Mysterious Circumstances

by Rita Herron

He grabbed her, yanked her back. “No, Olivia!”

  “I have to see him. He might still make it!” Shoving him with all her might, she pushed past the police through the front door and into the foyer where she’d greeted her father so many times. The familiar details of the house registered—the same yellowed walls, the oak rolltop desk, the potted plant she’d given him for Christmas, now dead.

  Then she spotted him lying on the faded beige carpeting. Face up, his jacket was open, his mouth gaping, his eyes glazed over in death. Blood splattered the floor, the walls, the charcoal gray suit he always wore, even his hands. A shotgun lay beside him, blood dotting the barrel.

  The room spun. The stench of death and foul body odors assaulted her. The reality that this wasn’t a story she was working on, but her own flesh and blood, hit her.

  Mindless of what she was doing or saying, she dropped to her knees and cradled his hand in hers. “Daddy, please don’t die,” she whispered. “Please. I need you.”

  But the limp hand that met hers told her it was too late. Her father was already dead.

  A FEW MOMENTS LATER, guilt churned at Craig as he dragged Olivia from her father. The EMT had already checked for a pulse while the police secured the scene and the CSI team rushed in.

  He’d known Thornbird was behaving oddly, but hell, the man was strange, eccentric, had wanted to work on the case so much that he’d literally thrown himself into the job 24/7. Thornbird had never mentioned suicide though.

  Or had Craig missed the signs?

  Olivia’s sobs finally quieted, but the glazed shock and pain in her eyes cut him to the bone.

  “I’m sorry, Olivia.” He rubbed her back to calm her, then gestured toward the kitchen which was visible from the small den but far enough to get her away from the body. “Come on, let’s sit down.”

  She swayed as he guided her to a kitchen chair. Braced for another assault, Craig reached inside the battered cabinet, found a glass and filled it with tap water, then pressed it into her hand. “Drink this.”

  She obeyed, her acquiescence a definite sign of her devastation. Craig zeroed in on the details of the house. It smelled old and musty, as if it hadn’t been cleaned in ages. Haphazard piles of notes, medical magazines and journals cluttered every conceivable space. The furniture in the house looked Early American, all in golds and avocados, an obvious indication that Thornbird didn’t value material wealth. He guessed the furniture had been early marriage. Other odors permeated the stale air—cigarette smoke, perspiration and rotting food. Fruit flies swarmed around two blackened bananas, and a dead fly floated in a glass of milk that had soured.

  In the den, he spotted a yellowed photograph of Thornbird and a woman he assumed to be his wife. The woman had burnished copper hair instead of Olivia’s gold, and it was straight, not wavy, but those killer blue eyes came from the same gene pool. The first picture was of their wedding. The next, the couple held an infant, obviously Olivia, in their arms, as they stood beside a faded green Chevrolet. Thornbird looked happy, content, so much younger that Craig barely recognized him.

  The Thornbird he knew had empty eyes, and he’d never smiled. A strangled sound caught in Olivia’s throat as she set the glass on the table, then she looked up at him with tears pooling in her baby-blue eyes.

  “You got him involved in this,” she said in a choked voice. “He got sick because he was investigating that rash for you, didn’t he?”

  He swallowed, aching for her, yet unwilling to show it. “I can’t talk about the case.”

  She grabbed his shirt and shook him. “This is my father we’re talking about, Agent Horn, not some anonymous stranger. He was working for you, and that job killed him.”

  Craig couldn’t reply without compromising his casehe couldn’t argue with her, either.

  Most people thought he was a coldhearted bastard. The Iceman, his co-workers called him.

  Olivia thought the same, too. But he had to be the Iceman in order to do his job.

  Just like he’d have to live with the guilt and the anguish in her eyes the rest of his life.

  Chapter Two

  As Craig checked on the progress of the investigation, his head rattled with questions about the rash, the possible virus and how the victims had contracted it.

