Covenant A Novel

WADI AL-JOZ

WEST BANK, PALESTINE


Lucy Morgan awoke, struggling to overcome her drug-induced lethargy and reach the shore of consciousness just ahead.

She tried to move her body but her wrists and ankles were still firmly bound and a thick leather strap encircled her waist. Cold metal touched her skin. She turned her head and saw the room about her, enshrouded in darkness, and with a bolt of panic she realized where she lay.

“Good morning.”

The voice, somehow familiar, hovered somewhere beyond the periphery of her vision. A face appeared and gazed down at her, hollow-looking eyes, a flare of white hair illuminated like a halo by the bright light, and wearing what looked like a surgeon’s gown. She realized that semi-opaque adhesive patches had been attached to her face to protect her eyes, obscuring her vision.

Lucy Morgan swallowed thickly, trying not to tremble.

“Murderer,” she whispered. “You killed Ahmed.”

Again, that excruciatingly compassionate smile.

“No,” the surgeon replied. “A discoverer, a journeyman, a seeker of the truth.”

Lucy’s addled brain struggled to comprehend what the man was referring to as he moved around the gurney upon which she lay. As he spoke, she realized that her body and forehead were covered with electrodes attached with adhesive patches. Small wires ran from the pads to the monitors alongside the gurney.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she muttered with forced contempt. “You’re dabbling in things that you can’t possibly comprehend.”

The surgeon looked at her in surprise, and nodded happily.

“You’re the first patient to say that, Lucy. I’m impressed, truly I am.”

Lucy saw him adjust dials on one of the monitors before turning to look down at her again. She was naked but for a small pair of white briefs and a bra, not her own, she realized. He must have dressed her, tended to her as she lay comatose beneath the anesthetics that he had forced into her unwilling body. The knowledge sent a bolt of nausea through her.

“Don’t worry,” he said quietly, as if sensing her discomfort. “You have been cared for without violation of any kind.”

Lucy looked at him, radiating hatred. “You don’t call this a violation?”

The surgeon chuckled. “It is for the greater good, Lucy. Not just yours, not just mine.”

Lucy remembered what she had seen here previously, the image of Ahmed Khan’s bucking, writhing, salivating madness filling her with horror.

“Maybe nobody can survive whatever you’re doing.”

He shook his head again.

“It was their brains. The arteries could not withstand the rise in blood pressure nor the oxygen bubbles reaching the brain during transfusion. The drug addicts developed cerebral aneurisms. I should have tilted their bodies to raise the head, preventing oxygen bubbles in the blood from reaching the brain. But that matters not; now I have you.”

Lucy felt a mounting sense of horror.

“That might not be enough!”

“There is always a way, Lucy. You of all people should know that, as a scientist. The gathering of data, over time, leads to evidence, hypothesis, and eventually to theory, and that theory, based on fact, must be accepted by the observer regardless of their own prejudices. I have examined every single patient, every single procedure, and thus have seen the error in my thinking. They might have survived had I been more adept.”

Lucy shook her head.

“Your errors cost them their lives. Murder is murder no matter how it comes about, when it is done against the will of your so-called patients.” Lucy covered her fear with a thin smile. “What goes around, comes around.”

The blurred figure shrugged.

“My fate is irrelevant, Lucy. Only the results matter, and when they are published, the cost will be far outweighed by the value of the discovery, of the evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

The surgeon moved toward her, and she realized he was carrying a syringe. He reached up for the saline tube that ran into her left arm.

“Time for you to go to sleep, my dear,” he said softly.

“You don’t have to do this,” Lucy said, her voice quivering now.

“But, Lucy, of course I do.”

“No.”

Lucy’s voice was a weak whisper, but a deeper voice growled from the darkness.

“Wait.”

A figure lumbered out of the gloom to stand over her body. Thick stubble and bulky features, squinting piglike eyes, wearing combat fatigues and boots.

