Page 11

TEN

Durham, New Hampshire

Wednesday, October 9

4:12 p.m.

The university’s biomedical and bioengineering lab looked the same as she remembered.

A whole bunch of floating shelves stuffed with brightly labeled compounds, equipment and refrigerators she couldn’t begin to identify, and samples that could blow up this entire campus if mishandled. Despite the recent ten-million-dollar National Institute of Health research grant and the size of the university, the lab itself was nothing more than a slim, claustrophobic galley students could stretch their arms across and brush the opposite wall with their fingertips. The little desk space available was crowded with empty Tupperware containers, scales, pens, colored tape, glass test tubes, with tables and data taped within view of two computer stations. The whole lab resembled a forgotten galley kitchen, only this one had the potential to change the world.

“Oh, I get it. This is where the meth heads come to do their cooks when the police run them out of their basements.” Ford kept his arms by his sides as they navigated through the lab behind her, which was amusing in and of itself. His mass didn’t belong in a place this tight, even when trying to make himself smaller. In vain.

The president of the university pulled on the lapels of his coat as he turned to face them from the dead end of the lab, a single rain-streaked window at his back. The fluorescent light bars overhead did nothing to soften the impatience and resentment in his features, only adding a sickly color to his skin. “This lab is responsible for recent progress in cancer treatments and major depressive disorder, Marshal Ford. The researchers here have created implantable devices to deliver much-needed medications that won’t be rejected by the human body. Every project produced by this lab has massive potential benefits in the health field.”

“Who has access to this room?” She’d noted the security measures on the way in. No cameras. Each door in the building required a six-digit PIN, most likely unique to individual users, but they’d been forced to use one of two manual keys carried by the university president and security. There were any number of places their unsub could procure arsenic and cyanide, but she couldn’t discount the very lab their primary suspect had worked in all those years ago. Leigh couldn’t help but study the closest computer station to the window, searching for something familiar. Dean Groves had spent entire semesters cataloging and coding data for one of the researching professors to garner his lab experience at that station. She couldn’t remember exactly what the study had entailed. He’d explained it to her the one time she’d visited, but she’d gone mushy after he’d cleared his desk and lifted her onto it.

“Our assistant professor of chemical engineering, of course, along with four junior researchers, myself, and the security team.” The president scanned the room, as though he alone could determine if anything was out of place or missing, but Leigh had the feeling his academic career had ended years ago. “The doors are secured by key codes. Individualized by user. I don’t see how whoever murdered Ms. Dietz could’ve gotten inside without raising red flags.”

“Unless her killer was already familiar with the building.” Ford had gone still. More imposing than a moment ago. His expression gave nothing away, but it was easy enough to read him now. “What about old codes? Do you deactivate codes when students leave the university?”

“I can’t say that we do.” The university president realized the implications of that admission, smoothing his expression. The primary suspect in Teshia Elborne’s murder could’ve come back to kill another student after eighteen years without so much as raising questions. “I suppose if a researcher still remembered their code, they could access the building and this lab.”

“Or convince another researcher to give them a key code.” Leigh forced her attention away from the section of the lab. “What about surveillance? Any cameras in the building?”

The president shook his head, aging in the blink of an eye as reality sank in. “The work we do in this building is highly proprietary. We couldn’t risk outside researchers learning about our ongoing projects, but there are several security guards stationed in the building.”

“We’ll want to talk with them and get a log of key codes used within the past seventy-two hours.” She studied the shelves, each container lined with neon-labeled identifiers. Some she recognized from her brief visit the night Dean had snuck her in for a tour. Leigh grabbed for a container of amylase and turned it over in her hand. Handwritten scratches claimed her attention before she replaced it and searched the rest of the shelf. Turning each container backward on the shelves with the same results. “There are logs on the back of all these containers. Measurements, dates, and initials from the last researcher who used it. Where are the more dangerous compounds stored?”

“In that closet near the door.” The university president struggled past Ford, ensuring not to jumble equipment or stations. A feat in and of itself. “All of these must be kept in secure containers, out of direct sunlight, and in a cool, dry space.”

“What about arsenic and cyanide?” Ford asked.

“Yes. They should be in here.” The president pulled the door open, revealing floor-to-ceiling shelves inside with an array of containers similar to the ones she’d inspected.

“I doubt our killer is courteous enough to sign his initials and write how much he used if this is where the poison came from. We probably won’t get his fingerprints if he was careful either, but let’s get the containers to the forensic techs when we’re finished here.” Leigh moved into the closet and spotted the cyanide first. After pulling a pair of latex gloves from her still-damp blazer, she gripped her fingertips around the container lid, lifted it free of its position, and set it on the nearest counter. Then did the same with the arsenic. “We can measure any discrepancies between the last researcher’s use and the current weight.”

“Brilliant.” Ford grabbed a postage scale on the other end of the room and brought it to the end computer station, the only section of the overcrowded desk with any space left. He powered the scale on and selected the measurement. Either Ford had seen this model of scale before, or the US marshal had a secret homemade bread hobby. He set the arsenic on first. “According to the last measurement, this container is underweight. By… a lot.”

