To the thoughtful anonymous reviewer who commented after the tragedy in Boston – Thank you, so very much, for your kind words. It all still seems unreal here for me personally as well. I knew two people who were in Boston that day (thankfully they are both fine) and another friend with close family there who still has not heard from them yet. After any kind of man-made disaster like this it is difficult to know what to think. So again, thank you for your well-wishes and warm thoughts. Even though we do not know one another, they are appreciated.
And to anyone who may be reading in the Northeast US and especially Massachusetts, my thoughts are with all of you now as well.
Fear Itself
Chapter 12
"There were three O'Malleys that entered Boston U. at the same time as your Patrick Gilbert," Nigel said distractedly as he perused the file he'd pulled up on the computer. He had contacted the university as soon as the detectives had returned, and they had then sent over various records to help the investigation. Woody and Santana leaned close to peer over his shoulder. "Patricia – probably not who you're looking for – Michael, and Nate. They're all doing their residencies now. Patricia is the only one still in Boston; Michael is interning at a hospital in Washington state and Nate is in Virginia."
Woody stepped back and ran a hand over his face. "Residencies? If they're not doctors yet, could any of them even be included on our list of suspects?"
"First of all," Jordan piped up from her stool at a nearby counter, "they are doctors, just interns at the moment. A student becomes a doctor as soon as they pass their board exams. But no, they wouldn't have access to the tools needed to do the kind of research our perp would have been doing."
"So Gilbert lied." Santana crossed her arms, letting out her breath in a harsh sigh.
"I didn't get that vibe from him," Woody said, chewing his lip in thought. "He was freaked when he found out someone used him to kill those people."
"What about T.A.s?" Jordan suggested suddenly. "A Teacher's Assistant would have remembered Gilbert, and he'd be farther advanced in the medical field by now than an actual classmate." The other three people looked at her inquisitively and she shrugged. "What? I had a crush on one of the T.A.s from a class I took in college, and it got me thinking. And before you ask, Nige – because I can totally see your mind going there – nothing came of it."
Nigel made a face at her, but obediently pulled open another file onto his screen. "The university was kind enough to send us that list, as well, so let's see. Say, Jordan, how many times did you have to take your exams?"
"Once," she retorted sourly from across the room, "and I got the highest score in my interning group. Any other probing questions about my past?"
"Nope, that'll about do it for now. Want to come take a look at this with us?"
This time Jordan joined the three of them around the computer, putting her hand on Woody's shoulder as she leaned forward to see the names flying up the screen. He glanced at her when he got a whiff of her scent, giving her a brief smile that she returned. He wouldn't say it out loud, but he was horribly impressed at what she had just revealed about her education. Sometimes it was easy to forget she had actually gone to medical school, with the way she always pushed to solve cases like a cop.
"Here," the criminologist said, pausing the list. "Thomas O'Malley. And what's this? He was working at a research facility up in New York until recently. He moved back to Boston five months ago."
"Do we have a name and phone number for this research facility?" Woody asked.
"Yes, it's right here." Nigel moved away from the computer to give him access. Woody pulled out his notepad and pen, then his cell phone and dialed the number. It rang three times before a woman answered the other line.
"Thank you for calling Freeman Medical Research, how may I direct your call?"
"Yeah, hi. This is Detective Woody Hoyt with the Boston Police Department. I'm trying to reach someone at your facility about a former employee."
The woman paused for a moment, and he could hear her typing something on a computer. "You'll want Rick Gable in HR. I'll patch you through." The line went quiet before it started to ring again.
A different person picked up a few seconds later. "This is Rick."
"Hey there, Rick. This is Detective Woody Hoyt with the Boston Police Department," Woody said once more, doing well to hide the impatience from his voice. "I have a few questions about a former employee of yours - one Thomas O'Malley. I was told you were the one to talk with."
"The Boston police?" the other man repeated, surprised. "What's going on?"
"I'm sorry, that is confidential information in regard to an open investigation. Could you please tell us what Mister O'Malley did for your company?"
"Oh, yeah, just a second." Rick was silent for a minute, and Woody could hear him typing something - probably pulling up records. "He was a top researcher with us. He had a few private contracts with personal bidders, as well as a few public contracts with the state. He was also on a handful of teams working with hospitals. What do you need to know?"
The detective suddenly stalled, realizing that without a medical background he wasn't sure what kinds of questions he needed to ask to get all of the information they'd need. He turned worried eyes to Jordan, who read the message as though he'd said it out loud. She took the pen right out of his hand and scribbled across his notepad. Projects? "What kinds of projects was O'Malley working on?" he asked off of her tip.
He turned the phone outward, and Jordan darted forward and pressed close to hear as well, not even questioning that he may have been doing so for Santana. Nigel and the other detective smirked at each other.
"I'm sorry, sir, those records are sealed. You would have to talk with his supervisor."