“Time for you to see the light of day,” the soldier said to the surgeon.

The surgeon looked at the soldier, frustration building in his body until he trembled and with one hand thumped the metal desktop beside him.

“Damn! Now? Can it not wait another hour?”

“No, it can’t. You’ll be back here by midday.”

The surgeon gathered himself together and put down his syringe, looking at Lucy.

“A pity,” he said. “I was looking forward to this.”

“You’ll be able to continue within a couple of hours,” the soldier assured him. “Right now, we’ve got to move.”

“I take it that Patterson’s little game is starting to unravel at the seams?” the surgeon asked.

Lucy saw the soldier glare cruelly at the surgeon.

“You mention a name one more time and I’ll put that syringe somewhere that will silence you for good.”

The surgeon, slipping out of his lab coat, chose to ignore the threat and instead walked to a locker. Lucy saw him open it and lift out an old, battered and torn gray jacket. The surgeon looked at her, as if remembering that she was there at all. He strolled over as he slipped into the jacket, and twisted the little dial on her drip.

Lucy felt the darkness slowly enveloping her again.





FIRST DISTRICT STATION

M STREET SW, WASHINGTON DC


Tyrell listened to Lopez as he drove onto M Street Southwest, joining rivers of headlights flowing south.

“Okay, this guy was born in Israel and raised with dual nationality in Huntsville, Alabama,” Lopez read from a report nestled on her lap. “Got a degree in neurological sciences at the University of Alabama, before settling in Israel in 1978 and conducting clinical studies on the suspended animation of mammals using methods involving cryogenic cooling.”

Tyrell glanced at her. “Something like what we saw?”

Lopez sifted through the file and pulled one sheet out that she’d marked in red pen on the corner. She read through a couple of lines.

“… replacing the blood using a controlled saline solution cooled to thirty degrees Fahrenheit, introduced to the subject intravenously. The body of the subject will experience hypothermia with the complete cessation of all major organ activity, rendering the subject clinically dead and in a state of controlled homeostasis. Here, the immune system becomes drastically hindered, allowing otherwise toxic alteration of a given biological system.”

Tyrell blinked. “And he’s done this legally?”

“On animals,” Lopez noted. “He was denied the opportunity to perform the procedures on humans.”

“He actually tried to practice this on people legally?”

“Applied to the Medical Ethics Board of Maryland upon returning to America, for hospital patients suffering from terminal illnesses to undergo the procedure as part of a proposed medical trial. His application was unanimously denied.”

“No shit,” Tyrell murmured. “When was this?”

“Three years ago,” Lopez said. “After that he was employed by a company called Munitions for Advanced Combat Environments, MACE, out of Maryland, doing research into battlefield trauma surgery techniques. He recently resigned his post and took to performing charitable work, splitting his time between Israel and America.”

Tyrell nodded, pulling out his badge and flashing it at the attendant guarding the parking lot. He drove through as the barrier was raised and quickly found an empty space.

“What about those hymns that Claretta Neville mentioned, or whatever they were?”

“The men of renown?” Lopez asked, and read from her notebook. “‘When men began to multiply on the face of the ground, and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were fair; and they took to wife such of them as they chose … The Nephilim were on the Earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of men, and they bore children to them.’”

“The Bible,” Tyrell said, recalling his Sunday school. “The Nephilim were the product of human women and angels and were referred to as giants both physically and intellectually, just the kind of thing Kelvin Patterson might be interested in pursuing. This guy’s got to be the one,” he said as he turned off the engine. “Maybe he’s doing some kind of Frankenstein experiment or something. It all ties in.”

“Correlation does not always mean causation,” Lopez pointed out. “You taught me that.”

Tyrell grinned as he opened his door.

“True, but that doesn’t mean you can’t follow up on a lead, especially when there are three dead people to think of.”

“Okay, you got me,” Lopez conceded. “Pastor Kelvin Patterson currently owns the controlling share of MACE, and we have this surgeon on the record as having performed charitable work for the Evangelical Alliance. It’s how he and Kelvin Patterson must have met.”

