What Lies Behind (8 page)

Chapter 15

Teterboro
Airport
New Jersey

XANDER WAS ONCE
again standing with his hands behind his back, shifting his weight from foot to foot to alleviate the boredom. As predicted, when the New Jersey cops had rolled in, he’d been recuffed and brought to another interrogation room inside the Teterboro Airport, then left to cool his heels while the powers that be decided what to do with him. The room was a dingy white, a twin to the one he’d been in with Chalk and Denon, nothing more than a table, four chairs and a camera bolted high in the northeast corner. No windows, nothing to allow him to entertain himself.

Left to his own devices, he’d begun brooding about the shooting again. He’d done the right thing, he knew it, but the image of the shooter crumpling over the parapet replayed in his mind. He hadn’t killed anyone since he’d separated from the Army, taken his honorable discharge and walked away into the woods. For the first several weeks, he’d even done catch and release on the damn trout he landed, simply because he couldn’t stand the thought of harming anything else.

That ended. Of course it did. His sense returned. But he’d not taken a human life since that last firefight in Jalālābād, and he’d hoped he never would have to again.

If he was going to have a career in close protection, clearly he was going to have to realign his priorities.

The door opened, and a plainclothes officer he hadn’t seen before walked in. He uncuffed Xander, handed him a bottle of water, shook his hand.

“Arlen Grant. New Jersey State Police. Seems you’ve had yourself an interesting day.” Grant was tall and lanky, a solid jaw, just this side of forty, hair about to thin but not there yet, with a sleek gray suit and a chunky stainless-steel watch, a Fitbit trainer on the opposite wrist. He had the hungry look of a man who’d lost weight recently, and would do most anything to sink his teeth into a thick steak and fries instead of salad and veggies.

“You could say that.”

“Why don’t you tell me the story, top to bottom, then we’ll talk about your next steps.”

Xander assessed Grant openly. He seemed friendly enough. Almost too friendly. All of Xander’s warning bells went off.

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I want to hear the story in your own words, man-to-man. That’s all.”

Xander wasn’t stupid. He saw where this was headed, heard something in Grant’s voice that made him go on alert. He didn’t trust the man.

He hated to do it, because in his capacity as a security agent he’d done his job—protected his principal—but he had to protect himself, too. The facts were indisputable. He’d killed a man, on American soil, in front of a dozen witnesses, with only James Denon and Chalk’s word for it that it wasn’t a well-planned hit. There was no choice, not anymore, not the way Grant was looking at him, like a bird who’s spied a juicy worm across a dew-wet lawn.

“I’ll need a lawyer present, and then I’m happy to tell you the whole story.”

Grant’s expression didn’t change, though he waited for a heartbeat, staring straight into Xander’s eyes. He didn’t say another word, just stood and walked out of the room.

Fuck.

Grant had been expecting the demand. They knew if Xander had half a brain he would lawyer up. Grant had come in as a test.

Ante up.

Xander thought furiously—who was he going to call? He hadn’t exactly kept in close touch with many people since he’d left the Army, just a few Ranger buddies, and they weren’t lawyers. Were they going to keep him here, or take him somewhere else? He’d need to let Sam know.

At the thought of her, he felt his resolve start to crumble.
Way to go, man. You’re about to get yourself arrested for murder. Now there’s a phone call to sow marital bliss.

She’d leap into action, he was sure of it. She’d know a good lawyer; she knew everyone, it seemed. And better calling Sam than calling his parents out in Colorado. This wasn’t cow tipping, which was the charge the last time he’d been arrested. Their kindly town sheriff had cuffed him, marched him up the mountain to his parents’ farm and let them mete out the justice, so it wouldn’t go on his record.

Good old Sheriff Houghton. Dead now, but well remembered in Xander’s hometown of Dillon as a great, fair, equitable lawman. Thanks to him, Xander shoveled goat shit for a month.

The door opened, and Grant came back in, a curious look on his face.

“I’m getting my phone call, right?” Xander said.

“Don’t worry about it. There’s a dude on his way here right now, criminal defense hotshot out of New York. Sean Lawhon. Heard of him?”

Xander shook his head.

“Best shark that money can buy. You have a fan in Mr. Denon. He engaged the lawyer’s services on your behalf before you and I ever talked. So. We’ll just sit here and stare at each other until he arrives. Between you and me, I want to stay away from the cameras.”

Great, the media was here. Xander nodded once, curtly. He still needed to call Sam, more so now, before she saw it on TV.

“Am I allowed to make a call?”

“Are you going to talk about the case?”

“Just want to give someone a heads-up. I’d hate for her to get the wrong idea.”

“Why don’t we wait for Mr. Lawhon, then you can do whatever you want. I wouldn’t want to trample your rights or anything.” He pulled out his cell phone and began playing a rousing game of solitaire. Judging from the slowness of the clicks, he was losing.

Xander gritted his teeth at Grant’s sarcasm. He’d dealt with men like him plenty of times—either he’d chill when he saw Xander had only been doing his job, and get all sorts of friendly, or he’d go for the jugular. There weren’t going to be any in-betweens. And they would never be friends; a connection would not be made.

Which was fine. He didn’t need more friends.

Xander drank his water, and when he set the empty bottle down, there was a knock at the door. Grant gave his screen one last, doleful glance, then opened the door.

