A/N: Apologies for the brief delay with this chapter! I'm going to through a tw: mention of domestic violence (brief and non graphic) on this chapter. PM me if this is a concern for you and you need more info. :)

That Radium Glow

Chapter 6

I had a lot to chew over as I drove back to the office. It was raining in earnest now, and fat round droplets splattered against the windshield between the hypnotic swish of the wipers. I worried my lower lip absently with my teeth. My thoughts trickled and dribbled like the rain, and made just about as much sense.

While the conversation with Stark had been enlightening, we were once again back to square one with Banner's dark-haired companion. With the state Banner was in, he might be our only useful witness. I hadn't really thought it was Reed Richards, but what would Samson have been doing at the Black Widow?

I hadn't been expecting Richards to be dead, though. Something about it didn't sit right with me, cancer or no cancer. Now Pym was dead, too. Hopefully Rogers would have the sense to wire the Las Vegas office for the details of his case. I had a feeling the Feds would be getting involved, given his war work. I held the wheel with one hand and reached up to scratch my chin thoughtfully. Two of Banner's colleagues dead in two years. I didn't like it.

It wasn't the fact that Pym had been unstable (at least according to Stark) that bothered me, but that he'd been missing before he turned up dead. I'd seen plenty guys who were a little…off working for old Uncle Sam. Hell, I was probably one of them. But if Pym was important enough to the atomic weapon effort to justify giving him those clearances in spite of whatever problems he had, the government wouldn't have just let him disappear. Someone had to have been looking for him, or had a real good reason as to why they stopped.

Either way, I was eager to speak with Elizabeth Ross, and Janet Pym, if we could track her down.

I decided to drop by the morgue before I went up to find Rogers, to see if by some miracle there had been any progress with the girl's body. The branch medical examiner, Dr. Henry McCoy, was the best in the business, but he worked slower than molasses in January. Coulson put up with it because he had closed more unsolvable cold cases than the whole Organized Crime unit combined.

A bored-looking orderly manned the desk in the morgue's outer office, a shabby little room in the basement where Feds, cops, and sometimes ordinary people waited to see bodies. It smelled like nerves and stale cigarette smoke. Nobody was waiting, so he was snapping gum absently and leafing through the pages of a comic book.

"Doc in?" I shot at him.

He glanced up to study my face. "Yeah," he said, waving me through.

Despite these assurances, I didn't see McCoy in his office. He was probably in the autopsy room, then. The scotch I'd drunk with Stark twisted a little in my stomach. I told it to settle down and rapped on the glass door with my knuckles. There was no reply. I nudged it open with the toe of my shoe.

"Hank?" I called. The smell of bleach and formaldehyde wafted out. "You in here?"

"One moment," a deep, cultured bass rumbled back. A moment later, McCoy stepped outside, dressed in a white lab coat and a smile under his heavy brow. He was a real beast of a man, not much taller than I, but definitely not less than twice as wide and a good hundred pounds heavier. His bulk was all muscle, though, a carefully maintained legacy of his old Big Ten pigskin days. A pair of delicate wireframe glasses perched incongruously on the end of his beefy nose.

McCoy offered me a clean, if somewhat hairy, hand and I shook it. For all his intimidating size, Hank was one of the gentlest people I had ever met. He was also one of the very few doctors I could bring myself to trust. "Clint Barton," he greeted me. His brown eyes twinkled merrily. "I heard you have a new partner."

Word got around fast, I guess, when you got stuck with a celebrity. "Yeah. He's everything you'd expect, and then some," I said, rolling my eyes. "Not bad as an agent, though."

Hank chuckled. "I see. I'll expect a full report at a later date, as I doubt you made the trek all the way down here to socialize while you are in the middle of a case. What can I do for you?"

"Got anything on that girl who came in during the night?" I asked.

McCoy frowned slightly, his broad features wrinkling under his beard. "The massive head trauma? I'm afraid not yet, Clint. There's something of a queue. But I'll get to her as soon as I can."

There was a sympathetic tone in his voice. Hank always hated it when the young ones came in, especially the women. I pushed the grim thought from my mind and fished around in my pockets for the pills Rogers and I had collected from Banner's office. The damned things had been nagging me; despite the fact Stark and Banner said they were harmless. McCoy adjusted his glasses on his nose and squinted at the little green pills cradled in my palm with interest.

"What are these?" he asked, prodding one with a thick finger. He produced a vial from the pocket of his lab coat and scooped a few of the pills inside.

