Biowar

3

“You found him just like this?”

“Haven’t touched him. You can see where the blood is. I would have to have stepped into it.”

“How’d you know he was dead?”

“Well, I guess in theory I don’t,” Dean told the plainclothes investigator.

“All right, let’s go outside. ID people have to go over the place.”

“ID?”

“Crime-scene guys.”

The state police investigator put his hand out in the direction of the door. Dean walked out to the front of the house and followed down toward the driveway, which was now filled with several troop cars, an SUV, and an unmarked Bureau of Criminal Investigation sedan.

“You mind showing me your license?”

“I went through this with the trooper.”

“Yeah, I know.” The BCI investigator didn’t sound particularly apologetic. “You right- or left-handed?”

Dean held out his arms so the investigator could look at his sleeves himself. “You want to dust me or something?”

The investigator stared at Dean’s arms and hands. Probably he was trying to decide whether Dean was smart enough to wash and change his clothes after firing a gun, so there were no traces of gunpowder.

Or blood.

“How ’bout that license?” said the investigator, looking up.

“Your name again was—”

“Achilles Gorman. License?”

Dean took out his wallet and handed over his ID. He’d already put his pistol and its holster in the car — not hiding them, exactly, just trying to avoid unnecessary questions.

Gorman called in the license information, then copied it in a small notebook he’d taken from his pocket.

“You live in California?” the detective asked.

“I’m in the process of relocating.”

“Up here?”

“Maryland.”

They went back and forth like that for a while, the investigator gathering useless background information. Even if Dean hadn’t been working for the NSA, he would have stuck to one-word answers. He didn’t particularly like being questioned, and while he’d come to respect police officers during his days as the owner of a string of gas stations, he resented the fact that Achilles Gorman treated him more like a suspect than a witness.

“So Mr. Keys, where does he hang out?”

“I just call him Keys. His name is Dr. Kegan.”

“Where does he hang out?”

“I don’t know. When I was here last we went into town. Some place called Maduro?”

“Like the cigar?”

Dean shrugged. “I guess:”

“It’s not there now.”

“Don’t know what to tell you.”

Casper the cat came out, mewing loudly. Gorman stooped down, scratching the animal’s head. He licked Gorman’s fingers as if they were covered with catnip.

“Dr. Kegan — he a rich guy?” asked Gorman.

“He’s got some money, but I wouldn’t say he’s rich.”

“Pretty big house. A lot of property.”

“Guess it depends on what you mean by rich.”

The BCI investigator smiled. “Let’s go over your arrival again from the top.”

“Again?”

“You know, Mr. Dean, the thing is, this is a pretty serious felony here.”

“Yeah?”

“Be better if you cooperated.”

“You don’t think I did this, do you?”

“Be better if you cooperated.”

Eventually, Charlie Dean found himself back at the troopers’ barracks, giving his statement for the third time. Gorman used two fingers to pound it into his computer. At three o’clock, as they waited for the printer to deliver a fresh draft, the investigator picked up his phone and sent one of the troopers to the deli for some sandwiches. That signaled the start of a short interval of nice-cop behavior; the invesdgator got a cola from the soda machine in the lobby and even offered Charlie a plastic cup to use. Charlie stuck with the can.

Gorman claimed he had a relative who worked for the GSA in Washington, and wanted to know which government agency Charlie worked for.

“I’m just a government employee and let’s leave it at that,” he said, and the nice-cop routine came to an end.

They went over the statement twice. Around four, the investigator’s boss came in, a Lieutenant Knapp. Short and so muscular that the bullet-proof vest he was wearing looked like a flat baking pan, Knapp asked Charlie exactly two questions after looking over the statement:

This true?

You think your friend did it?

He answered “yes” and “no,” respectively.

“You’re done here. Make sure Gorman has a phone number where he can reach you.”

“He does.” Dean started to leave.

“If Kegan contacts you,” said Gorman, “we’d appreciate knowing about it.”

“Sure,” said Dean.

Gorman frowned but said nothing else.