When Lang had last left the place, it had resembled a modernized version of Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory. Now it looked like it had hatched Hurricane Katrina instead of a humanoid monster. The only things in place were two long tables that would have been too heavy to move without a crew. Loose pages, perhaps from the notebook, were scattered on the floor, which crunched with broken glass as Lang walked. Microscopes and tools he didn't recognize were thrown about as though shaken in some huge blender. He saw a spectrophotometer lying on its side. The thing had cost the foundation as much as a pair of Ferraris.
'What the hell…?'
Morse pointed to yet another man, who was photographing the chalk outline of a body sprawled across the floor. 'We found him there. The rent-a-cop heard sounds like somebody was tryin' to take the place apart, came in, took one look, an' called us.'
'Any idea who…?'
'This ain't Law 'n' Order, where we solve the case in half an hour so the prosecutor can have the other half for a conviction between ads. Fact is, we don't even know yet what time the vie died. We're assumin' it was 'bout the time someone was trashing the place.'
'Any motive?'
'That's why I called you, Mr. Reilly. Other'n the fact that you're involved in half the mayhem in this town, I figgered you might have an idea, since your foundation funded this operation.'
It had been the grant. How had Morse gotten that information in the middle of the night?
'I only met the man two, three times.'
'Awful lotta money to give a stranger.'
'Dr. Lewis wasn't a stranger,' Lang said stiffly. 'He was an internationally respected physical chemist.' Or was it a chemophysicist? 'He was doing research on non-fossil fuels.'
'You mean like gas substitutes, like ethanol to run cars?'
Lang's knowledge of chemistry and physics stopped at the composition of water and the law of gravity.
'I'm not sure.'
'Not sure? You're mighty careless with a whole lot o' money, Mr. Reilly.'
'The foundation hires people to manage how the money's spent, Detective, as well as how much each project legitimately needs and the qualifications of the people running those projects. I assure you, the foundation watches its money a lot closer than your employer does.'
A safe guess. With ability to pay bribes being the former administration's only apparent qualification for selecting city contractors, and a tax department that could not be more incompetent if operated by Moe, Larry, and Curly, both the city and county were perpetually curtailing an ever-diminishing list of services. Those most in need of those services were, of course, those who didn't pay for them.
The only true beneficiary of the system was, or had been, Lang's client, the former mayor.
Morse held up his hands in surrender. 'I'm just an employee doin' my job. Think I wouldn't like to see the mayor crucified for what he stole?'
Hopefully Morse would not be on the jury panel.
'Sorry, Detective, I…'
Another man entered the room. Even though he had never seen the newcomer, Lang knew who he was. Slender build in a medium-priced suit, shiny wingtips. Large, over six feet, mid-thirties. Dark hair cut slightly shorter than currently fashionable, and freshly shaved, as though he had put down his razor just before coming here. Or, more likely, had an electric shaver in his government-issued Ford or Chevy.
Lang had seen him hundreds of times in slightly differing sizes and shapes. This man, or one just like him, routinely testified against Lang's clients. The names changed but that special uniformity did not.
The cop at the door followed the new man in and pointed to Morse. The man stepped purposefully across the room. Lang thought he heard a 'Shit!' from the detective.
The man held up a wallet with a badge attached to it. 'Special Agent Charles Witherspoon, FBI.'
He did not extend a hand to shake.
Neither did Morse. 'A Fibbie. Now, ain't that a surprise, the bureau workin' such late hours? I woulda sworn he'd be from the funeral home they gonna take the vie to.'
Either Special Agent Witherspoon was inured to the barbs of local cops or he wasn't clever enough to recognize them. 'You are Det. Franklin Morse?'
Lang could see a wisecrack flash across the detective's mind, but Morse said, 'Yep. What can I do for you, Agent Witherspoon, seein' as how this is purely a local matter?'
'I'm here to offer the bureau's complete and total assistance.'
That, Lang knew, translated into a statement of intent to take the case over if any possible federal grounds for doing so could be found or, for that matter, created.
Witherspoon turned to Lang. 'And you are?'
'He'd be head of the foundation that funds… funded Dr. Lewis's research,' Morse said before Lang could reply. 'The doctor was engaged in some sort of non-fossil fuel research. You know, like ethanol to run cars.'
The federal man was clearly annoyed that Morse had taken over the interview, and Morse was just as clearly enjoying it. Lang would not have been totally surprised to see each man start urinating around the room to mark each square foot as his exclusive territory.
Disappointingly, no bodily functions ensued.
Instead Morse asked, 'And just what can I thank for havin' the bureau's offer of assistance?'
Without so much as a flicker of a smile, Witherspoon replied, 'National security.'
'Based on what?' the detective asked.
'I'm not at liberty to say.'
'Okay, then, how did you find out about a killin' so quick?'
'Again, I'm not at liberty to say.'
Morse leaned back, stroking his chin as if in thought. 'Lemme see here, now. You want to know whatever we find out, you're willin' to cooperate, but you ain't answerin' none o' my questions. That about it?'
Lang fully expected the same response about lack of liberty to say.
Instead Witherspoon gave a chilly smile. 'Detective, you and I will get along a lot better if you simply tell me what the bureau can do.'
Morse appeared to give the matter serious thought. 'For starters, you can reduce the number o' folks standin' 'round the crime scene by one. Gimme your card an' I'll call soon's I figger what else you can do.'
This time Witherspoon understood. 'Mind if I look around?'
'Long's you don't touch anythin' an' don' git in the way o' my folks.'
The G-man turned to Lang. 'What do you know about Dr. Lewis?'
Lang shrugged, about to repeat what he had told Morse.
Th' man was an internationally renowned scientist,' the detective volunteered.
'Your foundation funds hospitals and medical services in poor countries,' Witherspoon said to Lang. 'What made you deviate into supporting fuel research?'
Lang paused before answering, again surprised at how readily information was accessible day or night. 'A friend in London suggested it, actually. He was a personal acquaintance of Dr. Lewis's. The people in charge of new grants checked him and his work out and decided that finding an alternative to fossil fuels was a worthy cause.'
Witherspoon shot a quick glance to someone who was taking pictures of the wreckage. 'Exactly what sort of alternative fuel was he working on?'
The question was almost a statement, without the inflection of real curiosity, as if Witherspoon either didn't care or already knew the answer.
'I'm not sure. He'd been here less than six months, so a detailed progress report wasn't due yet. If you're really interested, I can-'
The man who had been at the computer interrupted. 'Detective, the hard drive's been taken, along with a dozen or so pages from his research log.'
Morse's head bobbed slowly. 'I'd say that eliminates the possibility of the perp bein' some junkie randomly lookin' for somethin' to steal to feed his habit.'
'Don't be too sure, Detective.' The man held up a plastic bag. Lang had to lean forward to see a trace of