"They're supposed to be for radiation," I explained, pocketing the remainder. "Suspect in the girl's case had them on him. Some kind of iodine compound."

Hank glanced at me over his glasses. He was built more like a linebacker than a professor, so the expression always seemed ridiculous on him. "And you'd like me to take a look?"

"Yeah, if you get a chance," I replied. "High profile case; got to make sure we cover all the bases."

"Of course," McCoy agreed. "I'll keep you informed."

I smiled and shook his hand again. At least he didn't think it was a wasted exercise. "Thanks, Hank. I appreciate it."

Rogers was sitting at my desk when I entered the office, with my telephone cradled between his cheek and shoulder. He waved at me and went back to his conversation. I dropped my hat and overcoat on the desk beside him and glanced over at Coulson's office. Unusually, the blinds were all drawn. I raised an eyebrow at Maria Hill.

"Coulson's got Elizabeth Ross in there right now," she explained. "He wanted you and Rogers to interview her together. Where have you been?"

Despite the Air Corps' best efforts, Banner's fiancée had gotten our messages after all. Good. I ignored Maria's jibe at my work habits and leaned casually on the edge of her desk. "I need you to find someone for me," I said, changing the subject. Maria raised an eyebrow, but she took out a notepad and paper instead of shoving me off. "Dame by the name of Janet Pym; recent widow of Hank Pym. He was in government employ, now in Berkeley. Sounds like she's from the Chicago area, but I don't have a maiden name for you."

Her eyes lit up at the challenge. "All right," she said, setting down her pen. She rapped her knuckles on Coulson's door as she passed to leave for the archives. "I'll get on it."

"Thanks, Miss Hill," I said with mock formality, and she rolled her eyes at me as she disappeared out the door. I grinned after her.

The telephone receiver clicked and I glanced over at Rogers. "That was the Vegas branch," Rogers explained, making a few notes on my unused notepad. "They're wiring Pym's file as soon as they can. Right now they don't think foul play, but the body's in bad shape, and apparently jurisdiction is one heck of a mess. They found him on the Arizona side of the lake, but he was reported missing in Nevada. Local cops are too busy bickering to be of much use."

"Surprise, surprise," I said sourly. I frowned a little. Stark had said Pym was in California, not Nevada. "The hell was he doing in Nevada?"

Coulson's office door opened before Rogers could do more than shrug in reply. His face was studiously neutral as he waved us inside. Rogers stood and tugged his jacket back into place, while I straightened my tie. We were on.

Elizabeth Ross sat in one of Coulson's chairs, clutching a hot cup of coffee with both hands. Her features were soft and painterly, with minimal make-up. Her wide blue eyes exactly matched the shade of her silk suit, and her dark hair set off her porcelain skin to perfection. Banner was a lucky fellow, I thought. Eyes like Liz Taylor and brains to boot. But I could also see dark circles under her eyes beneath a layer of powder, and creases in her blue skirt and around the middle of her jacket. A few strands of dark hair had fallen down around her face.

"Dr. Ross, these are Special Agents Clinton Barton and Steven Rogers," Coulson said, indicating us each in turn. "They're handling your fiancé's case. I'll leave them to explain the situation." Dr. Ross nodded an acknowledgement, and Coulson slipped from the room. He pulled the door firmly shut behind him.

Dr. Elizabeth Ross smoothed the edge of her wrinkled skirt self-consciously. A modest Tiffany diamond sparkled on the third finger of her left hand. "You'll have to excuse my appearance, Agent Barton. I came here straight from Midway," she said in an apologetic tone. She had a quiet, almost musical voice. She took a sip of coffee. The gesture was casual, but I could see the strain around her eyes. "I understand Bruce- my fiancé, is missing?"

Rogers and I looked at each other. So Coulson hadn't told her about Banner, no doubt so we could see her reaction when she was. It was smart, but cold enough to rankle me a little. "He was," I said aloud.

It took a moment for my words to filter through her worry. "Wait, you found him?" she cried, her face crumpling with relief.

Rogers glanced at me and I took a deep breath. Breaking it to her bit by bit was kinder, I thought. Everyone always thought they wanted the bad news all at once, until they got the bad news. "The simple answer is yes, Dr. Ross."

Little pinches of worry reappeared in her pale skin. Her hand shook a little and she set the coffee down to one side before it could slop over the rim of the mug. "Simple answer?" she asked. "Is he…?"

