A/N: Hey readers, thanks for your patience with this chapter. I'm in the final stages of my degree right now and dedicated writing time is getting pretty scarce. Rather than make you guys wait months for updates, I'm going to start posting new chapters every 2-3 weeks instead of weekly. I'll still try to reply to reviews as best I can! Thanks for understanding, and enjoy the ride! :)

That Radium Glow

Chapter 8

It was clear from the moment we stepped into the closed ward back at Cook County that something was wrong. Burly orderlies in tired white suits and soft-soled shoes rushed towards a door. A nurse brushed past us with a battery of hypodermics that made my skin crawl. Someone called loudly for Dr. Samson.

Over all the activity I could hear screaming. It was a man's voice, howling like a demented animal in words that were not words but primal, incoherent sounds of rage and pain and fear. The little hairs on the back of my neck prickled. To my surprise, Elizabeth Ross stood to one side, huddled against a wall, and clutching Tony Stark's arm hard enough to bleach her knuckles white. My head whipped back towards the door the orderlies had rushed inside.

It was Banner's room. He was the one howling.

Rogers and I looked at each other. I swallowed and approached the door. The small observation slot was open, and I peered inside.

I recognized Banner by his curly hair, drenched with sweat and flying wildly around his face as he struggled against the dingy canvas pinioning his arms. He had one arm pulled half-free, the buckle twisted away from tearing leather. His face was unrecognizable, teeth bared into a mask of rage as he bellowed at the group of orderlies trying to restrain him. He slammed one of them with his shoulder hard enough to make me see sympathetic stars. I saw Samson, his tie gone and his hair tousled, backed into a corner to keep out of the orderlies' way. His mouth moved, no doubt in words to try to soothe Banner, but I couldn't hear him over Banner's howls and the grunts and curses of the orderlies as they rushed him en masse like linemen at Soldier Field.

I'd seen enough. I closed the slit and backed away from the door, feeling sick. Rogers' mouth had drawn into a thin, grim line. I rubbed my hands on my trousers reflexively, wishing I could have a cigarette. I could feel Tony Stark's curious eyes boring into me but I couldn't look at him, not yet.

For the first time since I'd taken this case, I felt a prickle of doubt. I blinked and saw the terrifying mask of the man who was and at once was not Bruce Banner. Maybe Rogers was right. Maybe Banner had murdered that girl in a rage like this. Maybe he had smashed her head over and over into that concrete until her limbs stopped twitching and her chest shuddered to a halt. Maybe he really had done it without even being aware he'd done it.

I hoped to God I was wrong.

The screaming stopped so suddenly it almost hurt my ears; a final howl trailing off into an animal whimper and deafening silence. I glanced over at the blanched face of Elizabeth Ross. Her eyes were red-rimmed and I could see her nails digging mercilessly into Stark's arm. There was a sick little twist about Stark's lips, almost hidden by his beard, and a greenish tinge to his skin. Rogers was stiff and silent at my elbow.

The hinges of Banner's door squealed loudly and we all jumped. Samson ducked through the doorway, his long limbs following him with difficulty. He surveyed me and Rogers with obvious distaste while he mopped his forehead with an immaculate green handkerchief. The orderlies followed and dispersed back into the ward. Before Rogers or I could say anything, Samson stepped forward and took Dr. Ross' elbow to draw her aside. She released Stark's arm reluctantly. He tried to follow them, but he was rebuffed by an icy look from Samson. He scowled.

Rogers prodded me and I approached Stark. He looked grim and badly shaken. Stark withdrew a silver flask from an inner pocket and unscrewed the cap. The smell of spirits wafted out. He took a long pull and offered it to me. I could practically hear Rogers rolling his eyes, but I sure wasn't about to refuse. It was the best scotch I'd ever tasted, smooth like glass or silky smoke gone liquid.

"I had no idea," Stark said shortly. His voice was quiet and urgent, with none of his trademark flippancy. Even Stark couldn't bring himself to crack wise here. "I had no idea it was this bad. I've never seen Banner like this. I didn't know he was capable of this. This isn't…him."

I shrugged, only half listening. I strained my ears, trying to pick up fragments of Samson's conversation with Elizabeth Ross. She was dressed in demure dove gray today, with a little black hat swathed with a bit of netting to try to mask her red eyes. Words like "treatment" and "schizophrenia" peppered the conversation. I saw her white throat bob desperately when he said that particularly harsh, fearful word, but she refused to cry.

Stark noticed where I was looking and glanced back at Dr. Ross. "She wanted to see Bruce," he explained, with a helpless little shrug. "Tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn't have it. Stubborn as her old man," he continued. "The doc here thinks it would be better to move Bruce to another facility. Somewhere out west. Unless he's charged, of course."

