didn't hide his weak build, and I tried to imagine him standing up to Kenneth Wade, who was about as SWAT team tough as they get. It figured it probably wasn't much of a fight.
“We understand there was some trouble last night,” I said. “You mind telling me about it?”
“Trouble,” he said, and made a disgusted noise. “Do you see this?” He pointed at his eye.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes, I'd call this trouble. This is Officer Wade's handiwork.”
“I've heard that,” I said. “Why?”
“Because he's a psychopath.”
I waited.
He looked at me, then at Chunk, and made a harumph sound. “Your Officer Wade has been trying to get into Emma's knickers from the very first day he was assigned here. Fortunately, Emma's a smart woman and she recognized what kind of man he was from the very beginning. When he tried to get her to leave our little party with him last night, she told him no. There was an argument, and she appealed to me for help. Luckily, I was there to tell him to stop behaving like an ass. You see, Emma and I have always been rather close. Officer Wade knew that of course. Everyone around here does. My only guess is he felt threatened. He did this, and then he left.”
As I listened to the lilt of his English accent-upper class English by the sound of it-I thought to myself that this was the kind of man my husband Billy referred to as Nancy boy, meaning a wimp. Personally, I could never be attracted to a pansy man like Myers, and I couldn't imagine Emma Bradley finding anything in him either.
“Was this the first time Wade ever tried to horn in on your friendship with Dr. Bradley?” I asked.
“Horn in?” he said, chin in the air. I could tell he was thinking about all the ways he hated that phrase, how low class he thought it was. “Yes, if I understand your meaning correctly, last night was the first occasion. She told me he has made several inappropriate overtures to her in the past few weeks, but each time she told him she was not interested and the matter was dropped.”
“She told you that? That the matter was dropped?”
“Those are my words, detective. Not hers. Emma Bradley, for all her many wonderful qualities, was still an American woman. Born and raised in Seattle, Washington. Her words for it were a bit rangier. She told him to'- there was a pause while he obviously savored the bittersweet humor of the memory-'to keep it in his pants.”
I tried not to smile.
“Do you know why she chose to go with him, this morning?”
“I don't pretend to know her mind completely, Detective. I can only tell you that Emma was very self- assured. I am sure that she felt Mr. Kenneth Wade was someone she could handle easily enough.” He looked away for a second, and I thought, Oh Jesus, wimp boy is gonna cry. The tears didn't come, but when he went on, there was a hitch in his voice. “My God, but if I had only known he would prove to be a killer.”
“We don't know that he is Dr. Bradley's killer yet,” I pointed out.
His face wrinkled into an expression somewhere between indignation and surprise. “Not her killer?” he said. “You must be joking. I would have thought that was patently obvious. Or is this going to be yet another example of the San Antonio corruption we've already seen so much of?”
I ignored that. “We haven't spoken to Officer Wade yet,” I said. “We'll know more when we do, but for now, we're gonna concern ourselves with the 24 hours prior to her death. The most critical points for our investigation will have happened during that time.”
Myers rolled his eyes, passive-aggressive style. He didn't believe a word I was saying.
A printer in a little cubby on the wall to my left started spitting out papers and a lab tech came into the door without knocking. She looked at Dr. Myers, then at Chunk and me and her eyes got very big.
“I'm sorry,” she said.
“It's fine, Angie,” he said. He rose from his chair and took her document off the printer and handed it to her. “Give us a moment, love,” he said.
She nodded and he closed the door behind her.
“We have small quarters here,” he said by way of apology, and went back to his chair.
“We could use some help generating that timeline, Dr. Myers.”
He nodded.
I said, “We know about the fight. What time did that happen?”
“You mean when I was assaulted by one of your officers?”
“Yes sir. What time was that?”
“Two o'clock. Maybe two-thirty.”
“And what time did this party get started?” I asked.
“Ten-thirty. We left from here at perhaps ten-fifteen, after we shut down the lab.”
“The lounge is in the main building, correct?”
“Yes,” he said, and crossed his arms over his chest. In the interviewing schools they sent us to when Chunk and I became detectives we learned little things like crossing your arms across your chest or where you point your eyes are indications of defensiveness or lying, but with Myers I got the feeling he was simply holding himself, trying to keep his composure. “Second floor, east side of the building.”
“Was Officer Wade with you when you left here for the party?”
“He showed up later. Maybe twenty to eleven.”
“And afterwards? After Officer Wade hit you? What happened then?”
“After he mauled me he stood in the middle of the room, yelling obscenities at everyone there. He was a beast. He dared us to fight him. When no one did, he stormed out. We didn't see him again until this morning.”
“We didn't?”
“I didn't.”
“And after the fight?” I asked. “Where did you go?”
“I walked Dr. Bradley back to her trailer. When she was safely inside, I returned to my trailer.”
“Do you know if maybe Officer Wade tried to contact her again last night?”
“I don't know if he did or not. Her lights went out at three-fifty or so. As did my own.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Chunk rocking back and forth in his chair and I could tell we were thinking the same thing. Little Mr. Lonelyhearts sure keeps close tabs on his girlfriend. Things to make you go hmmm.
“How about this morning?” I asked. “Where did you go after Dr. Bradley and Officer Wade left here?”
He cocked his head at an odd angle, like I'd just started speaking Hebrew or something. And then he said, “Oh. Detective, are you suggesting that I…”
“I'm asking a question, Dr. Myers. Nothing more. I'm going to ask the same question to every member of the staff.”
“Oh. Well, I was here. Till around ten-thirty. From here, I went down on the loading docks, where I collected lung tissue specimens for our experiments.”
“Okay,” I told him. “And there are others who can vouch for you?”
“For someone who is just asking questions, Detective, you are doing a very good job of making me feel like a suspect.”
“Yes or no, doctor. Did anybody else see you on the loading docks, collecting lung tissue specimens?”
I had insulted him, and it flustered him. His one good eye took on a pouty look and he turned slightly toward a row of files along one wall. Outside I could hear a truck backing up, and a man yelling orders at somebody.
“Almost certainly,” he said. “I met Dr. Herrera on the floor of the main building. We had a conversation with Dr. Laurent, and Dr. Walter Cole from the Metropolitan Health District, and probably four or five members of Dr. Herrera's staff. One of his nurses, in fact, a Ms. Susan Hinton, helped us take tissue specimens.”
“Okay. How about other members of the WHO staff? Were any of them out in the field today?”
“I'm sure they were,” he said, and then waved his hand in the air like he wanted to put me back on the right track. “Listen, Detective, if you want to know Emma Bradley's mind, you should really read her research journal.”
“Her journal?”
“Yes. A red hardcover book. She wrote in it constantly. Emma always took exacting notes on her field research. It would contain a minute by minute diary of her work.”