"He's not hurt," I added hastily, kicking myself for that omission, and she slumped a little with renewed relief. "He's okay. Physically, at least."

Dr. Ross looked up at me questioningly. "Physically?"

I swallowed. She wasn't going to like this, but there wasn't much I could do about it. "There's no easy way to say this, Dr. Ross," I told her. "Dr. Banner is, um, in the closed ward at Cook County Hospital."

Her eyes narrowed slightly with confusion. "The closed ward?" I raised my eyebrows significantly and the blood drained from her face. She put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, Bruce. But why would he be there? Can I see him? What happened?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out, Dr. Ross," Rogers said quietly.

Her eyes flicked to him before settling back on me. I could see wheels of thought turning behind them despite her obvious shock. "Why is he being held?" she asked, the suggestion of a protective edge coming into her voice. "Is he accused of something?"

"Suspected," I said. "Not quite accused. Yet."

Dr. Ross took a deep breath. Her clenched fingers opened and closed a few times before she spoke. "Of what crime?" she asked evenly.

I'd seen a lot of dames during my handful of years with the FBI. Frantic dames, weepy dames, stony dames. Dames who didn't give a care. Dames who cared too much. Elizabeth Ross didn't seem to easily fit into any of these categories. She was made of stern stuff, just like her old man. I respected that. So I didn't try to gloss it over, though I could feel Rogers' eyes boring warningly into my back. "Murder," I said casually.

Her face didn't crumple, though her china blue eyes went impossibly wide. Dr. Ross pressed the handkerchief to her mouth. Her throat worked a few times, though no words came out at first. "Murder?" she asked hoarsely.

I nodded. "Of a young woman."

She leaned back in her chair, her eyes closing for a moment. When she opened them again, I could see the beginnings of tears sparkling between her long black eyelashes. She seemed determined not to let them fall. "There must be some mistake," she said forcefully, her voice gathering strength. "Bruce would never hurt anyone."

"Dr. Ross," I said gently, "it's possible he wasn't…himself at the time."

Her brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "What?" she breathed.

"Does your fiancé have any history of psychiatric problems?" Rogers cut in.

It didn't take long for Elizabeth Ross to read between the lines. The blood drained from her face, but she took another deep breath and pulled herself together quickly. "No. None that I know of."

"Does he drink?"

"No, not really. Socially. But we don't go out much."

So far her story was consistent with Banner's. "I understand he has a temper?" I asked, studying her reaction carefully. Rogers shot me a questioning look, but I ignored him.

She hesitated. Bingo. "I suppose he does," she said quietly. "Like most people."

"What did you two fight about?" I asked casually. She flinched as if she had been struck, and I saw a flash of the General in her eyes. I put up my hands in a placating manner. "Look, Dr. Ross, I have to ask."

Her anger faded. She studied her hands in her lap. "Yes, I suppose you do," she said with another sigh. "Our date. Our wedding date, I mean. We've been trying to set one for months."

"What was the problem?" Rogers asked. He shifted to fold his arms across his chest.

"My father," Dr. Ross sighed. She let out a humorless little chuckle. "He's never liked Bruce and he thinks that by making himself impossible he can keep us from marrying. Bruce thought if we humored him, it would make things easier for me down the road. That's not how Dad thinks. Give him an inch and he'll take a mile. I'd had enough, and told him as much."

"Did Banner lose his temper?" I asked.

"No," Dr. Ross admitted. "I did, and I regret it. I haven't seen Bruce truly…angry since right after the accident, or when people take stupid risks."

Rogers and I looked at each other. He was as mystified as I was. Apparently there were some serious omissions from Banner's file. Compartmentalization at its best. "What accident?" I asked.

"I-I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to say," Dr. Ross said hesitantly. "A group Bruce was supervising took a shortcut during an experiment. Everything was such a rush during the war; Bruce was senior and he deemed the risk acceptable. There was an accident. Two men died, but somehow Bruce didn't." Her voice hitched and she dabbed her eyes again. "It didn't make any sense. The radiation he was exposed to…he should have died. But he didn't. I don't think he's ever forgiven himself for it."

I looked at my shoes for a moment, a prickle of guilt twisting in my stomach. It was a hard thing to be in charge, to make the decisions that could cost men their lives and to live with the fallout when they did. Not everyone could.

"Is that why he left the program?" Rogers asked quietly.

A pensive expression came onto Dr. Ross' pretty features. "Partially. It changed him. So did Hiroshima and Nagasaki." She sighed heavily. "You asked if Bruce drank. He did then. But it was never an issue later."