"And determined fit to stand trial," I added, giving up on my eavesdropping efforts. "Insanity plea's a hard sell. Hope he's got a good lawyer."

"The best," Stark shrugged. He took another drink from his flask and offered it to me. I accepted. "I've got Matt Murdock on retainer. God knows I've given him enough business over the years; he owes me."

I didn't say anything to that, though I silently approved. Matt Murdock was one hell of a high-powered New York lawyer with one hell of a batting average. If anyone could make sure Banner got a fair shake, it was him. "We found Janet Pym," I said instead. Stark looked back at me questioningly, but I wasn't about to give him the details on what she'd told us. "She didn't like Richards much, did she?"

"Most people didn't," Stark replied. He tucked his flask back inside his suit jacket. "Reed didn't see a lot of use in social niceties. Or anything but physics, really. He was always….pushing the envelope there, you could say." He looked at his Italian shoes. "He sometimes forgot there was a, uh, cost to what we were doing. We all did. Pym was so angry. So was I." Unconsciously, his fingers drifted up and pressed around the same old spot in the center of his chest. He glanced at the door to Banner's cell, pensive and sad. "Banner reminded us of that. He kept us…human."

I wondered if he saw the irony as I did, that the man who reminded them of their humanity was stripped of his own. He probably did. Stark was smart. A genius, even.

The scotch was making me philosophical. I banished the thoughts with a shake of my head. I was a cop, a Fed, a leatherneck, not a thinker. Certainly no great intellect. "So to your knowledge, Banner's never had any kind of episode like the one you just saw?" I asked, remembering my duty.

Stark shook his head. "Never," he replied. "Hardly even raises his voice."

I believed him. His shock, his fear was all so genuine his words rang true. I believed all of them, Elizabeth Ross, Janet Pym. Whatever was happening to Bruce Banner was wildly out of character; that much was certain. It was the only thing that was certain.

Stark's eyes shifted to something over my shoulder, and I turned slightly. Elizabeth Ross had finished her conversation with Dr. Samson. She acknowledged me with a slight nod. "Is there any news, Agent Barton?" she asked, a little desperately. Her musical voice was strained, and I could see tiny lines of effort around her eyes.

"I can't really say, Dr. Ross," I said sincerely, wishing I had words to reassure her. Even false words. "But we're still working."

Dr. Ross swallowed. "Have-have they identified that poor girl yet?"

"Not yet," I replied. Everyone knew why she hadn't been identified. Nobody needed to say it.

Dr. Ross' chin trembled a little. There was a new little flicker of doubt in her eyes that had not been there in Coulson's office, and suddenly I hated myself for causing it. Stark touched her arm. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. I wonder how long it would take, after she left, for her to crumble into tears. If Stark was a trusted enough friend for her to let her guard down around him, or if she would do her crying in private.

Stark glanced at Samson, who shook his head mutely. "C'mon, Betty," Stark said, looking back at her. He gently placed a hand on the small of her back. Rogers raised an eyebrow at this familiarity, but I didn't get the impression there was anything improper going on. Apparently she knew Stark better than I'd thought. "There's nothing else we can do for Bruce here right now. Let's go."

She nodded again to Rogers and me while Stark led her towards the closed ward door. I could see Samson attempting to slip after them, but Rogers deftly stepped up to block his path. I quickly followed suit. Samson's eyes narrowed a little with irritation.

"One moment, Doctor," Rogers said firmly. There was a hint of an edge under his politeness that made it clear it wasn't a request. "We'd like a quick word."

Samson dipped into a pocket and retrieved a dark green houndstooth tie. He nonchalantly began to knot it around his neck, raising an eyebrow at Rogers while he did so. "Do keep it short, please. I have many other patients."

The question now was whether Rogers and I wanted to play hardball with Samson, or if we wanted to continue the kid glove treatment. The unmasked note of disdain in his cold English drawl when he addressed Rogers made the decision for me. It was a risk, as he controlled our access to Banner, but hopefully it would pay off. I waited for the door to shut behind Stark and Elizabeth Ross before speaking.

"You haven't been entirely honest with us, Dr. Samson," I started.

His pale eyes flicked appraisingly between Rogers and myself. "Have I not?"

"Nope," I said.

"I stand behind my previous statement," he said. "I have not yet formally diagnosed Dr. Banner. I have my suspicions, which I have shared with his fiancée."

"So I heard," I said. "Schizophrenia's pretty serious, isn't it?"

He smiled with no warmth, a predatory expression that revealed all his teeth. "That information is confidential, Agent Barton."

