Katrina Stone: The Death Row Complex Part 23

8:13 A.M. PST.

When Sean McMullan cleared security and entered her cellblock at Las Colinas Detention Facility, Katrina was pacing her cell like a caged animal. Her surprise to see him quickly turned to shock as he approached. Beneath his leathery tan, McMullan's face was a ghastly, bloodless shade of whitish yellow.

"What are you doing here?" she asked through the bars of the cell. Wordlessly, he reached into his pocket and removed a key ring, found the appropriate key, and unlocked the cell door.

She only looked at him questioningly. She stood dumbfounded while he entered the cell and produced his handcuffs, linking them around her wrists, but leaving them loose enough to be comfortable.

Neither spoke as McMullan led Katrina through the cellblock, her hands cuffed behind her back. He signed the appropriate transfer paperwork and collected her belongings, and then she was free.

As they drove away from the county jail, he unclipped the handcuff key from his key chain and handed it to her. She unlocked the cuffs and dropped them into the center console of McMullan's sedan.

"Well?" Katrina said at last.

McMullan took a moment to carefully select his words. It would take approximately twenty minutes to get downtown to the convention. Not much time to bring Katrina up to speed. And to find out what else she had been lying about. "Explain something to me," he finally asked. "How could your inhibitors block the Death Row strain of anthrax without being designed against it?"

"Because they block both normal and Death Row anthrax. My team designed the inhibitors against normal anthrax. It's a fortunate coincidence that they bind the Death Row strain. The original inhibitors that were in my grant application provided the starting point that I used in designing the final antidote."

Her explanation was consistent with the opinions of Johnson and Wong. But McMullan was still not rea.s.sured of her innocence. "Have you ever reviewed an NIH grant written by a researcher named James Johnson?" he asked then.

"No," she answered without hesitating.

"How can you be so sure?"

Katrina looked sideways at McMullan. His eyes were straight ahead as he drove. "Johnson is a legend in the field of infectious diseases," she said. "I would remember reviewing one of his grants."

McMullan hoped his frustration was not showing through to the woman next to him. Her answers were only raising more questions. If she was lying, she could be guilty of plagiarizing Johnson's data. If she was telling the truth, then Johnson's motive for framing Katrina in the Death Row anthrax attacks was an illusion.

He took another approach. "I have to ask you a hypothetical question about research grants. What would happen if a reviewer got an idea for work he wanted to do by reading someone else's grant application? Could the reviewer steal the idea?"

Katrina took a moment to respond. "Well, to alter one's entire research program based on something you've read in a grant application is probably pretty stupid. For one thing, the researcher proposing the studies in an application would already be set up to conduct those studies. Frequently, he would have already begun and completed some of the work, but he would have held off on including information that is still too preliminary in a grant application. So, if you tried to beat him to the punch, you'd lose-especially if he was well funded and you were not."

Why did she say that? Why did she even think of that? McMullan took a deep breath. "But what if you got the funding and the other researcher didn't?" he asked. "Or, what if you were already set up to do the work, and you could just alter your program slightly based on his idea?"

She shrugged. "I guess if you were already funded and set up, you could scoop someone else's idea. And then it would come down to 'first-to-file' law: whoever files the patent first gets the intellectual property, regardless of whose idea it really was. Why? What are you getting at?"

"Never mind."

"No!" she snapped. "You're asking me these questions for a reason, and I want to know what it is!"

McMullan sighed. He had just broken a federal prisoner out of jail under a false pretense-without the approval, or even the knowledge, of his partner on the case. But he could no longer trust Gilman. Gilman had his own agenda. He could no longer trust Johnson. Johnson, most certainly, had his own agenda. He didn't even know for certain that he could trust Wong or Wood. McMullan was out of allies in the FBI.

But he needed Katrina for his next move, and one thing was certain. If the Doctor was telling the truth-if the water supply at the biotechnology convention had really been poisoned-Katrina Stone was the one person who could not have done it. She had been in jail the entire time.

"Ah, h.e.l.l," he said, and pulled a folded, two-sided sheet of paper from his pocket. He handed it to her, and while he drove, Katrina began to read.

"The front of that page is the Xerox of a second greeting card from our perp," McMullan said. "I got one copy and Gilman got one copy. The back side is the trace writing that was picked up by the ESDA trace our postal inspector did. It seems to be a message from the person who is orchestrating this whole thing."

She read the text on the front of the page, flipped it over, and read the reverse. "Oh my G.o.d!" she yelled suddenly. "They're going to poison the water supply at the convention!"