I believed her. "So he regrets working on the bomb?" I asked.

"Bruce always looked at it as doing his part in the war, just like everyone else," she explained. "But it…it hit him hard. I think he regrets what his work was used for. That was why he came to Chicago. He didn't want to cause any more destruction."

She dabbed her eyes again. "This was supposed to be our fresh start," she said quietly. There was a plaintive note in her musical voice. "And I don't believe Bruce would ever harm anyone."

"We're doing our best to prove that," I said impulsively, earning a glare from Rogers.

"Dr. Ross, he was found at the scene," he cut in, before I could say anything. "Covered in blood."

Elizabeth Ross shuddered. "How was she killed?"

I could see Rogers shake his head out of the corner of his eye, but I sensed there was something Dr. Ross was hiding. I wanted to know what it was. "Far as we know? Her head was smashed into the pavement. Repeatedly."

I was expecting her to go rigid with shock, and even for the blood to drain rapidly from her face, but I was not expecting the flash of recognition across her features. The flicker of sick shock and real fear. "Bruce might not have psychiatric problems," she said slowly. She looked up to meet my eyes. "But his father did. He was a violent, horrible man."

My breath caught in my throat, and the little hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Rogers went very still behind me.

Dr. Ross licked her lips and took the plunge. "He murdered Bruce's mother outside of their home," she told us. The words were reluctant, as if she felt she was betraying some kind of confidence. "He beat her head against the sidewalk. Bruce was eight. He saw the whole thing."

I leaned back heavily in my chair. There was no way something like that could be a coincidence, was there? Dr. Ross looked sick. She pressed her rumpled handkerchief to her mouth again. I could see her shuddering, and for a moment, I wished I could take her in my arms and whisper into her hair that everything was going to be all right. Like I'd used to do for Bobbi. Back when someone looked to me for comfort and support.

But I couldn't. She wasn't Bobbi. She was Dr. Elizabeth Ross. She was engaged to Dr. Bruce Banner, currently a mental ward resident and murder suspect. I couldn't tell her it was going to be okay. There was a very good chance it was not.

"Dr. Ross," I said.

She blinked back to the present. "Yes?"

"One last thing," I stated. "Did your fiancé take any pills?"

"Yes," she answered, a little confused. "In case of accidental radiation exposure. He took them every day. He's always been conscientious about that sort of thing."

She pressed her hands to her eyes tiredly. Rogers and I glanced at each other. Neither of us was cruel enough to keep her any longer. The interview was over.

"I think we've got enough for now, Dr. Ross," Rogers said gently. "Thank you for your help."

"I'm staying at the Palmer House," she said listlessly. She looked sad and drained, and worry drew little lines around her eyes. But her shoulders were square and her back straight while she collected her coat and hat. She was the general's daughter, that was for sure. "You can reach me there."

"We'll be in touch," I said, taking her elbow and leading her to the door.

Coulson was hovering outside. He would escort Dr. Ross out of the building and make sure she found a cab back to her hotel. Rogers and I watched her go. I felt a little dirty about the whole thing, but there wasn't anything I could do about it. I leaned casually against the side of my desk and lit a cigarette.

"She doesn't believe he did it," I said. "Wish I could say the same."

"The evidence is stacking up," Rogers mused, once the outer door had safely closed behind them. He had dropped into my chair, looking pensive. "In his right mind or not, I think Bruce Banner murdered that girl. He was carrying a lot, Barton. Maybe it just took him this long to snap."

I knew plenty guys who carried heavy loads like Banner's and didn't snap. But I knew some guys who did, too. I wasn't sure which one I was. But none of that made Rogers wrong, and I knew it. "It's all circumstantial, though," I countered. It killed me that I was starting to agree with him. "'Cept him being found at the scene. We still don't have anything that'll really stick."

"Yet," Rogers said, and I knew he was thinking about Banner's mother's long-ago murder, and the uncanny similarity between that case and our own. "Any word on her identity?"

"Nothing; McCoy hasn't done the autopsy yet," I said. "It'll take some time, Rogers, she's in bad shape."

He snorted softly. I seconded his impatience, but there wasn't much we could do about it. I offered him a cigarette, but instead of glaring at me he just shook his head.

"Think all that radiation could have messed with Banner's head?" he mused.

I shrugged and exhaled a lungful of smoke. "More than seeing his mother murdered as a kid?"