Leigh handed off the cyanide as the scale reset. “Try the arsenic.”

Ford crouched slightly at the knees. “It’s underweight, too.”

But they couldn’t take the scale’s results at face value. There were several factors that could contribute to the measurements coming in underweight. Maybe the researchers weren’t as careful to mark their last uses as the logs suggested. Maybe the scale was slightly off or another scale in the lab had been used instead. Human error had the potential to destroy investigations and studies alike. They couldn’t discount any of it.

Leigh grabbed for another container from the closet without reading the label. She could’ve been handling an explosive compound or a highly corrosive acid for all she knew, but her need for confirmation exceeded self-preservation at the moment. “Measure this one.”

Ford did as she asked without hesitation, keeping both the arsenic and the cyanide close by. They would be registered as evidence, handed over to the forensic techs to pull prints and test against the poison in the victim’s bloodstream. “The log and weight match.”

“This one next.” She pulled another container free. Then another. And another. The next four measurement logs matched the weight on the scale down to the ounce. The limited free space on the desk had vanished in her attempt to find another explanation.

“You want to try another one?” Ford straightened. Waiting. No judgment. No hint of frustration or anger. He was willing to go through every container in this damn lab if it helped find Alice Dietz’s killer, but there was no point. They had their answer, didn’t they?

“No. I think we’ve addressed any potential errors in measurement.” That was all she’d been trying to do. To prove the poison had been sourced from this lab. And they’d accomplished their goal. A trickle of sweat collected at the back of her neck. Giving her a glimpse of that dark thread of hope she’d tucked away all those years ago, the one that wanted to convince her Dean Groves hadn’t turned into a murderer. She hadn’t realized until then how desperately she’d been trying to unbury it. To sever it for good or keep the old fight going, she wasn’t sure. “We were right. The killer broke into this lab and stole what he needed to kill Alice Dietz. He’s replicating the Elborne case as much as possible. Grab some of those Ziploc bags over there on the desk and tag the containers. Forensics might be able to pull prints off the lids.”

Leigh let the university president take a back seat to replace all the other containers on their respective shelves. The walls closed in around them as Ford utilized a box of bags to collect the containers. A bitter burn drove up her nose as she helped set the last of the containers back on the closet shelf. Each of the white, labeled canisters were supposed to be sealed to preserve the compounds inside and protect users from accidentally exposing themselves to something potentially hazardous. She shouldn’t have been sensing anything in this closet. “Do you smell that?”

Ford finished sealing the bags with the arsenic and cyanide and closed the distance between them. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. It smells like… battery acid?” Biting and sour. An olfactory warning to keep your distance. Her father had taught her how to change the battery in their family car when she’d been seven years old. How to jump one, too. Joel Brody was the kind of man who’d never wanted his children to rely on anyone but themselves. He’d spent hours out on the driveway with his head in the middle of an engine between DIY house projects, and she and her brother had been forced to absorb those lessons against their will. She knew that smell better than her brother’s body odor on those hot weekends in the driveway. “And plastic.”

Ford angled her out of the closet, scanning the shelves. “I don’t see anything leaking. Could be coming through the vents.”

No. The odor wasn’t as strong in the open. All she could smell was the slight hint of antiseptic she’d noted when they’d come in. “Do researchers work with acids in this lab?”

“Of course,” the university president said. “Several. But I can’t imagine any of our researchers being careless enough to ignore safety protocols.”

That was what she was afraid of. Leigh shoved her way back in the closet, under Ford’s arm as he pulled another row of canisters. And found what she was looking for in the back corner. “That one.”

Hesitation gripped hard as she considered the thin layer of latex between the skin of her fingertips and what could potentially burn a hole through a human body. “Get me some gloves.”

Ford’s body heat vanished, leaving her cold along one side. She hadn’t realized how close she’d let him get. How she’d gotten used to his proximity. He returned with a thicker pair of gloves. “Be careful. We have no idea who might’ve tampered with the container.”

She was careful. Moving slower than she wanted to go. The container itself wasn’t nearly as heavy as she expected, but the burn in her nostrils intensified to the point she had to open her mouth for some relief. It didn’t help. The fumes coming off the acid drove down her throat. “The lid is loose.”

That was why she could smell it. Whoever had used it last had been careless. Not one of the researchers. Everything else in the lab was pristine. No. This was something else. Leigh pried the lid free and took a step back. Bubbles foamed toward the lip then out and over onto the desk. The reaction was immediate. “There’s something in there.”

Something to cause the reaction.

She tried to get a better view without letting the fumes touch her face.

“What is that?” Ford asked.

She went for a pair of tongs stored upside down in one of the pencil holders at the computer station and grabbed for the foreign object. The remnants of a golden bear stalked across the near-melted rectangle of plastic.

“A driver’s license?” The marshal adjusted his glasses to get a better look while the university president kept his distance. As though merely being in the same room could smother him with guilt.

“Multiple driver’s licenses.” Leigh didn’t have anywhere to set the license down, replacing it back inside the container, and grabbed for another. This one was different. She could still make out hints of a wide smile and tanned skin. “All from states the suspect you’re chasing has killed in.”