"I know, we've gotten that much," he said. "The rest is still a bit of a mystery."

"You don't understand!" Katrina shrieked. "My daughter is down there!"

8:54 A.M. PST.

The press had finally given up and moved on. Kevin picked Alexis up by the waist and swung her around in the crowd. Alexis burst into giggles.

"You did awesome, baby!" He planted a hard kiss on her mouth.

"d.a.m.n, that felt great," she said. "Talk about finally getting to speak my mind about my mother's work!"

Around them, several Animal Liberation Front members in black-and-white-striped costumes cheered and slapped high fives. Occasionally, someone would lean in to pat Alexis or Kevin on the back and offer congratulations.

"I'm glad we went with the jailbird angle," Alexis said, trying to calm down a little. "I think it really got their attention."

"I have to concur," Kevin said jovially. "Hey, I'm going to call our people at the labs and see how everyone is doing."

"OK," Lexi said. "I have to pee. Too much excitement!"

"Use the bathroom in the convention center," Kevin ordered. "And when you're inside, listen up to whatever conversations you can catch. I want to know if everything going on out here is being brought in there."

"Cool," Lexi said. "Be right back! And while I'm in there, maybe I'll pepper spray some scientists!" She sprang toward him for one last kiss before dashing off into the crowd.

Alexis was still smiling from ear to ear as she trotted toward the entrance of the convention center off of Harbor Avenue. Her smile faded when she was stopped.

"Badge?" the convention attendant asked curtly.

Alexis looked around. At that moment, she realized that everyone entering the convention center had an ID Badge pinned to his or her chest. s.h.i.t, she thought. I should have known. "Oh," she said aloud, "I left my badge with one of my colleagues inside. Maybe I can just pop in and grab her?"

"Sorry ma'am. You can't get in without it. It costs hundreds of dollars to attend this event. We can't just let anyone in off the street."

"Look at me!" Alexis argued. "Do I look like just anyone off the street?"

"No ma'am," the man said. "Nonetheless, I'm sorry. I can't let you through. Perhaps you can phone your colleague inside?"

Lexi's face lit up as an idea came to her. "I've tried calling," she said. "Unfortunately, my colleague's cell phone isn't getting signal with all the activity at the convention." Thanks, Mom, for being so perpetually hard to get a hold of.

The convention attendant looked the young woman up and down for a moment. It was true; people were constantly complaining about that problem. n.o.body's phone ever picked up reception in the convention center. Still, the boss would have his hide if he started letting people in without badges. And this girl, while dressed professionally, looked to be about sixteen years old. What was she doing here?

While the attendant was debating whether or not to bend the rule, a man in a navy blue suit approached. Unlike the young woman in front of him, this man was clearly old enough to have business here. More importantly, he bore the required badge.

"Did you leave your pa.s.s inside again, Doctor?" the man asked the girl.

She looked up at him and smiled. "Yes, and I don't know what to do," she said. Then she leaned in and lowered her voice to say, "and to be honest with you, I really have to use the restroom!"

The man looked toward the attendant and said, "Sir, surely you can let my colleague use the restroom and retrieve her badge. She really is a well-known scientist at this event. I will promise to take responsibility for her."

The conference attendant shook his head and took one more glance at the man's badge before waving them through.

8:59 A.M. PST.

Oscar Morales stepped into a room and sat down behind a metal barrier. His privilege to use the open visiting room had now been revoked, ever since he attacked a young woman inside it and had to be forcibly subdued.

"Who the f.u.c.k are you?" he asked. It was becoming a familiar greeting for Oscar, who, as of late had been visited by a number of strangers, each with his or her own questions. This time, it was a squat, balding man in a wrinkled pair of slacks. The man's b.u.t.ton-down shirt was unb.u.t.toned at the top, his tie loosely hanging from his neck. He looked exhausted and cross.

"Federal Agent Roger Gilman," Oscar's visitor replied and flashed an FBI badge.

Oscar stood to leave the room. "I'm not talking to you pigs," he said over his shoulder.

"Don't you want to know how your brother is doing?" Gilman shouted after him.

Oscar turned back around. He sat down and glared at the FBI agent through the barrier. "You're keeping tabs on my brother?"

"Yes sir," Gilman responded. "And on the woman who burned your brother's face off. And, as a matter of fact, on you. A fledgling biologist turned imprisoned bioterrorist? Yes sir, Mr. Morales, you are someone we now have a great deal of interest in."