"Point," Rogers grunted. "That and two dead men on his conscience, plus his atomic bomb work..."

We fell into pained silence. A mortar whistled overhead. In my head. I looked at my shoes. The ghost of Barney's arms wrapped around my body. I shook them off and took a long, shuddering drag on my cigarette that didn't fill that little hollow place in my heart. It never did. Whiskey didn't fill it, either.

I knew something about what guilt could do to a man. I glanced up. From his pained, distant expression, so did Rogers. I wondered whose ghosts he was seeing.

Not that I would ever ask. Some wounds shouldn't be reopened.

"What's the word on Samson?" I asked, to break the uneasy quiet. I stubbed my cigarette out. "Richards is a dead end. Literally."

Rogers' nose wrinkled a little at my flippancy, but he didn't tell me off. Instead, he seemed happy for a change of subject. "Samson checks out, sort of," he told me with a shrug.

"Sort of?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I made a few calls and the practice seems to check out," Rogers added, passing me a sheet of paper. I recognized the guest list from Stark's party. "Get this, though." A single name had been underlined: Dr. Leonard Samson.

I smacked my forehead. Small wonder his name had sounded familiar; I'd probably read it three dozen times. "He neglected to mention that."

Rogers' eyes narrowed. "Deliberately?"

I bit the inside of my lip, thinking. Samson probably had a perfectly innocent reason to be at Stark's party; Stark had given a small fortune to the hospital over the years. He might not have known Banner from Adam, at least until Banner fell into his care. And this certainly did not mean he was the man Natasha had seen at the Black Widow. But nonetheless, he was back at the top of my very short interest list.

"It's possible," I mused. "I'd wager he'd have at least recognized Banner. Doctors are usually pretty good in that way, and he's clearly sharp."

"Think we should call him on it?" Rogers said. He started to reach for his coat, but stopped when I shook my head.

"Not yet," I decided. "Might not be anything. But if it is, I don't want to spook him 'til we've got more. We get sideways with him and he can make it damn near impossible for us to access Banner. I don't like he didn't mention it, though."

"Me neither," Rogers agreed.

Unfortunately I had no idea what more meant. I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. "Got anyone you trust back east?" I asked.

"Sure," Rogers said, frowning a little. "How come?"

"This Reed Richards guy was working in Baltimore when he died. 'Bout a year ago, according to Stark. I want someone to look into it."

Rogers raised an eyebrow. "Foul play?"

"Cancer," I replied. Rogers' eyebrow crept a little higher. I worried my thumbnail with my teeth in lieu of lighting another cigarette. "It just doesn't sit well with me," I elaborated with a shrug. "Two of four guys dead in two years?"

"Radiation's a nasty thing," Rogers observed. "But I agree, it's a heck of a coincidence." He checked his watch. "I'll call Sam in the morning. Get him on Richards first thing."

"It's probably nothing," I replied. "But thanks."

The office door opened. We both looked up; expecting to see Coulson, but it was just Maria Hill. She had a sheaf of folders stacked with military precision on one arm, and a sour expression on her sharp features. She walked up to me and thrust a piece of paper into my hand. I glanced down to read it. It was a street address in Evanston.

"What's this?" I asked Maria. Rogers took the paper out of my hand and studied it.

"Janet Pym," Maria said while she arranged the files neatly on her desk.

I hadn't been expecting her to come through so quickly. She really ought to make agent; she was better at my job than I was. The information on our case was suddenly flooding in. Policework was sure funny like that. "When it rains, it pours," I muttered under my breath.

She paused in her work to lift her eyebrows significantly at me. "Janet van Dyne Pym. Vernon's only daughter."

"She's a van Dyne?" I exclaimed. The van Dynes were one of the oldest, richest families in Chicago. Vernon van Dyne sat on several charitable boards and councils, and though retired, he certainly had enough pull with the city government to make our lives difficult if we didn't tread carefully around his little girl.

"A who?" Rogers asked, bewildered.

"The van Dyne family," I explained. "Basically what passes for old money out here in the west, Rogers. Nice work, Hill!"

"Evidently she's been staying with her parents since her beloved husband went missing. Shame on us for intruding upon the family grief. You're meeting her at ten A.M. tomorrow," Maria told us, a little smugly. She straightened up and folded her arms across her chest. "You owe me, Barton. Do you know how many society pages I had to read? Society pages!"

I grinned at her. "Does that mean you'll finally let me buy you a drink, Miss Hill?"

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "In your dreams, Barton."