"Yet you revealed it in a public hallway within the hearing of a Federal agent," Rogers cut in. He'd caught on to what I was doing; he was certainly a quick study. "May I remind you, Dr. Samson, that this is a murder investigation?"

Point for Captain Rogers. Not quite a touchdown, but maybe a field goal. Samson's smile faded very slightly. "Dr. Banner is one of the most severe cases I've seen in my career. Take that as you will."

"We were under the impression you had never seen Bruce Banner until he was brought to you by the Chicago police," I continued. "But that's not quite right, is it?"

Samson didn't say anything. His sharp green eyes glittered, a little warily.

"Lying by omission is still lying, Dr. Samson," Rogers said. "You never said you hadn't seen Banner before."

"We know you were at Stark's party," I added, before Samson could protest. "What were you doing there?"

Samson licked his lips. "The customary things one does at a party," he retorted, a hint of temper oozing into his cool voice. "Making inane small talk while imbibing someone else's liquor."

"Bruce Banner was also at that party," I said, watching him carefully. Much to my irritation, his face did not change. I made a mental note to never play poker with Dr. Leonard Samson. "Was he one of the ones you small-talked?"

Samson shrugged elegantly. The gesture was a little more forced than it should have been, hinting at tension that didn't show on his face. "There were dozens of people at that party, Agent Barton. It is entirely possibly I encountered Dr. Banner, but I do not recall him specifically at this moment."

It was an overly clever answer for a simple question; plenty of room to wiggle himself off a hook either way in a courtroom, if it came to that. I saw Rogers' eyes narrow a little out of the corner of my eye.

"How do you know Tony Stark?" he asked.

Samson looked between us again, his green eyes glittering calculatingly. "I don't, not personally," he replied. "Mr. Stark has donated heavily to the hospital. It was hardly unusual for a few of us to be in attendance, don't you think, Agent Rogers?"

Rogers ignored the jibe. "What about Henry Pym?"

There was a flash of recognition in Samson's eyes that made my heart skip a beat. "Henry Pym…Hank Pym?" he mused. I didn't know why, but I had the sudden impression Samson was toying with us. "The name is familiar. Dr. Banner mentioned him during one of his episodes. I believe they were colleagues?"

My heart sank and I heard Rogers let out a quiet huff of disappointment. "You ever been to the Black Widow?" I cut in.

Samson raised an eyebrow at me. "The what?"

"The Black Widow," I said. "It's a nightclub."

Samson laughed. "A nightclub? I should think not. When would I have the time?"

"That's funny," Rogers said casually, but his eyes were hard. "Because we have a witness who says otherwise. She saw you at the Black Widow on Sunday night. With Bruce Banner."

"Really," Samson drawled skeptically. "A witness named me as having been at this…Black Widow bar?"

He had us there, caught in Rogers' not-quite bluff. I swore silently, and I could see Rogers flinch. He folded his arms awkwardly across his chest.

"So you actually have a witness who attests to seeing a man matching my description at this nightclub, with Bruce Banner," Samson continued disdainfully, with another predatory smile. "I see."

"Where were you Sunday night?" I demanded, trying to scrape some shreds of our collective dignity back together and regain control over the conversation.

"Tony Stark's gala, of course," Samson retorted and I ground my teeth. He glanced at his watch and sighed with mock irritation. "I took a cab home afterwards. It was quite late, after all."

It was another calculatedly vague reply. I eyed Samson. There were a hundred things he could be hiding: a mistress, an addiction. Maybe he was a closet Communist. Maybe he just liked a good time and he just happened to find the Black Widow Bar.

"Is there anyone to confirm that?" Rogers asked in a carefully neutral voice. Good, he'd noticed Samson's wily answers as well.

Samson's green eyes flashed with sudden amusement. His previous nonchalance was back, and there was definitely a glint of triumph in those clever eyes now. I wished I knew why. "No, there is not," he drawled. "I've no doorman and I don't make a habit of keeping records of every taxi driver I encounter. I assume you will next question my whereabouts for every day this week?"

I shrugged. "Pretty much."

"So you believe I had something to do with Dr. Banner's disappearance, hm?"

I couldn't help myself. "Why do you say that?" I asked casually.

Rogers winced at my elbow, but I ignored him and held Samson's icy gaze. A slow, smug air was gradually spreading over him, as if he knew something we didn't. I didn't like it.

"As it so happens," he said coolly, "I can account for my whereabouts every day this week. Including Sunday. I should think my appointment books would be of use. However, should you wish to see them, you will need to produce a warrant. I shall also be contacting my lawyer, should you have any further questions with which to insult me, Agent Barton." Samson looked between us disdainfully. "Now if you will excuse me, I have patients to attend."

