Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (132 page)

“Do you have an office on this floor, Dr. Polchak?”

“No.”

“Sorry—access is restricted to official personnel only.”

“Look, I'm a forensic entomologist.”

“You're one of the forensic guys?”

“Yes,” Nick lied.

The officer lifted the tape and allowed him through.

Nick walked down the hall to an open doorway where a number of police and campus security personnel were staring into a room.

One of the police officers looked up when he approached. “Can I help you?”

“Dr. Polchak—forensic entomologist.”

“Who sent for a bug guy?”

“Beats me—I didn't get his name. What have we got here?”

“Graduate student. Some guy named Jengo something-or-other—he's from Africa. Somebody popped him last night. It looks like a small-caliber bullet to the base of the skull. No exit wound—the tech guys are saying it was probably a .22.”

Nick leaned into the doorway and looked at the room. It was a state-of-the-art laboratory, one of several hi-tech labs the crop science, soil science, and botany departments maintained on Centennial Campus. On the left side of the room a group of forensic technicians dressed in white Tyvek coveralls and latex gloves were collecting evidence. A crime scene photographer recorded each step of the process while a man in a white shirt and tie looked on.

“Is that your detective?”

“Yeah.”

Nick caught a glimpse of the victim—a man with coal-black skin. He was lying faceup in front of a laboratory table. His eyes were halfopen in a glazed stare. It was a look Nick had seen many times before.

“Any sign of a struggle?” Nick asked.

“Doesn't look like it. There's lab equipment everywhere, but nothing was broken.”

“Somebody mentioned theft.”

“Yeah—some things are missing.”

“What sort of things?”

“A laptop computer, some minor lab equipment—glassware, containers, things like that.”

Nick looked at him. “None of the big stuff?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“There's a fortune in equipment in there. Would you kill a guy just to grab a few beakers and flasks?”

“Maybe he was in a hurry. Just a quick smash-and-grab job—take whatever's handy and run.”

Nick glanced at the opposite end of the hallway where a group of concerned-looking faculty and staff huddled behind a second barrier tape. Nick spotted a familiar face in the group and started toward him.

He flashed his ID at the perimeter officer. “I'm with the forensic team—I need to talk to this man.” He pointed to a paunchy little man with a bad comb-over. The officer lifted the tape and allowed the man through.

“Dr. Lumpkin,” Nick said. “Is your office in this building?”

“Yeah. Can you believe it? Man—we've never had anything like this before.”

“I understand you knew the victim.”

“He was one of my grad students. Jengo Muluneh—an Ethiopian. He had a wife and a daughter too—they must be devastated. I especially hate to see this happen to one of our internationals; they already think this is such a violent country.”

“What was he working on?” Nick asked.

“Jengo specialized in plant pathology. He was doing research on the genetic characteristics of a number of fungal diseases.”

“What kind of diseases?”

“
Fusarium
,
Gibberella
,
Penicillium
—diseases that attack cereal crops, specifically corn.”

“He specialized in fungi?”

“It's very important work. In the seventies there was a fungus called
Bipolaris maydis
that spread throughout the South and Midwest. The Southern Corn Blight, they called it—the fungus cut corn production in the U.S. by 15 percent.”

“Was he studying that fungus?”

“That and several others. He was researching corn hybrids that have natural resistance to some of the most prevalent fungal diseases. He was very bright—it's a real loss to the academic community.”

“Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt this guy? Did he seem to have any enemies?”

“Jengo? I can't imagine that—he was such a gentle soul. He stuck to himself a lot, but a lot of the internationals do. They're only here for a year or two to complete a degree, and sometimes it's hard for them to adjust to the culture. I can't imagine anyone wanting to hurt Jengo—but then, I didn't know him all that well.”

“You didn't know your own grad student?”

“You're a professor—you know how it works. I write a grant proposal, I get funding—and each of my graduate students takes a piece of the pie. But most international graduate students are funded by their own governments so they don't cut into the budget. To be honest, that's one of the reasons graduate programs are quick to take them. Jengo was very organized and independent; he didn't require as much supervision as some of my other grad students, so I didn't get to know him as well. He just stuck to himself and did his own research.”

“Then he could have been researching something else—something you knew nothing about.”

“Like what?”

“Forget it—just a crazy thought.”

“You seem to have a lot of those.”

“So I'm told. Thanks for the information.”

“Hey—what about that babe?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, the one at the party—Alena, I think it was. Man, she was
hot
. Have you seen her lately?”

“As a matter of fact I have.”

“Did she mention me?”

Nick paused. “Come to think of it, she did.”

“By name?”

“You know, she did call you a name—
Fungus Boy
, I think it was.”

Lumpkin grinned. “I knew she'd remember me—once Bernie Lumpkin gets under their skin, they never recover.”

“Sort of like a fungus.”

“Have you seen my license plate? It says FUN GUY.”

“Okay,” Nick said. “I should be getting back to earth now.”