"Okay." Woody took his pen back and made note of that. "You mentioned private contracts? Can you tell me who any of those contractors are, or what he was working on for them?"
"No, sorry. That is all...well, private." The typing stopped.
"And if we get a subpoena?"
"We can give it all to you then, but not before."
"Right." Woody and Jordan exchanged glances, and she nodded briefly to urge him on. "And his public contracts?"
More typing. "According to his record," Rick started, his voice distorted as he moved the phone, "it was mostly work on...um, sorry, I'm not a doctor or anything; a lot of this doesn't make sense to me. Illnesses? Vaccines and stuff. I think that's what this means."
Jordan's heart started to pound and she sucked in a breath. Her counterpart, to his credit, stayed much more calm. Her eyes met his and he nodded to affirm that he, too, understood what this meant.
"That's okay, you're being very helpful," Woody murmured as he jotted a note about this down as well. "Can you tell me why he left?"
"It looks like he got into an argument with his supervisor. It was his final flag, so we sent him packing."
Jordan grabbed the pen back and, before Woody could hang up, she scribbled out another message: Ask if he took any research with him.
"Rick, I have one more question for you. Did O'Malley take any of his research with him when he left?"
"He wouldn't have been allowed to take any of the private or contracted public research," Rick explained, "but his file says that he was given allowance to work on one personal project. I'm sure he would have taken all of that with him. As far as I know, none of it was left behind. It would have had to come through my office at some point if it had been."
"Do you know what that personal project was?" Woody asked, reclaiming his pen once again before Jordan had a chance to prompt him on that one.
"No, sir," Rick said. "I'm sorry."
"No problem. You've been a big help. Can I have the name of his supervisor? Maybe they can fill in some of the blanks."
Another pattering of the keyboard before the man on the phone replied. "Samantha Mayfield."
"Thank you, Rick." He got the supervisor's phone number before hanging up.
"It's him," Jordan said immediately. "I know it's him."
"We know, Jo," Woody soothed in an attempt to keep her calm, sensing that familiar hysteria close to her surface. She would make herself crazy with this one if she wasn't careful. Just like he would. "We just need to get more information on him first. Hey Nige, any luck with a Boston address?"
Nigel shook his head in the negative, not looking up from his computer. "None, mate. He never registered for a new driver's license or change of address, and there's no record of him here in any of the major databases so far."
"Right."
When both Jordan and Santana looked at him for his next move – Jordan out of unquenchable curiosity and Santana for direction – he sighed. They had a strong idea of who the murderer was, but they had very little evidence and absolutely no way to find him. "One board member is still alive," Jordan pointed out quietly. "Maybe she knows him?"
"I'll go to the hospital to talk with her," Santana offered, standing and reaching for the New York DMV photo Nigel had printed. "I'll also call in an A.P.B."
"We have to find him, Woody," Jordan whispered so quietly he almost didn't hear. Her eyes had glazed over, stuck on the door that the other detective had just left through.
He turned to face her, still standing beside him, and took her upper arms in his hands. "We will." She didn't look at him and, growing worried, he gave her a very light shake so that she blinked out of her stare and tried to focus on him instead. "Jordan. We will."
"You don't understand, Woody. We have to."
The rising panic in her voice was alarming even to Nigel, who took a step closer. "Jo," Woody murmured, brushing her hair from her eyes with his fingers. "What? What don't I understand?"
She suddenly met his eyes, hers wide and filled with a knowing fear. "You have to find out what his personal research project was."
"Why?"
"This bacteria can be used as biological warfare." That made his face drain of color, and she swallowed. "If he continues to purposefully infect people…thousands could die before they can seek treatment. What if that's his intention?"
Tears had started to fall down her cheeks, and Woody dried them with his thumb as Nigel watched fearfully. "If that was his plan, why stop with only four people – and board members of a hospital where he could have continued his research, no less?" She didn't have an answer. "There are no coincidences. If he were going to cause widespread mayhem, he wouldn't have stopped at four. That's not how people like that work."
She shook her head, ready to argue, when Nigel spoke up. "He's right, Jordan. My guess?" He glanced between the two, continuing when he had their attention, however divided it was. "He was applying for a grant or some such with the hospital and was turned down. Sweet revenge, my dear. Our remaining board member can fill us in. In the meantime, I'll see if any other petitions were filed elsewhere. Why don't you two, er, go relax?"
Woody thanked Nigel and turned back to steer Jordan from the room, but she had already slipped out.
xXx
By the time he got to her office, she was gone. The light sweater he had brought for her was missing, too, as was her unique key ring from the dish on her desk. Woody frowned. She couldn't leave. So where had she gone with her keys?
