The Serpent's Kiss

13

Lauren Taplin-Smithson's office looked like a bomb had hit it. It was a square room with a window looking east, the blinds drawn. The sole lighting came from an old lamp that looked like it had been picked up at a flea market. The office was dominated by a large, shabby wood desk that appeared to have been painted a few dozen times over the years. It had sharp corners and although the major surface color was maroon, it was worn in patches to reveal bits of baby blue, and beneath the blue were bits of banana yellow. The desk itself, probably chosen because of its size, supported a large wide-screen laptop attached to an even larger flat-screen monitor that was currently displaying what looked to be a graphical representation of a fireworks star burst. Each bit of star burst was labeled with a three letter designation.

A boom box sitting on the window sill played the local NPR station, WDET, and they were covering the terrorist events in the New Center Area. All the wall space was dominated by bookshelves — cheap ones, made out of cinder blocks and one-by-twelves painted green. The books and manuals on the shelves were stacked every which way, some upright, some piled on their sides, some leaning at angles. Papers and printouts in manila folders were piled on every horizontal surface. Post-It notes were everywhere.

“May I see your ID?” Taplin-Smithson asked, pointing to the two chairs in front of her desk. They were old overstuffed armchairs, faded afghans thrown over them to hide what appeared to be rips billowing wayward stuffing.

Jill and Derek provided identification. Taplin-Smithson focused on Derek. “It says PhD. What’s your degree in?”

“Microbiology and biochemistry.”

“Dual?”

“Biological and chemical warfare were the actual topics I researched,” Derek said.

“That would explain your presence. How can I help you?”

“John Simmons,” Jill said. “What can you tell us about him?”

Taplin-Smithson shrugged. “Smart. Good guy. He’s a physician with an interest in public health, and government and public responses to large-scale health emergencies — pandemics, epidemics, natural disasters. He’s involved with the Terrorism Research Center.”

“Are you?” Derek asked.

“No. I’m a biostatistician and an epidemiologist. That’s where I’ve worked with John. Is… was John at that—” She waved her hand at the radio.

“Yes,” Derek said. “I’m sorry.”

Taplin-Smithson sighed and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “Damn. Who else?”

“Fifty-one other people,” Derek said.

“I know, I know. But…”

“John Simmons usually had breakfast there with a regular group of people?” Jill asked.

“Oh sure. The Breakfast Club. Kind of a joke. Like that ‘80s movie about the kids who got detention? Anyway, they’ve been going for a few years. Are they…” She stopped, swallowed. “Are they all dead?”

“We’re trying to determine exactly who was in the usual group,” Jill said.

“Well, there were typically ten of them. Were there ten? Do you have the names?”

Jill didn’t answer. Instead she asked, “Can you give us the names of some of the people he usually went with?”

The professor leaned back in her chair, a battered cloth rocker that looked very comfortable. She tapped her fingers. “Well, Brad Beales, for sure. He’s a linguist here at Wayne and associated with the terrorist center. Melanie Tolliver. She’s over at Ford Hospital. So is Jorge Gomez. Hmmm, well, Bill Harrington used to go, but that’s over now. He doesn’t go. I bet Rebecca still does, though. Well, I’m pretty sure of it. I guess I don’t know the others, though if you give me some names I’m sure I could confirm them.”

Jill scanned the list of names. “Sally LeVidic?”

“Yeah. She’s at Ford. Hypertension research.”

“Wei Ling-Wei.”

“Sure. Same lab.”

“Ron Yaught.”

“Hmmm. Don’t know him. Just a second.” She tapped at her computer keyboard, the graphic disappearing. The Wayne State University online directory came up and she typed in Ronald Yaught. A listing of him in the languages department popped up. “Huh. Somebody Brad must have brought in. Don’t know him, though. Anybody else?”

“Stefan Carabaccio.”

“Biostatistics. At Ford,” she said, tone leaden. “I know him. God, he died, too? Dammit.” Her voice broke with emotion.

“Who’s Rebecca?” Jill asked.

“Rebecca Harrington.” Taplin-Smithson’s face turned even glummer. “Did she die there, too?”

“No,” Derek said. “She didn’t.” Jill shot him an annoyed look, but he ignored her.

“Huh,” Taplin-Smithson said. “John was there but Rebecca wasn’t. That’s a little strange.” She seemed almost to be talking to herself.

“Why is that?” Jill asked.

Taplin-Smithson sighed and leaned back in her creaking chair again. “Well… that’s why Bill Harrington wasn’t there. He used to go. It was a pretty tight group. Then John Simmons and Rebecca Harrington had an affair. Bill and Rebecca got a divorce about a year ago. John and Rebecca have been together ever since.”

Jill and Derek thought that over for a moment. Jill broke the silence. “What did Rebecca do?”

“She’s an administrator here, over at Karmanos.”

“Did she and Simmons live together?”

“N-n-noooo, I don’t think so. Not that I heard anyway.”

“How,” Derek said, “did Bill Harrington and John Simmons get along? Especially with Simmons working under him?”

“Oh, Bill’s only over him in the terrorism center. Bill Harrington’s lab’s in the biochemistry department, but his office is here. The Terrorism Center is one of those… well, you know how institutions and think tanks and universities sometimes work. There’s no physical entity. It’s just a group of people who have meetings together and sort of cooperate with each other from their various specialties.”

Jill and Derek shot each other significant looks. Jill said, “Where does Bill Harrington live?”

“Birmingham.”

“What about Rebecca Harrington?”

“Ferndale. Why?”

Jill got to her feet. “Do you have addresses for both of them?”

“No. Cassandra might—”

Jill held out her hand. “Thank you for your time.”

Derek and Jill were heading out the door before the professor could say anything else.