Tyrell climbed out of the car. Almost immediately, the world went dark as flashing points of light dazzled him. He staggered backward against the rear door, toppling over as vertigo sent his world reeling. His left knee cracked painfully against the unyielding tarmac as he went down.

“Lucas?”

He heard rather than saw Lopez rush around to his side of the car. Slowly, the sparkling lights obscuring his vision faded as a clammy wash of nausea flushed through him.

“I’m okay,” he mumbled, righting himself against the car and smiling feebly.

“Like hell you are—you’ve lost your color.”

Tyrell dredged up a chuckle. “What, you mean I’m white now?”

“I’m bein’ serious, Tyrell, you look like shit.”

“That ain’t changed for a decade or two, honey.”

Lopez’s dark eyes narrowed. “You gotta get this checked out, Christ’s sake.”

Tyrell sighed, regaining his vision fully and feeling the nausea slide away.

“In the morning,” he said finally. “I’ll do it first thing.”

Lopez jabbed a finger at his chest.

“Just make sure you damn well do. I don’t wanna see yo’ fat ass sprawled on a mortuary slab, okay?”

Tyrell managed to smile, and with Lopez walked slowly through the lot and into the main building itself. They had barely gotten inside when a young lieutenant by the name of Reuben crossed their paths. Fresh out of college, Reuben delighted in his own sense of humor.

“You’ve been summoned by the High and Mighty,” he said with a cheerfully mocking smile. “God knows whose chain you’ve pulled, but half the First District Department’s waiting for you in the briefing room.”

Tyrell noticed Lopez glance with concern down the corridor to their left. “What’s the score?”

“Got me beat,” Reuben admitted. “Bureau’s involved though, so your chances are about as good as the Redskins at the bottom of the ninth ’gainst the Chargers.”

Tyrell sighed. “Cain.”

He led Lopez to the main briefing room, knocking and entering. A large table dominated the room, more than half of the two dozen available spaces filled. A disconcertingly large number of the officers present bore chunky epaulettes, and an equal number of faces were pinched with disdain as he and Lopez entered the room and closed the door. Special Agent in Charge of Investigations Axel Cain and another FBI agent stood briskly.

“Tyrell.” Cain grinned without warmth. “Thought we’d seen the last of you downtown yesterday.”

“So did I,” Tyrell murmured, noting that for once Cain wasn’t grinding his chops around a piece of gum. “What brings the Bureau here?”

Captain Powell, sitting at the head of the table, gestured to the two agents.

“Agents Cain and Denny want the Potomac Gardens case shut down due to lack of manpower. Commissioner Cathy Devereux wants to know what your handle on the investigation is.”

Tyrell nodded at the commissioner, a high-flying and well-respected officer who had begun her career as a beat cop. Before he had a chance to speak, Cain had a stab at grabbing center stage.

“We’ve uncovered some anomalies with the case but don’t consider them worthy of investigation.”

“You’ve uncovered?” Lopez uttered beside Tyrell, and before he could intervene she pointed a finger at Cain. “This joker would have shut us down yesterday if it weren’t for our work at the scene.”

A shadow of displeasure creased Cain’s features. “Charming.”

“What’s your angle here?” Cathy Devereux asked Cain.

“The case has crossed state lines as one of the victims was from Maryland. That makes it a federal case, not a district one. Not to mention the near fatality this morning at the medical examiner’s office. We’re here to find out exactly what’s been happening and what the Bureau can do to bring this to a close.”

Tyrell considered Cain to be a card-carrying member of the a*shole club but he realized that he was now in a particularly delicate position. He had the tricky job of defending the validity of his case in front of Powell and the brass, while at the same time preventing it from passing into Cain’s jurisdiction or being shut down. Cathy Devereux turned to look at him expectantly.

