direction. Old people in walkers sauntered aimlessly from the parking lot to the entrance. A line of buses crawled along Washington.

  Allison Carswell had been a researcher at Tufts before joining Genepro. Her papers, what little work she'd published, had listed her at the immunology department under the supervision of a woman named Vanessa Singh.

  Singh’s office was on the fourth floor with a view of the sidewalk and a blue-canopied entranceway. A two-meter tall bear sculpted from bronze and wearing a bright red bow balanced three child’s building blocks in one hand while waving at him with the other.

  "Sit down if you can find a place,'' Singh said as she moved a stack of folders to the floor.

  "This shouldn't take long.''

  "I must confess, I was intrigued when you called.''

  Singh smiled. She was in her early forties, with a dark complexion, long black hair and what would politely be called a full figure. She wore a smart cream blouse and black skirt under a white lab coat. She spoke with a soft lilt and a thick accent.

  Her office was typical academic drab. The walls were concrete block painted light green. Framed degrees had been stuck to the walls with sticky tack. Shelves groaned under the weight of dust and the books they held. An ancient computer with a boxy monitor and keyboard smudged with black fingerprints sat atop a simple desk.

  An Indian rug and a wall hanging depicting several scenes from the Kama Sutra served as the only attempts to personalize the space. A ceramic mug of coffee sat on Singh’s desk.

  "You like Indian art?'' Singh said when she caught the direction of his gaze.

  "Ah, that's quite the wall hanging.''

  ``The university tries to get me to take it down. I comply for a day then I stick it right back up. It’s a little game.’’

  Singh smiled playfully at the thought.

  ``It’s not exactly appropriate, is it?’’

  Singh examined the hanging in more detail.

  ``No, I suppose it isn’t. But then, what’s appropriate and who decides?’’

  ``You have a point,’’ Brant said in agreement. ``You remember Allison?’’

  ``Very much so. She was a hard worker. She seemed to love the lab.''

  "How long was she with you?''

  "A year and a half maybe. Perhaps two. It wasn't long.''

  "That explains it.''

  "Explains what?''

  "Explains why she didn't publish very much. I did a quick Internet search of her research. I didn't find much.''

  ``You won't,'' Singh said as she considered the point. "Allison left before she got her name behind any significant work. A pity for her and for her career.''

  ``Why did she leave?’’

  Singh shrugged. ``I don’t know to be honest. I pleaded with her to stay but she seemed determined to move on.’’

  ``Why was that?’’

  ``Who’s to say. She didn’t say much about her private life.’’

  ``So it had something to do with a relationship she was in?’’

  ``I didn’t say that.’’

  ``No, but you implied it.’’

  ``Yes, I suppose I did,’’ Singh said, conceding the point. ``I suspected it, let’s put it that way.’’

  ``What do you mean? Can you be more specific?’’

  Singh brushed something unseen from her lab coat as she straightened her back.

  ``Allison was a typical young woman in most ways. She was young, impressionable, naive, deferential to authority, very conscientious, always accommodating.’’

  ``And yet? There’s something else?’’

  ``Yes, there is,’’ Singh said. ``She was very soft. She seemed quite shy, nervous. I tried to bring her out of her shell and it seemed to be working, but then she started to retreat again. I spent a lot of time with her. I guess you could say I was a kind of mentor. I knew that if she were to have a chance at building a meaningful career, she would have to toughen up, to defend her research and her methods.’’

  Brant described the scene at Copley Square and the condition of Carswell’s body when they’d found her. He also described her apartment, the roommate, the Bible and the gun found by the bedside.<
br />
  ``The Bible sounds like Allison, but the gun and the roommate don’t sound anything like the young woman I knew.’’

  ``What can you tell me about her religious beliefs?’’

  ``Only that she had them. She didn’t make a point of imposing herself on others, but she wore a small St. Benedict crucifix cross pendant so I knew she was devout.’’

  ``That’s a very specific description. How did you know it was St. Benedict?’’

  ``She mentioned it once. We were working late and I commented on it.’’

  ``Oh, what did you say?’’

  ``I told her that it was good she had beliefs, but that if she were to succeed as a scientist, she needed to keep them in check. Of course many scientists are also religious, but I wanted to make sure she understood that any overt displays in the lab could…well…get in the way. I didn’t want that to happen to her.’’