His eyes roamed over the office, trying to get some kind of idea. They landed on the window she had been spending hours staring out of. The roof! Of course! She'd need the building key to get back inside. The fresh air, an escape. And, no matter what she said to the contrary, she didn't need to be completely alone.
That was where he found her.
"Don't jump," he said quietly, echoing his words from many years before.
She turned her head just enough to see him from the corner of her eye, a small smile tugging the her lips before fading again. "I just…needed to get out. I feel like I'm going crazy."
"Are you?" Woody asked softly, coming to stand next to her at the wall and looking out over the city but still leaving about a foot of space between their bodies in an attempt to take some of the pressure off. "Going crazy?"
It was a simple question to anyone else, but both of them knew how loaded it was with her past. Jordan sighed and pulled her sweater closed over her chest, clenching the edges in her fist. The wind felt incredible after being stuck inside even for those few days, and she closed her eyes and let her head drop heavily. "I probably shouldn't even be up here," she said bitterly instead of answering. "I had to go into the stairwell. I'm pretty sure that's outside of my quarantine zone."
He shrugged, not wanting to push and willing to go with her flow of conversation. "You can't be kept locked up, Jordan. I don't blame you for needing to get out. And technically you haven't left the building; you're just on top of it."
She chuckled and gave him a quick glance before returning her gaze to the busy street below. "I guess so."
"Jordan," Woody whispered, just heard above the wind. He reached across the space he had left and grasped her hand, which was hanging limply over the side of the wall. "Don't be afraid."
She squeezed her eyes closed and nearly pulled her hand away, but at the last second she forced herself to stay away from old habits. "When I first moved back to Boston after being in L.A., I was working on a case with this cop. Garret wasn't chief, so I was having to really toe the line, right? But I was reckless, as always, and I got into a lot of trouble. Right before it was too late, I found myself in bed with that cop when I realized he was the bad guy I had been bulldozing forests for."
"Jo -"
She didn't let him interrupt her, though, and kept talking before she lost her nerve. "As I handcuffed him to his headboard and jumped out of the bed, he threatened me. Over and over. Mob ties, hits, the works. Do you know what I did?"
Woody shook his head, surprised to be hearing any of this at all.
"I laughed at him," she spat, angry at the vivid memory. "I laughed and I told him to do it, told him 'my biggest problem is that I don't care whether I live or die'. I really didn't care. I hadn't for a long time." She was silent for a few tense seconds before adding, "I still don't. The 'how' and the length of suffering matters, but the end result? Not so much."
"Jor -"
"I mean, I'm not going to off myself or anything. That only happened once, a long time ago, and I wasn't exactly thinking rationally at the time." She risked a quick glance at him and couldn't help the shame rising in her chest at the look of horror on his face. She didn't tell him that she had written herself a prescription for sedatives the same night she found the tumor. It was sitting unfilled in a locked drawer in her desk at home. "Now, though, I have something to live for," she said softly. "I have you. I've never had a reason like that before, and it makes a difference."
"What does that mean?" he asked.
The confusion in his voice pained her, and she turned her hand in his to twine their fingers together, still not quite meeting his eyes. "It means that I'm not afraid for myself. I'm not afraid of dying. I'm afraid for you, Woody. For what will happen to you if...something happens to me. And that - that's enough. Because I love you."
Woody gaped at her, stunned and unable to find the right words to respond. Then he remembered the way she had clung to him last night after they had talked. They hadn't made love then, but they had come achingly close – and through it all, there had been a fervor in her touch that he had only felt on a few other occasions. Afterward, when they had been falling asleep, she'd held his hand tightly. At the time, he'd just accounted it to her fear at the situation, but now…
"E-enough?" He pulled his hand from hers to use both of his to cup her face, forcing her honey eyes to his nervous blue ones and closing the distance between them without thinking. "Jordan, what does that mean? What are you saying?"
She blinked and her gaze flitted away, out toward the city skyline then up to the clouds before coming back, but she didn't jerk away from him. "Having you in my life is enough to…I don't know, to make me think before I do those stupid things I do that put me in danger. Enough to convince me to fight when I want to…give up. Like now."
"This is really what's bothering you, isn't it?" Woody whispered in a mixture of panic and awe, his hands dropping from her face down to her shoulders.
She nodded silently, her eyes sliding closed again. "I, um, I was debating telling you. But I've already told you everything else, so hey. There it is. Hopefully the last of my deep, dark secrets." Her soul had just been laid bare before him, and she took a deep breath.
"Oh, Jordan." It came out as a sigh as he pulled her into his arms and dipped his face to press against her neck and hair. "Jordan, Jordan…"
She was startled when she felt moisture against her skin, and she reached up to embrace him tightly, one hand cradling the back of his head so she could run her fingers over his hair. "It's gonna be okay, Farm Boy," she soothed gently, finally believing the words herself as she began to slowly sway side to side with him as his tears came. "Everything is gonna be okay now."