"I'm still not talking to you. Show me that Chuck is OK."

"He's fine. Feeling pretty good, actually. Morphine can do wonders for one's mood. But I'm sure you know that, given your long and l.u.s.trous career as a drug dealer." Gilman shook his head dramatically. "You know, Morales, I'd love to say you should have stuck to biology. But as it turns out, you might still have ended up here. Looks like some of your former colleagues in the field certainly will."

"What do you want with me?" Oscar asked.

"Like I said, your brother is feeling pretty nice these days. He's awake, and of course he's stoned on morphine pretty constantly. It's made him remarkably talkative. Chuck says you carried out the biological terror attack that took place in this prison back in October. He says you orchestrated the whole thing from inside here.

"Your brother also says you're now responsible for a second attack that's in progress in San Diego even as we speak. To be frank, Mr. Morales, your brother's gab is about to land you on death row. So I'm just here to get your side of the story."

Oscar listened intently to the smug agent in front of him. Second attack? "My brother wouldn't rat on me," he said calmly. "And as for a second attack, I don't know anything about it. Obviously, I didn't do it. I'm in here."

"Sound logic," Gilman said, "except that we have two vials of the anthrax you gave your brother." He paused and grinned, as if for effect. "Guess what I learned today, Oscar? I just learned today that identical twins don't have identical fingerprints, even though they have identical DNA. It was your prints on the vials, my friend. Not Chuck's. Yours."

Oscar slammed his fists against the metal barrier. "Chuck was the one you caught with the anthrax!" he roared. "f.u.c.kin' baby never could take care of himself!"

He paused to think before saying, now calmly, "If my prints are on those vials, there was probably something else in them when I had my hands on them. I don't know what the f.u.c.k my brother did. I'm only in here in the first place because of Chuck. I took the fall for him years ago, and now he's expecting me to do it again. Well, not this time. f.u.c.k him. I'll give him up. I'll tell you everything you want to know. But I want my sentence reduced in return."

"Can I get that in writing?" Gilman asked with a smile.

"h.e.l.l, yeah."

But instead of producing a pen and paper, Gilman shouted back over his shoulder. "Did you catch all that, Chuck?"

9:00 A.M. PST.

"It's so obvious," Katrina said.

McMullan braked to slow his sedan as the eastbound 94 freeway came to a dead end in downtown San Diego. "What's so obvious?" For the last five minutes, neither he nor Katrina had spoken. She had been reading and re-reading the second greeting card.

"The language he keeps referring to," she said, "the language that none of you speak."

"We thought at first it was Arabic. Remember, the first card was written in Arabic. We were looking at ISIL and some of the other Arabic terrorist organizations. Nothing panned out."

"It's not Arabic," Katrina said. "It's science. This man is a scientist. He's frustrated that you aren't fluent in science."

"What makes you say that?" McMullan asked.

"The fact that he put a crystal structure on all three of these cards. He handed you the fact that anthrax was the weapon of choice. He knew from the beginning that the image on the front was the only definitive link between the greeting card and the attack at San Quentin.

"He was making a point that you missed the significance of the image and wasted time because you don't 'speak' science. To drive it home, the second cards say, 'it's unfortunate that you don't speak my language.' And, I gotta hand it to the Doctor. He's right. If you're still looking at Arabic, your heads are up your a.s.ses. The language is science."

Katrina took a breath and continued. "He chastises you again for not understanding him. Again, heads up your a.s.ses. No offense."

"None taken," McMullan said, but he could feel himself flushing slightly. "But why would he carry out the attack on a prison?"

"He wanted to see if his weapon would work. And, truth being told, that was really the best way, from a scientific point of view. There is only so much we can decipher from animal studies. The only way to really measure the effects of a drug-or a biological weapon, for that matter-on humans, is to test it in humans. He wanted to test his weapon on humans, and he thought the prison was a good place for the experiment to be conducted. I a.s.sume he reasoned that the only loss of life was sixty-eight inmates who had already been condemned to die anyway."

"Creepy, but logical," McMullan said and then hastily, "put that away!"

Katrina shoved the computer printout into the glove compartment as McMullan's black sedan rolled into the circus surrounding the convention center.

"OK then, Doctor, here's another dumb question," McMullan said. "Why in the h.e.l.l, if he's a scientist, would he come out here and poison a bunch of other scientists?"

Katrina shook her head. "To eliminate the compet.i.tion for funding?" She half chuckled, expecting McMullan to do the same.