The lawyer was a kid. Xander was only thirty-six, but Lawhon looked at least a decade younger—tan and blond and thick through the shoulders. He looked like he’d be good for a pickup game at the gym. He did not look like a threat.

Which was probably why he was successful. Subterfuge and camouflage.

“Mr. Whitfield? I’m Sean Lawhon. Fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” He smiled, showing slightly crooked teeth. His parents hadn’t sprung for braces; Lawhon was a self-made man. “We’ll get this all straightened out in a jiff. No reason to think we won’t be out of here quickly. Is there, Detective Grant?”

Grant watched the show, a pointed look on his otherwise homely face. “He killed a man, Mr. Lawhon. Let’s not lose sight of the facts.”

Lawhon flipped like a switch, the friendliness gone. He looked at Grant like he was an alien. His voice was no longer pleasant, it was grim and angry. “We’re not dealing with a security guard shooting an intruder in a building. This is a trained, and licensed, I might add, professional who stopped an assassination attempt. To even hold him is unconscionable. You should be ashamed of yourself, Detective Grant. This man was doing his duty to his client.”

Grant yawned, showing a gold molar.

“Take it up with the judge, Lawhon. Grand jury is already seated for another case. I’m sure we could push this onto the docket by morning.”

Xander watched the exchange with interest. Grant’s attitude was pissing the kid off. The anger was genuine now, not fabricated for Xander’s benefit.

“Give me a break. There’s not going to be a grand jury. They’d laugh you out of the room, much less even consider indicting. We all know you’re just being difficult because you can.”

Grant’s face tightened at that remark. Lawhon continued his assault. “Why are you still here? Planning to listen in while I talk to my client?”

“Naw,” Grant said. “Just wondering what it is about you city boys and your fancy suits. Enjoy.” He shut the door behind him, and Lawhon took a quick breath, straightened his lapels, turned to Xander and smiled.

“That guy is a raging dickhead. We’ve never gotten along.” The pal tone was back.

“I see that. What did he do?”

“Divorced my sister last year, without a lot of warning. Crushed her. Though he’s always been an ass, that’s nothing new. We’re all just one big happy family.” Lawhon set up on the table, briefcase open, phone out, yellow notepad, Montblanc fountain pen. He saw Xander eyeing the pen. “Gift from my parents when I graduated law school. It was my grandfather’s.”

“Was he a lawyer, too?”

“A writer actually. Parents wanted me to go the same route—the pen is mightier than the sword, all that. Lost their minds when I decided to go to law school. They’re just a couple of hippies, have a commune up in Albany. They didn’t want me working for The Man.”

Xander felt his spirits lift. “As are mine. In Colorado. My folks were rabid when I told them I was going to enlist.”

“I know. I read your file on the way over. You’ve got a fascinating background.” A glint in the blue eyes. “May I call you Moonbeam?”

“If you want to get your teeth knocked down your throat, sure thing.”

Lawhon smiled again, lips closed this time. “Alexander, then.”

“Xander’s fine. What’s their plan? Are they going to charge me?”

Lawhon became all business. “They’re considering it. You stalling Grant made them nervous. There’s a bevy of cops out there. Half of them want to shake your hand, half want to see you strung up.”

“Grant made me uncomfortable. I had a sergeant way back who used to buddy up to us grunts, then use what we told him to make our lives hell. I got the sense Grant would do the same.”

“You’re a shrewd judge of character. Despite my own personal drama, Grant does have a reputation. He isn’t one to be messed with. He’s a true believer. There’s no gray in his world. You’d already be in a cell if you’d talked to him. Now, tell me about the shooting. Whatever possessed you to pull the trigger?”

“Dude was about to take out my principal. I didn’t have a choice.”

Saying it aloud made him feel better. He’d done right. He’d done his job.

“The principal being James Denon, head of Denon Industries, one of the world leaders in oil and gas, mining and the like.”

“Correct. He had business in the city, hired our firm to do his protection. He wanted to be subtle—he didn’t want anyone to know he’d been to the States.”

“So he chose a small, untried firm out of Washington, D.C.?”

“Small, yes. Untried? Hardly. We’ve got more experience in these matters than most.”

“New, then. A new firm.”

“All right. Yes. New.”

“Any idea why he chose you?”

“We were recommended to Mr. Denon by a friend.”

Lawhon tipped his head. “What friend?”

“My partner booked the job. You’ll have to ask him for a name.”

“I’ll do that. The man you shot hasn’t been identified. He had a sniper rifle and enough ammunition to kill every person on that tarmac. Why were you so sure he was going after Denon?”

Xander shifted in his seat. It was a good question, and he needed to be sure of his answer. “Logic. It was a setup. Had to be. Whoever took out the contract on Denon knew we were his people on the ground, and knew our procedures. Once Denon was on the plane and in the air, he ceased to be our responsibility. We were leaving when we got the call the plane was coming back. It was a well-orchestrated plan to get us out of the way.”

Lawhon sat back in the chair. “Pretty elaborate.”

“Yes. Whoever wants him dead hired someone who knows close-protection protocols.” And was using a United States Army–issue enhanced sniper rifle, one Xander himself had used many a time. He didn’t mention that tidbit.

“How did you know for sure the guy was after Denon?”

“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.