The Serpent's Kiss

57

FBI agent Simona Toreanno waited in her car outside the University Health Center. The majority of the university campus had been evacuated. The exception had been the Detroit Medical Center, including Grace Hospital and Detroit Receiving, though security had been stepped up and the Detroit P.D. bomb squad was doing sweeps for explosive devices. The University Health Center, however, was as quiet as, well, she thought, as quiet as a tomb.

A black Lincoln Towncar pulled up near her and a stocky black man in an elegant tailored gray suit approached. In a deep, mellifluous voice he said, “Are you Special Agent Toreanno?”

“Yes. Are you Dr. Nolan Webster?”

“Yes.”

Agent Toreanno stepped out of her car. She realized that Webster wasn’t just stocky, but tall, as well, standing nearly six-feet-five, at least. She had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. Despite her instincts, she did not step back from his physical presence.

“I will need to see identification, Doctor.”

Webster looked briefly amused, then a grave expression crossed his face. “Yes, of course. I’d like to see yours as well.”

They exchanged identification, then Webster waved for her to follow. “I’m not entirely sure what you need, Agent Toreanno, but I’ll help in any way I can.”

“I need as much information about the Center for Biological and Chemical Terrorism Research as you can provide. In particular, we want the names and contact information of everybody involved.”

“Ah, I see. And this has to do with William Harrington?”

“And John Simmons.”

Webster paused in his stride toward the building’s front doors, set of keys in his hand. He looked at her over his shoulder. “John died in the first attack.”

“Yes, sir. We know that.”

“He was my friend.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

He nodded thoughtfully, inserted a key into the lock and opened the door for her. She stepped in before him and he followed, locking the door again after them.

“Was William Harrington also your friend, sir?”

Again, the over-the-shoulder glance. “We were colleagues. I didn’t know him very well.”

Toreanno wondered if that was true, or if, given the likelihood of Harrington being a mass murderer, Dr. Webster, Dean of the Medical School, was intentionally keeping his distance.

“That sounds like you didn’t like him, sir.”

Webster stopped and turned to look down at her. “Agent Toreanno,” he said. “If you are asking me if I think William Harrington is this murderer calling himself The Serpent, I can’t help you. The fact is, I do not know. I hope it’s not true. I have met Dr. Harrington, and we interacted occasionally at University social events and at meetings, but our interactions were not regular or in-depth. On the surface, Dr. Harrington seemed to be an intelligent, capable man with no obvious evidence of mental illness. He was polite and collegial. As far as I know, there were never any complaints filed against him. That is all I know.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Webster seemed about to say something else, but instead turned and strode toward the elevators. Over his shoulder he said, “I have a list of all of the faculty involved with the CBCTR. You will find contact information there.”

They rode up to Webster’s office on the top floor. It was large, with a view of downtown only partially blocked by the Medical Center. His furniture was blond oak, modern, his diplomas and other accomplishments framed on his walls. Webster crossed to a large filing cabinet, unlocked it, and thumbed through several files until he found what he was looking for. “I’ll copy this for you,” he said. “It’ll take a few minutes to warm up the Xerox.”

When he returned with the warm copy, she studied it. There were nine names on the list. Two of them, John Simmons and Brad Beales, had died at the Boulevard Café. Subtract William Harrington and she was down to six.

“Thank you, Doctor. Now, I’d like access to John Simmons’ office.” And hope like hell it wasn’t booby-trapped, she thought.