Lumpkin ducked back under the tape and Nick returned to the laboratory. The detective in charge of the investigation was standing in the doorway giving instructions to one of his officers.

Nick walked directly up to him and said, “You need to start over.”

The detective looked at him. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Nick Polchak—I'm a forensic entomologist.”

“Who sent for a bug guy?”

“This was more than a simple theft,” Nick said.

“How do you know that?”

“What was stolen?”

“Look, I don't know who you are, but you're not part of this investigation, so I'm going to have to ask you to—”

“A laptop computer, right? Let me guess: The killer left the power cord and mouse behind, right? He didn't care about the computer—he just wanted what was on it. He took some glassware and some containers—does that sound like the kind of thing your average thief would steal? This was not about lab equipment—somebody was trying to steal his research.”

“And who would want to do that?”

“Apparently somebody he knew. He was shot in the base of the skull, right? Not the sort of shot you make from across a room. Somebody was able to get up close.”

“Maybe they snuck up on him.”

“Look where the body's lying and look where the doorway is—nobody could have snuck in without being seen. And look around the lab—do you see anyplace to hide? No—he knew the guy, and he was willing to let him walk right up behind him. A friend, a colleague, a professor—maybe even a family member.”

The detective shrugged. “It's a thought. We'll run it by his wife—see if she can give us a list of acquaintances.”

Nick spotted a technician attempting to lift fingerprints from a piece of glass lab equipment. “Don't touch that!” he shouted.

The detective stared at Nick. “Is there a problem, Dr. Polchak? The guy's just trying to do his—”

“Don't touch the lab equipment,” Nick said. “You're looking for the wrong thing. Forget the fingerprints—the important thing is what's on the inside.”

“What's on the inside?”

“I don't know—that's why you have to look.”

“You need to go,” the detective said.

“Look—don't make the mistake of treating this like an ordinary homicide. If you do, you might destroy something that's really important.”

“You let us worry about that,” the detective said.

“Wait a minute, if you'll just let me—”

“Officer, would you escort Dr. Polchak back to the perimeter? And make sure he stays there.”

The officer took Nick by the arm and hustled him down the hall.

Nick pulled out his cell phone and hurriedly punched a button.

“FBI. Special Agent Donovan.”

“Put your wife on the phone.”

“Nick—you called me at work. Macy and I are married, not joined at the hip.”

“One of you needs to get down here right away.”

“Was the date that bad?”

“I'm serious, Donovan. A grad student was murdered here last night, and the local police are treating it like an ordinary homicide.”

“And you don't think it was?”

“I have a feeling the guy might have been working on something serious—the kind of thing Macy would want to know about.”

“Do you have any evidence of that?”

“No—and if you don't get down here and take over this investigation, there might not be any. Their forensic techs are trying to lift latent fingerprints from some of the lab equipment. They might use iodine or silver nitrate for that, and they're both disinfectants—they could kill anything inside.”

“What's inside?”

“How would I know? Get down here and find out.”

“So once again I'm supposed to make a decision based only on your instincts.”

“Have you ever been sorry that you trusted my instincts?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?”

“Call somebody, Donovan—yank somebody's chain and get these people out of here. Tell them it's a federal investigation and you're claiming jurisdiction.”

“And how do I justify that?”

“I don't know. Flex those big muscles of yours—they must be good for something.”

“Good idea, Nick. I'll do my double lat spread—wait until the attorney general sees that.”

“Just get somebody down here, Donovan—and fast.”

38

M
acy's desk phone buzzed and she punched an illuminated button. “Macy Donovan.”

Macy's “Macy—it's Alexei over in Dulles. Are you at a computer?”

“Yes, I'm at my desk.”

“Log on to us, will you? I've got a live feed coming in from
Zvesda
—it's a Russian news channel. Yuri Semchenko is giving a speech—I thought you might want to take a look.”

Macy's fingers clicked across the keyboard and the home page for the National Counterterrorism Center appeared. She entered her State Department ID and a security password and waited; a moment later the log-in screen vanished and she found herself looking at a white-haired man standing behind a lectern.

“I've got it,” she said.

“That's your boy at the podium.”

“Yes, I recognize him from his file photos.”

“Look at the old goat—he must be in his late seventies, but he looks like he could still work a plow.”

“He looks like he could
pull
a plow.” Macy watched Semchenko as he spoke. The old man was dressed in a gray suit and dark tie that made his close-up look almost like a black-and-white photograph. His snow-white hair was coarse and plastered back, though defiant strands stood out from the sides of his head. He had a cauliflower ear on the right side—a result of the repeated beatings he had endured during his gulag experience. His face was stoic, almost expressionless, but his sonorous voice resounded like thunder.

“What's the occasion?” Macy asked.

“It's sort of a press conference,” Alexei said. “The Ministry of Transport is announcing a modernization program for one of their Black Sea ports. Apparently Semchenko has been spearheading the effort so he gets to take a bow.”

Macy turned up the volume a little. “It's all in Russian.”

“Yeah—that's what they speak over there.”

“Very funny. Can you translate for me?”