  ``There was a passage she underlined in the Bible we found in her room, this one.’’

  Brant read the lines from his notebook.

  ``Does that mean anything to you?’’

  Singh shook her head. ``Should it?’’

  ``I don’t know. I guess I’m just fishing. Wishful thinking. What about the gun? Did you know she kept one?’’

  Singh made a face as if he’d said something particularly distasteful. ``Not in a million years would I have suspected Allison Carswell of owning a handgun, lieutenant.’’

  ``Why is that? Why so adamant? She was anti-gun was she?’’

  ``Oh, not at all. Not that I could tell anyway. No, it was more to do with her character. As I said before, she was very timid. I suppose it’s possible she owned it for protection, but I’d be very very surprised. She wasn’t that kind of person. She was very soft. Very gentle.’’

  ``You said she was conscientious. Did she miss any work?’’

  ``Not at the beginning, no. But now that you mention it, she began to become a bit more erratic. Toward the end that is.’’

  ``Erratic? What do you mean by that?’’

  Singh reached for the mug of coffee. ``She started coming in late, missing a day here and there. Some of her work became sloppy, like her mind was elsewhere. I got in the habit of reviewing her results to make sure she didn’t make any mistakes.’’

  ``And did she?’’

  Singh nodded. ``A few. The work held up but I knew she was distracted. I assumed it was to do with a young man. It always is, isn’t it?’’

  Brant deflected the question.

  ``Did you ask her about it? About what was bothering her?’’

  ``I did, yes, but she wouldn’t be drawn on it. She was very private that way. She didn’t tell me anything.’’

  ``What about others in the lab. Was there anyone in particularly who might know her on a more personal level?’’

  Singh tightened the line of her lips in concentration. ``Perhaps. There’s a young woman in the Molecular Cardiology Research Institute. I know they were very friendly. Her name is Kyungwha Park. She might be down there today if you’re lucky.’’

  Brant scribbled the name in his notebook.

  ``I’ll stop by on my way out. There’s one other thing. What can you tell me about Allison’s research?’’

  ``You don’t think her work had anything to do with her death, do you?’’

  Brant did his best to look neutral. ``It’s just a line of questioning. We can’t rule anything out at the moment.’’

  ``You said you’d found some of her research online?’’

  Brant nodded. ``She was the co-author on a paper.’’

  ``Electroporation.’’

  ``Yes, that’s it,’’ Brant said, consulting his notebook for good measure. ``What exactly does that mean?’’

  Singh smiled. ``Do you know much about cells or cell membranes, lieutenant?’’

  ``I’m afraid I don’t. Never did manage to stay awake during biology class.’’

  ``You should have. This is the future. Here, let me show you.’’

  Singh took a book from her shelf and began leafing through the pages.

  ``This will give you an idea. See here, this is a cell membrane. Or an approximation of one at least.’’

  Brant took the book. The page Singh had singled out showed a brightly colored drawing labeled to denote a cross section of a human cell. Various labels and arrows pointed to different points on the cross section. He handed the book back to the researcher, no more informed about Carswell’s research than before.

  ``I’ll make it simple,’’ Singh said as she read the blank look on Brant’s face. ``All human cells have a membrane made of lipids and protein. The membrane serves two purposes — to let nutrients in and to let waste out. One of the ways to disrupt the membrane of a cell so that we can introduce a chemical or a drug or DNA is to use a technique called electroporation. We create a small electrical pulse that creates a temporary pore in a cell’s membrane, thus allowing a passageway for something to pass into the cell. It’s quite simple, really.’’

  ``To what end? I mean what’s the purpose?’’

  ``Gene delivery is one use. As I mentioned before, drug delivery also.’’

  ``Do you know of anyone who would want to kill her? Who would benefit?’’

  Singh shook her head. ``All her work was published. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill her.’’

  ``And she wasn’t working on anything else? Maybe something she wasn’t ready to publish?’’

  ``I know everything that goes on in this lab and she wasn’t working on anything else.’’

  ``What about research done on her own time? Something she didn’t tell anyone about?’’