  Even more unsettling—how would they stop this illness from spreading and taking more lives if they didn’t identify it soon? Worse, they’d have to keep things hush-hush to avoid a potential panic across the country.

  Had the scientists at Nighthawk Island been researching the virus, or had they created it?

  While the CSI team photographed the body and processed the crime scene area, the detectives were taking notes and talking in low voices.

  “Canvass the neighbors,” Detective Fox told two other officers. “See if anyone had a clue as to what Thornbird had planned or what was troubling him.”

  “Check and see if he had any recent visitors, too,” Craig cut in. “I’ll talk to his co-workers at CIRP.”

  Detective Black nodded and the men dispersed just as Agent Devlin approached him. “Did he give you any information about the research before he died?”

  “No, but I’ll question his colleagues, find someone who understands his work and can pick up the thread where he left off,” Craig said. “Maybe his files will aid in the identification process.”

  Devlin pocketed his cell phone and glanced at Olivia. “She going to be all right?”

  Craig shrugged. “She’s in shock.”

  Devlin nodded. “Don’t suppose she’ll be writing this one up.”

  Craig grimaced. True, but callous. He supposed it went with the agent’s job. They’d both seen the darkest sides of life and survived. “She blames me for getting her old man involved.”

  “Don’t go there, Horn. From what you told me, Thornbird volunteered to study this virus. I did some checking on the man. He was obsessed with his work. I think it had something to do with the way his wife died.”

  Craig arched his brows. “She died in Egypt, right?”

  “Right. By another strange, unknown illness.”

  Craig picked up on Devlin’s silent insinuation. “Did they do an autopsy?”

  Devlin shook his head. “If they did, the results were never revealed. Authorities were too worried about transmitting the virus and refused to transport her body back to the States. She was cremat

  Craig swallowed hard. Maybe they were hiding something. “Must have been tough on the family.”

  “After that, Thornbird’s reputation slid downhill. He lost a couple of grants and posts.”

  Craig’s gaze swung to Olivia. Her face was so pale, her eyes listless, her arms wrapped around herself as if the muggy breeze blowing through the window might shatter her into pieces. He ordered himself to be impartial. This woman might be suffering now, but she’d been a pain in the butt wanting the scoop on his investigation. He couldn’t afford to let her get too close.

  Especially now.

  She had even more reason to want the truth about the virus, even more reason to detest him and his unwillingness to cooperate.

  “Listen, Horn.” Devlin cleared his throat. “I received word this morning that two scientists have died in Germany. Their deaths sound remarkably similar to Thornbird’s and our other suicide victims.”

  Craig frowned. The situation was desperate. They needed some answers fast. He hoped to hell Thornbird hadn’t taken whatever information he’d learned concerning the virus to his grave.

  DARKNESS SETTLED OVER Olivia’s father’s kitchen, the hushed voices and officers milling around the house echoing in the distant recesses of her mind like a TV she’d forgotten to turn off. Olivia blocked them out, unable to process the truth that her father was dead.

  In her mind, she could see him standing by the scarred beige counter pouring his fifth cup of coffee into his favorite orange mug, one her mother had gotten for him in Portugal on one of her trips.

  Through the back window, she watched the ti
re swing she used to spend hours in sway back and forth in the breeze, and the now defunct sandbox she’d played in as a child was covered with leaves and debris. The basketball hoop where she’d spent nights tossing the ball, thinking through stories she’d write for the school paper, was rusted, the net torn and ragged. Once her parents had planted flowers in that backyard, had grown herbs and roots, saying they didn’t want her harmed by the processed foods and chemicals. They’d pushed Olivia in the swing, laughed as she’d run through the sprinkler, churned homemade ice cream on the patio while she’d learned to ride a bicycle.

  Then her mother had died. And everything had changed.

  There’d been no more laughing. No more homemade ice cream. No more herb garden.

  Olivia had needed her father then. She’d begged him to let her crawl into his lap, but he’d pushed her away, as if he wished she’d died with her mother. Finally, she’d stopped trying to win his love.

