True Evil. Greg Iles

my sister’s word, Doctor.”

      “Spoken on her deathbed, after a severe stroke.”

      Morse’s face became a mask of defiant determination.

      “I’m not trying to upset you,” Chris said. “I’m very sorry for your loss. I see that kind of tragedy week in and week out, and I know what it does to families.”

      She said nothing.

      “But you have to admit, it’s a pretty elaborate theory you’ve developed. It’s Hollywood stuff, in fact,” he said, recalling Foster’s words. “Not real life.”

      Morse did not look angry; in fact, she looked mildly amused. “Dr. Shepard, in 1995, a forty-four-year-old neurologist was arrested at the Vanderbilt Medical Center with a six-inch syringe and a four-inch needle in his pocket. The syringe was filled with boric acid and salt water. I’m sure you know that solution would have been lethal if injected into a human heart.”

      “That’s about the only thing a four-inch needle’s good for,” Chris thought aloud.

      “The neurologist was planning to murder a physician who’d been his supervisor when he was a resident there. When police searched a storage unit he owned, they found books on assassination and the production of toxic biological agents. They also found a jar containing ricin, one of the deadliest poisons in the world. The neurologist had planned to soak the pages of a book with a solvent mixture that would promote the absorption of ricin through the skin.” Morse looked over at Chris with a raised eyebrow. “Is that elaborate enough for you?”

      Chris shifted down two gears and pedaled ahead.

      Morse quickly rode alongside him again. “In 1999, a woman in San Jose, California, was admitted to the hospital with nausea and blinding headaches. They gave her a CAT scan and found nothing. But a technician had laid the woman’s earrings down next to a stack of unexposed X-ray film. When they were developed, the tech saw an apparent defect on each of the films. It was very distinctive. He finally figured out that one of the woman’s earrings had exposed the films.”

      “The earrings were radioactive?”

      “One of them was. The woman’s husband was a radiation oncologist. The police called in the Bureau, and we discovered that her cell phone was as hot as a piece of debris from Chernobyl. Turned out her husband had hidden a small pellet of cesium inside the phone. Of course, by that time he’d put the pellet back into its lead-lined case at his office. But the traces were still there.”

      “Did she develop cancer?”

      “She hasn’t yet, but she may. She absorbed hundreds of times the permissible exposure.”

      “What happened to the radiation oncologist?”

      “He’s in San Quentin now. My point is, doctors aren’t immune to homicidal impulses. And they’re capable of very elaborate plans to carry them out. I could cite dozens of similar cases for you.”

      Chris waved his right hand. “Save your breath. I know some stone-crazy doctors myself.” Despite his casual retort, he was sobered by Morse’s revelations.

      “There are four and a half thousand doctors in Mississippi,” she said. “Add to that about five thousand dentists. Then you have veterinarians, med techs, university researchers, nurses—a massive suspect pool, even if you assume the killer is from Mississippi. And I’ve only been onto this theory for seven days.”

      As Morse spoke, Chris realized that the apparent enormity of the task was illusory; it only existed because of a lack of baseline information. “You’ve got to find the cause of death in these people—or rather the cause of the cause, the etiology of these blood cancers. If it is radiation, you could start narrowing your suspect pool pretty quickly.”

      Her voice took on an excited edge. “An expert I talked to says radiation is the surest and simplest method.”

      “But you don’t have forensic evidence? No radiation burns, or strange symptoms noted long before the cancer was diagnosed?”

      “No. Again, because local law enforcement authorities don’t believe these deaths were murder, there’s a problem of access to the bodies.”

      “What about the medical records of the alleged victims?”

      “I managed to get the records of two victims from angry family members. But experts have been over both of them in microscopic detail, and they haven’t turned up anything suspicious.”

      Chris blinked against stinging sweat that the rain had washed into his eyes.

      “But I’m told that radiation could explain the variation in the cancers,” Morse went on. “You expose somebody to radiation, there’s no way to predict how their cells will react.”

      Chris nodded, but something about this idea bothered him. “Your expert is right. But then, why are blood cancers the only result? Why no solid tumors? Why no melanomas? And why only superaggressive blood cancers? You couldn’t predict something like that with radiation.”

      “Maybe you could,” Morse suggested. “If you were a radiation oncologist.”

      “Maybe,” Chris conceded. “If you managed to expose the bone marrow primarily, you might get more blood cancers than other types. But if that’s true, you just shrank your suspect pool by about ten thousand people.”

      Morse smiled. “Believe me, every radiation oncologist in Mississippi is under investigation at this moment.”

      “How many are there?”

      “Nineteen. But it’s not a simple matter of alibis. I can’t ask some doctor where he was on a given day at a given time, because we have no way to know when the victims were dosed. You see?”

      “Yeah. Dragnet methods are out the window. But it’s not just a doctor you’re looking for, right? It’s the lawyer, too. If you’re right, he functions almost like the killer’s agent.”

      “Exactly. Only he handles an assassin instead of a quarterback or a singer.”

      Chris laughed softly. “How would a relationship like that get started? You can’t go scouting for promising young assassins. There’s no national draft. Does your greedy lawyer put an ad on the Internet to recruit someone who can kill people without a trace? Does he hire a medical headhunter?”

      “I know it sounds ridiculous when you put it like that, but we’re talking about a lot of money here.”

      “How much?”

      “Millions in every case. So the lawyer has a pretty big carrot to hold out in front of someone who probably makes a hundred grand or less at his legitimate job.”

      To break the monotony of the ride, Chris gently steered left and right. Morse gave him room to ride his serpentine course.

      “Lawyers get to know a lot of professional criminals in the course of their work,” she pointed out. “And necessity is the mother of invention, right? I think this guy simply saw a demand for a service and then found a way to provide it.”

      Chris pedaled out in front of her so that a large truck could pass. Illegally, since big trucks weren’t allowed on the Trace. “A lot of what you say makes sense,” he called over the sound of the receding truck, “but I still say your theory doesn’t add up.”

      “Why not?” Morse asked, pulling alongside again.

      “The time factor. If I want to kill someone, it’s because I really hate them, or because I stand to gain a hell of a lot if they die. Or maybe I stand to lose millions of dollars if my wife goes on living, like you said yesterday. What if she wants to take my children away forever? I’m not going to wait months or years for her to croak. I want immediate action.”

      “Even if that’s the case,” said Morse, “the most likely result of any conventional murder—especially in a divorce situation—is the killer