Tyrell gestured to the file Lopez was holding. She passed it across the table to Cain, who leafed through it as though it were a travel brochure while Tyrell spoke.

“Three victims of an apparent group overdose. One of the victims was a respected scientist by the name of Joseph Coogan, a biochemist working in the District with no history of substance abuse of any kind. Autopsy shows that he underwent a medical procedure before having his blood contaminated with crack cocaine to approximate the appearance of an overdose.”

Cain frowned as he flicked through the file. “Meaning?”

“That his true cause of death was disguised amid crack-addict overdoses.”

“The medical examiner hasn’t even been able to confirm a time of death,” Cain said, scanning the last page of the file before closing it.

“What’s to say that it just looks that way and that this guy did indeed die from an overdose?” Commissioner Cathy Devereux asked.

“Pathology from the lab reports,” Lopez said. “The examiner’s on the record as saying that the victim’s blood had been entirely transfused, meaning that the drugs had to be administered after the procedure not before, as his blood type had changed. Either that or he decided to shoot up about a half hour after dying.”

“Maybe,” Cain said offhandedly.

“Maybe?” Tyrell muttered. “Either we’ve got a homicide or the city’s first case of zombie drug abuse. What’s the problem?”

“Occasionally,” Cain said with a smug smile, “an individual’s blood type can change as a result of antigens in infection, malignancy, or autoimmune disease. It’s been known to occur after liver transplants. We’ve done the research.”

Commissioner Devereux spoke quietly to Tyrell.

“Why do you think that you have enough information to produce a prosecution?”

“The fact that we have both a possible perpetrator and a motive.” Cain raised an eyebrow, but Tyrell kept going. “If you’d looked at the file more carefully than you looked at the crime scene, you’d have noticed that it names a suspect, a neurologist. He’s got a history of experimental procedures on mammals going back years, involving research into homeostasis and the use of induced hypothermia to treat victims of trauma.”

Cain squinted at Tyrell’s advanced terminology, but did not reach again for the file.

“Go on,” Devereux encouraged.

“This surgeon is central to all of this. One of the victims of these procedures survived and remained lucid enough to inform his mother of the basic details, which jibed with the assessment of a clinical surgeon at General Hospital. These people were experimented on illegally and against their will, and those experiments led to their deaths and the scene downtown yesterday morning.”

“What kind of experiments?” Cain demanded impatiently.

Tyrell took a deep breath. In for a penny …

“We talked to a surgeon, and he said that the only possible reason for conducting this procedure would be as part of an attempt to create a chimera, the genetic fusing of two distinct species into one. The victims we found were being used as human incubators, live test tubes providing or receiving rare O-negative blood.”

Commissioner Devereux stared at both Tyrell and Lopez for a long moment. “And this, chimera? Who, or what, exactly is it?”

“We don’t know yet,” Tyrell said. “Once we’ve got further pathology we’ll push for the district attorney to grant us a prosecution.”

Cain smirked in bemusement as Captain Powell unexpectedly chimed in from his seat.

“We’ll need something more than this for the DA to get involved, Tyrell.”

Commissioner Devereux looked at Cain. “What’s your take on this?”

“I’ve got real crimes to investigate,” Cain muttered. “The Bureau doesn’t have time to be chasing around the District after Lucas Tyrell’s mad fantasies.”

“Since when was homicide not a crime?” Tyrell asked.

“Since it was suicide,” Cain shot back and stood from the table, Agent Denny alongside him as he turned to Commissioner Devereux. “What are the chances that this is an international conspiracy involving genetic experiments, against those that it’s an ordinary overdose of three drug abusers in a downtown hovel? I recommend that this case be closed and our time spent on more fruitful avenues of investigation.”

“We have a suspect!” Tyrell almost shouted in disbelief.

“Damon Sheviz?” Cain uttered airily.

Tyrell felt his heart skip a beat and his jaw hang open.

“Where did you get that name from?”