  ``Not possible. I keep very close tabs on the researchers. There’s no freelancing here, I can assure you of that.’’

  ``So you don’t think her death had anything to do with her work here or elsewhere?’’

  ``I wish I could be of more help but I just don’t think it’s possible. Her work wasn’t that sophisticated. She had potential but it would have taken her years to do anything truly revolutionary.’’ Singh’s face turned sombre as she lifted the mug of cold coffee to her lips.

  ``If there’s anything you remember that you think might help.’’

  Brant handed his card as he rose to leave.

  ``Come back tomorrow. See if the university has banned me from hanging my little cultural artifact.’’

  Singh’s eyes twinkled as she glanced in the direction of the Kama Sutra wallhanging. Brant’s eyes focused. He hadn’t noticed the detail before, but now he saw it. Two women in passionate embrace, one kissing and cupping the other’s breasts.

  ''You're the first person I've seen all day. Please sit down.''

  Kyungwha Park smiled broadly as she motioned toward a stool on the opposite side of her lab station.

  Park was about thirty, fair skinned with an oval face and thick black hair pulled into a pony tail. She wore a white lab coat. Large black-framed glasses hid almond-shaped eyes that glittered with intelligence and youthful enthusiasm. She'd smiled broadly when he'd appeared at the doorway to the lab.

  ''This shouldn't take long,'' Brant said by way of introduction.

  ''I was just writing up some lab results. I have time.''

  Park pushed aside a stack of folders.

  ''Don't you use a computer?''

  Park nodded. ''Eventually, yes. I like to compile the data by hand before inputting into a spreadsheet. It's a habit.''

  ''Doesn't that increase the chance of an error?''

  ''Yes, but I also doublecheck each data point before entry. I probably wouldn't do that if I entered it directly into a spreadsheet.''

  ''Fair point.'' Brant smiled, impressed with Park's methodology.

  ''Dr. Singh tells me you were friends with Allison Carswell.''

  ''I guess you could call us that,'' Park said with a shrug. ''Allison didn't really get too close to anyone in the lab. She kept to herself.''

  ''That seems to be a recurring t
heme.''

  ''You sound skeptical.''

  Brant frowned. ''Just a cop's instinct. There was more to Allison Carswell than meets the eye. I'm just wondering why she went to so much trouble to hide away from the people she worked with on a daily basis.''

  ''I don't know. I'm afraid I can't help there. It's not as if we were girlfriends and confided in each other.''

  Brant glanced around the room. The lab had that cold, sterile quality he associated with doctors and dentists everywhere. Maggie had worked in similar surroundings, though she'd used Ben's drawings and paintings to add a touch of warmth to the place. No such attempts had been made by Park or by those who shared her workspace.

  ''Can you tell me anything about Allison? Anything unusual that you think might help the investigation.''

  Park bit the inside of her cheek in concentration. ''I've been racking my brain but I always come up blank. I just can't see how anyone would want to hurt her.''

  ''What about boyfriends? We know she had one. Maybe two.'' Brant took out his notepad, a hopeful gesture meant as a subtle prod.

  As she shook her head, Park's ponytail bounced freely.

  ''Nothing?''

  Park hesitated, just for a moment. Brant's instincts fired.

  ''This won't come back on me will it? I mean this kind of stuff is confidential, right?''

  ''Depends on what you have to say, Ms. Park. If you want to see Allison's killer get what he or she deserves, if you want to protect the lives of other young women who might fall into the same trap, you'll tell us anything you know.''

  Park stared into her hands in thought. ''There was one guy. Good looking. Or at least that’s what she said. She started bragging about him but then she shut down very quickly after that.''

  ''Shut down? What do you mean?''

  ''I can't be certain, but I figured the guy had wanted their relationship to be secret. When Allison started to tell a few people about it, he got pretty mean.''

  ''Mean?''

  Park frowned. ''More than mean. Aggressive. She showed up with a bruise under her left eye one day. She tried to hide it with makeup, but I could tell it was there. I asked her about it and she brushed me aside, said it was none of my business.''

  ''Did you push her on the point?''

  ''I did. I wouldn't let it go. My sister was married to an asshole who regularly beat the shit out of her. I could see the signs. I knew what was going on.''