  But as a rebellious teenager she’d done other things to get his attention—misbehaved in school, gotten into scraps. She’d even ended up in jail for underage drinking and vandalizing. If her high school English teacher hadn’t taken an interest in her and assigned her to the school paper, she would have ended up in the headlines more. But writing had given her a goal; a byline gained her the attention she’d been lackin

  Her stomach churned, her hands were sweating and her throat was so clogged with tears she felt as if a golf-ball had been lodged inside. Forcing herself to think rationally, like a reporter and not a grief-stricken daughter, she scanned the kitchen for clues to her father’s mental state, searching for any changes in the room that might indicate what had brought him to the point of suicide.

  Three coffee cups, a stack of used plates with dried bread crumbs and a half-eaten sandwich overflowed the sink. Cigarette ashes littered the top of a soda can, the fact that her father had partaken of both a testament to how much he’d changed.

  Except for his work. That, he’d never ignored.

  Not as he had her.

  “Olivia?” Craig’s voice made her spring back into action. She stood and walked toward him. “Was there a suicide note?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head.

  “I want to see his things, especially his desk.”

  The detective beside him cast Craig a warning look and strode toward another crime scene tech who was bagging the gun Olivia’s father had used to shoot himself.

  “Olivia, the police and FBI are working this case. Let us do our job.”

  She gripped his arm. “I have to know everything he was working on. He was obsessive-compulsive and would never have left a project unfinished.”

  “We’ll find the answers,” Craig said through gritted teeth. “Just give us time.”

  She narrowed her eyes, battling another onslaught of tears. She didn’t want sympathy, she wanted the truth. “He died because of the work he was doing for you, didn’t he? I saw you leaving his office—”

  “Yes, he was helping us.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “But that’s all I can say.”

  “I saw the red welts on the other victims,” she said. “You think all the suicide victims had some kind of virus. What does it do—cause the infected people to go crazy?”

  “I can’t disclose details that might jeopardize the case, Olivia. You have to understand that.”

  She folded her arms, her anger rallying. “This isn’t just a case, Horn. It took my father’s life. And what about more innocent lives that might be lost if you cover this up?”

  “Don’t you think I’m working my tail off to get to the truth so there won’t be any more victims?”

  She bit her lip. “If my father did contract some rare virus, it wasn’t an accident. He was meticulous about safety precautions.”

  Craig’s dark gray eyes met hers, silently acknowledging her declaration as he gestured around the den and kitchen. “Judging from the looks of his house, I might question that.”

  “It’s usually not this bad. And he was much more precise and detailed about his work.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes, Olivia. A punctured glove, a s, if he was dealing with some unknown bacteria he didn’t recognize—”

  “No,” Olivia snapped. “He never made mistakes.”

  Except he hadn’t pushed the government for the truth about her mother. When Olivia had gotten older and questioned him about her mother’s death, he’d refused to answer. She’d realized then that he’d allowed the government to get away with their cover-up.

  That was the reason she’d gone into journalism. Someone had buried the truth about her mother’s death, and one day she hoped to uncover it. She sure as hell wouldn’t let them bury the story about her father’s death now, too.

  “If my father contracted this virus,” she said in a cold voice, “someone infected him.”

  Craig grimaced. “You’re suggesting murder?”

  “I’m suggesting this is some kind of germ or chemical warfare, and you’re trying to keep it under wraps from the public.” She ignored the flare of heat in his eyes. “But trust me, Agent Horn, I refuse to let my father’s death go until I discover the truth.”

  “Trust you?” His voice dripped sarcasm. “I learned a long time ago not to trust reporters.” His unwavering glare slid over Olivia. “I feel for you, Olivia, I honestly do. But I’m warning you—don’t get in the way of this investigation.”

  Olivia shot him an equally menacing look. She’d be damned if she’d let him intimidate her.

  They were both after the truth.

  Unfortunately, they were on opposite sides.