“Interpol,” Cain murmured with a sly grin. “I did in fact read your report properly, and I also checked our data on Dr. Sheviz’s whereabouts. Turns out he was liberated from a terrorist cell in the Gaza Strip barely an hour ago, where he’s been held for several days. The chances of him being your supposed deranged surgeon would appear somewhat diminished, Detective.”

Before Tyrell could reply, Cathy Devereux made her decision.

“I suggest that we close the proceedings forthwith.”

“Close the proceedings?” Tyrell uttered as the commissioner stood from her seat.

“Yes, Detective. This case has grown disproportionate to the value of its potential convictions.”

“You think I’m exaggerating the extent of the crime?” Tyrell demanded.

“And not for the first time.”

“The surgeon we believe is involved has dual Israeli and American citizenship and hasn’t been seen or heard of in the District for several weeks, until now.”

Cathy Devereux sighed heavily, searching the ceiling as though for inspiration.

“You’re connecting yesterday morning’s case with abductions halfway across the world.”

“No surgeon in the United States would dare carry out a procedure like this unless the patient was at death’s door,” Tyrell insisted. “If I was this guy and I wanted to both escape a murder charge and continue my work, I’d go somewhere that would have me.”

Powell rubbed his temple with one hand.

“You realize that if you’re right, then this is indeed an international crime and an FBI matter?”

“If it’s crossed international borders,” Tyrell said, “then it can go to Interpol first. Extradition could follow.”

Devereux chuckled out loud and shook her head.

“From Israel? Do you honestly think they’ll give up one of their own, especially a respected surgeon, on a charge as thin as this?”

“The charge isn’t thin,” Tyrell insisted.

“It’s all circumstantial,” Devereux shot back. “You won’t get extradition.”

“The file says he was working in a charitable position for the American Evangelical Alliance,” Lopez cut in, “who have strong links to the Israel lobby in Washington and to the government of Israel itself. The AEA owns the hospital that he worked for and where we found our survivor. Not only that, but according to our research, the AEA’s owner Kelvin Patterson has a long-standing interest in using experiments on humans to prove the existence of God.”

Commissioner Devereux leveled Lopez with an uncompromising gaze.

“Do you have any idea how it would look if I put that in front of the district attorney? I’d be laughed out of the damned office. Do you even have a witness to any of this?”

“We have a single witness, Daniel Neville, under assessment now,” Tyrell replied, deciding not to elaborate on the patient’s mental capacity. “Hopefully, we’ll be able to—”

“Would Daniel Neville be an inmate at the hospice in Ivy City?” Powell asked.

Tyrell blinked in surprise. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”

“I can’t give you any more resources,” Powell said quietly, almost apologetically.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because your witness is lying in the city morgue.”

Tyrell felt his world tilt as he processed what he had heard. “The morgue?”

“Suicide,” Powell said. “Little over an hour ago.”

“That settles it then,” Commissioner Devereux said with brisk finality. “Whatever case you may have can wait until forensic evidence is available.”

Tyrell stared at Devereux, well aware that his own jaw was hanging open. “It could take months for forensic tests to be completed.”

“Time that can be spent pursuing more viable cases,” Devereux snapped, turning away from the table and casting Tyrell a final glance. “You’re to close the case. That’s an order.”

Tyrell and Lopez both remained silent as Commissioner Devereux strode out of the briefing room, a smirking Cain following her. As they left and closed the door behind them, Captain Powell retook his seat and regarded the two detectives.

“I’m sorry, Tyrell, but it’s gone cold, just let it go for now.”

“Doesn’t the fact that a key witness has just died in a secure institute, and the key perpetrator has conveniently reappeared with an alibi, strike you as just a tiny bit goddamn suspicious?”

“Yes, it does,” Powell conceded, “but there’s nothing that I can do about it, and the kid you’re talking about was a former drug addict with a history of mental problems. You won’t get anywhere near a prosecution with what you’ve got. Go and check out what happened at the hospital, then go home and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Tyrell stared at him for a long moment, and then turned away and strode from the briefing room in disgust, Lopez hurrying after him.





EVANGELICAL COMMUNITY INSTITUTE

IVY CITY, WASHINGTON DC


Suicide.”

The word fell from Tyrell’s mouth to the floor with a thud.

“Two hours ago,” a nurse said as she stood with him in the corridor. “We attempted resuscitation, but it was too late.”

Tyrell stared at the tape cordon blocking access to Daniel Neville’s room. The door was propped open by a small wastepaper bin. Inside, the bed looked recently used. There was no sign of a struggle except for the broken plastic of the door window. Nearby, a tall man with blond hair sat sullenly in a chair with his back to the wall.

“What happened?” Tyrell asked the nurse, feeling numb.

“Daniel was guarded constantly by the police officer you assigned to him. Daniel ate food that was brought here by his mother from the kitchens, and she left once he was tucked up in bed. The police officer remained at the end of the corridor after she left.”

“Who found him?” Lopez asked.

“The handyman, Casey Jeffs. He was walking down the corridor with drinks for the patients when he saw Daniel lying on his bed in a pool of vomit. He shouted for the keys to the room but the duty nurse wasn’t quick enough, so he punched through the plastic window and unlocked the door. Your police officer went with him to help, but Daniel had already passed away.”

Tyrell looked across at Casey Jeffs and recognized him as the man who had been swabbing the floors when they’d first arrived to speak to Daniel Neville. Casey’s hand was bandaged, a soft pink stain betraying where the plastic had cut into his knuckles.

“Casey is a former patient,” the nurse said softly to Tyrell. “He was kept on here as an assistant to help him get on his feet. Daniel’s death has hit him pretty hard.”

As they spoke, the young Latino beat cop assigned to protect Daniel appeared from down the hallway. Tyrell gestured him to join them.

“Officer Gomez,” the cop introduced himself as he shook Tyrell’s hand. “Listen, I don’t know how this happ—”

“Forget it,” Tyrell said. “I just need to know how you found the kid.”

Gomez pointed into Daniel’s room as he spoke.

“Right there, layin’ on his back. Looked like he’d choked on his own vomit. There were pills around him on the bed and on the floor, and one o’ those small bottles they come in. Thing is, the kid was a mess and couldn’t have smuggled anything in there if he’d tried. The staff are real strict about drugs and the patients get their meds hand-fed to them once or twice a day.”

“Who was the last person to see him alive?” Lopez asked.

Gomez thought for a moment.

“I guess I was, an’ before that you were, along with Mrs. Neville and Michael Shaw, one of the orderlies here. Michael wasn’t in the building at the time of death, as his shift had ended. We’ve checked the security cameras already and nobody entered Daniel’s room between the time he was left here and when he was found by Casey.”

“What about Casey? Where was he?” Lopez asked.

“Was just back off his break,” Gomez said, and then called out, “Hey, c’mere, Casey.”

Casey got to his feet and shuffled across to them. Tyrell judged him at about six-three and at least two hundred forty pounds. A pair of listless blue eyes shyly met his. Tyrell extended his right hand and Casey reached out for it, the shake limp and damp.

“Can you tell us what you saw, Casey?” Tyrell asked.

“Nothin’,” Casey said in a whispering Texan accent. “I just happened by, doing my drinks rounds when I saw Daniel. He’d been sick, his eyes were open but he wasn’t looking at anythin’, and there were a lot of pills around him. I couldn’t open the door, so I went in through the window instead.” He shrugged. “Din’ know what else t’do.”

“You did good, Casey,” Gomez said reassuringly.

Tyrell frowned, looking back into the room.

“How does a bedridden former drug addict in a controlled hospital gain access to enough drugs to overdose?”

The nurse beside them sighed softly.

“There is only one way,” she said, and gestured down the hall.