  CRAIG WAS ON THE VERGE of suggesting someone drive Olivia home when Dr. Ian Hall, the director of CIRP, rushed inside, accompanied by Detective Clayton Fox.

  “I came as soon as I heard.”

  Hall’s face looked ruddy with emotions, his tie hanging askew as if he’d been twisting it in the car. The sweltering summer heat drifting through the door also marked his skin with perspiration. “What happened?” Hall asked.

  Craig gestured toward Olivia before explaining. “Dr. Hall, this is Olivia Thornbird, Dr. Thornbird’s—”

  “I know who she is.” Hall’s look bordered between a scowl and regret. “Miss Thornbird has been to my office several times in the past few months.”

  Craig nodded. “Of course.” She would have been looking for a story. Or maybe she’d covered some of the disreputable events that had occurred at the research park already. He made a mental note to check the newspaper archives.

  “It appears that my father killed himself,” Olivia said before he could finish, “because of some research he was doing regarding the Savannah Suicides.”

  Hall’s face blanched. “How do you know it had something to do with his work?”

  “We don’t,” Craig said, vying for damage control. “The medical examiner will have to determine cause of death, and if Dr. Thornbird was suffering from any other medical problems.” Craig indicated Thornbird’s computer and the cluttered oak desk. “We are confiscating all of his research notes and hope you’ll provide us with a liaison to interpret them.”

  Hall scraped a hand over his forehead. “Certainly. We’ll do whatever we can to expedite the investigation.”

  Craig grunted. CIRP had a reputation for keeping certain projects classified, even from the feds. With the current state of the world and constant threat of terrorism, studying biological and chemical warfare had to rank at the top of their priorities. The security they enforced upon the employees and their research projects at Nighthawk Island was cutting-edge, but their secrecy suspicious.

  Hall offered Olivia a conciliatory smile. “Miss Thornbird, please allow CIRP to pay the expenses for your father’s burial. He was a valued employee of the scientific community and will be sorely missed.”

  Olivia’s face paled at the mention of a funeral, and Craig was tempted to reach out and offer her a comforting hand, but she stiffened perceptibly when he stepped closer. “How valua
ble was he to you, Dr. Hall?” she asked.

  Hall’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not certain what you mean.”

  Olivia squared her shoulders. “I’ve heard about your community and the founders of CIRP. They actually killed two of their scientists for nearly exposing secretive work you were conducting. Perhaps that’s what happened to my father.”

  Hall squared his shoulders. “Any disreputable activities that occurred in the past are to be left there,” he said curtly. “Since I assumed leadership of CIRP, things have changed. Recently one of our psychiatrists, Claire Kos, was instrumental in helping catch the serial killer stalking Savannah.”

  “But it’s awfully coincidental that Savannah is suddenly stricken with something that might be a dangerous unknown virus when your team is conducting secretive research on Nighthawk Island.” Olivia’s voice held an undercurrent of accusations. “Perhaps my father discovered the truth about the rash these suicide victims had contracted. What if his findings lead back to CIRP? And you had him killed to keep him quiet?”

  “You’re letting your grief make you irrational.” Hall’s eyes flickered with anger. “And I wouldn’t print false accusations like that in the paper, Miss Thornbird.”

  “Oh, I’ll find proof to substantiate it before I print it.”

  A vein in Hall’s forehead throbbed. “Your father shot himself, didn’t he?”

  “That is the apparent cause of death,” Craig answered, in an attempt to defuse the volatile situation before it spiraled completely out of hand.

  Olivia had a point, but so did Hall.

  In fact, it had also occurred to him that Hall and the other scientists at CIRP might hurt Thornbird to keep him from discovering the truth about the virus.

  Olivia’s words rushed back to haunt him.

  My father was meticulous about safety precautions. If he was infected, it wasn’t accidental.

  Could she be right? Could someone have infected Thornbird? If so, his suicide would be murder. And he had just asked Hall for a liaison to interpret the results…

  Could Craig trust Hall and the next scientist, or would they alter results to cover for CIRP?