Walking toward them, flanked by two police officers, was Claretta Neville. Gone was her defiant bravado. Claretta walked with shoulders slumped, staring at the floor, her huge arms dwarfing those of the officers’ looped through hers.

“You’re kidding?” Lopez snapped. “There’s no way.”

Claretta came to a stop in front of Tyrell, looking up at him. No psychologist was needed to see that the events of the day had entirely sapped her of her will.

“You know what happened here?” he asked her simply.

Claretta shook her head once.

“I told ’em everythin’.” Glistening pools appeared beneath her eyelids. “I don’t know why he’d have done somethin’ like this. I din’ give him no pills.”

Tyrell looked into the empty room where Daniel Neville’s short life had come to an end, and then looked at the nurse and Officer Gomez.

“Daniel Neville was suicidal with pain,” he said softly before looking at Officer Gomez. “A locked room, no way of getting contraband in or out, cameras on the corridor. You’re absolutely sure all of those criteria were met by the hospital staff?”

Both Gomez and the nurse nodded without hesitation.

“Couldn’t have got in any other way,” Gomez said sadly.

Tyrell nodded, and turned to Daniel’s mother. “Claretta Neville, I’m arresting you on suspicion of first-degree murder. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney …”

From the corner of his eye he saw Lopez’s jaw drop. Claretta Neville stared at him with drops of liquid quivering in her eyes as he read her her rights, the two officers flanking her remaining stonily silent.

Claretta held his gaze for a few seconds.

“This one’s for real,” she hissed at him.

One powerful arm snapped free and whipped across Tyrell’s face with a sharp crack.

Bright pain stung his face but he did not respond, watching silently as Claretta was brusquely handcuffed by the officers and led away down the corridor.

“Go with them,” Tyrell said to Gomez, gesturing after the other officers. “Keep an eye on Claretta for me back at the station.”

As Gomez moved off with Casey and the nurse, Lopez moved to stand in front of Tyrell. “The hell d’you think you’re doing?” she whispered.

“Buying us some time,” he said quietly.

Lopez pointed abruptly down the hall. “You just booked her, for Christ’s sake! This isn’t a mercy killing, she wanted us on Daniel’s case!”

“I know,” he replied. “Daniel might have overdosed but he still had to get hold of the pills somehow.”

Lopez eyed Tyrell testily, but he saw her forcing herself to consider the possibilities.

“They said the cameras saw nobody enter or exit the room,” she said, “so he was definitely alone. The security door at the end of the hall was locked, Officer Gomez was beside it and Daniel couldn’t even feed himself let alone overdose. So if Claretta didn’t provide him with the pills, who could have?”

“Call the morgue,” Tyrell said quietly. “I want Daniel Neville’s body tested for foreign DNA samples: hair, skin, blood, anything. There was one thing we never learned about Daniel: why he alone survived these experiments.”

“Even if forensics found DNA samples, there’s no guarantee that they belong to a murderer, and how could the perp have gotten into the room without being seen on camera? Even if we could find a way, it doesn’t mean that they were in the room at the time of death.”

Tyrell nodded.

“I know, but we need everything we can get.” He hesitated, looking thoughtfully back down the corridor. “Find everything you can on Casey Jeffs, Michael Shaw, and Claretta Neville just in case.”

“What for?” Lopez asked.

“Just do it,” Tyrell said as they started walking. “Anyone who’s a witness is a suspect right now. Then I think that we need to pay a visit to the great pastor himself.”

“If he’s involved in this, he’s not going to just open up,” Lopez pointed out as they walked down the corridor. “And Claretta’s arrest might not be enough to let them drop their guard, whoever they are.”

“We’ll play it as though it’s just a routine questioning,” Tyrell said. “He’s bound to be expecting something along those lines after what’s happened here.”

“If Powell finds out about this, he’ll hit the goddamn roof.”

“Sure he will,” Tyrell agreed. “But if we find the link we need, he’ll be forced to keep the case open. What was the name of that surgeon again?”