He turned on his heel and swept down the hall with supreme indifference. I bit my lip. I could arrest him and hope that the humiliation of being dragged to the station in handcuffs would get him talking, but he'd already threatened to lawyer up and Samson seemed the type to follow up on his threats. Rogers sighed, and I felt my shoulders slump, even as my blood still boiled over Samson's attitude. I'd misjudged how to handle him, it would seem.

Rogers didn't say anything as he hit a button to summon an orderly to lead us out of the closed ward. Curiosity got the better of me while we waited. I approached Banner's door and slid the observation slit open. He was Banner again, slumped on the floor of his padded room with his chest moving laboriously under the tightened straightjacket. His eyes were closed. It was hard to believe this was the same guy I'd seen practically frothing at the mouth less than half an hour ago. My stomach twisted uncomfortably, and I swallowed and backed away. We followed the orderly in pensive silence, all the way back to my car.

"Samson's hiding something," Rogers announced, once we were in the privacy of my Ford.

"Y'think?" I snapped, savagely twisting the key in the ignition. The engine caught with a sputter and I pulled out into traffic, cursing Samson under my breath. I wasn't looking forward to admitting to Coulson I'd botched the questioning enough to have to force Samson to cooperate with us by way of warrant.

Rogers diplomatically ignored my pique. "He all but admitted to going to the Black Widow."

"Yeah," I agreed. I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. "The question is why. And why try to hide it?"

"You really think he might've had something to do with Banner's disappearance?" Rogers asked.

"Ain't ruling anything out at this point," I shrugged, thinking aloud. "But I can't see what'd Samson would want with Bruce Banner. Maybe we've got the wrong guy, and it wasn't Samson at all. Maybe it really is just an honest to God coincidence. "

"Maybe," Rogers said thoughtfully.

Neither of us really thought it was. There was an easy way to solve this dilemma, though. I changed lanes and headed west towards the Black Widow.

Despite my tie, my luck wasn't in. We hit every red light between Cook County Hospital and the Black Widow Bar. It was a pity Rogers didn't get to see the place by night, I thought as we pulled up outside. The same gray glass of the neon sign glittered dully like spiders' silk, and the same bouncer told me that Ms. Romanoff was out. He didn't know when she would be back. He dug a chewed stub of pencil and a tired little notebook from a pocket, in case I wanted to leave a message. I told him we'd call later. We returned to the Federal Building, frustrated and without a positive identification of Samson, to put together the paperwork for his damned warrant.

There were few things I hated more than paperwork. If Saipan was hell (and I was convinced it was), then paperwork was a hand-cramping no-man's-land, rife with comma-laden pitfalls and cryptic hieroglyphs in place of instructions. Unlike Phil Coulson, I'd never had enough rank to get stuck with much doing of it during the war. Not that there had been a lot of time for those formalities, in the jungle on damp-moldered paper with Japanese artillery screaming overhead.

It was different in the Bureau. There were forms for everything (that much was like the Marines, anyway), plus case notes and reports to file for every case. I was hopeless with a typewriter, and Maria Hill remained the only secretary able to decipher the chicken scratches I called handwriting. So I was content to let Rogers take the lead, with his neat, educated hand.

From the way his nose wrinkled I could tell he enjoyed it about as much as I did, but he didn't complain. I grinned behind his back. Disliking paperwork was another sign of good sense, at least in my book.

Rogers and I had entered that horrible useless period in a case, where all we could do was wait. Wait for the autopsy. Wait for the warrant. Wait for the Vegas branch to send us a cause of death for Hank Pym, or for Rogers' pal out east to send us more on Reed Richards. We were nearly there; I could feel it. Just a few more pieces and the whole case would fall into place.

There wasn't any point in loafing around the office. Judges liked their weekends, though I knew Hank McCoy would continue his grim work until he finished. With any luck, we'd get the autopsy report before Monday. Rogers and I split up, him to his hotel, and me to my apartment. A night off would be good for both of us.

Except it wasn't really a night off. I saw Rogers tuck the case file into his coat as he left to hail a cab back to the Drake. Little scraps of information from Banner's case swirled around in my head while I drove, riding the eddies of my thoughts like detritus in the Chicago River.

I had the blue plate special for supper at another diner down the street from my apartment. The busboy had large, soft brown eyes like Banner. Someone had left a newspaper on the counter, and I thumbed through it absently, looking for anything about the case. Nothing, not even a couple inches in the local section. Had to hand it to Coulson and whatever favor he'd pulled with the CPD. I left a handful of coins beside my empty plate. There was a paper sack with a bottle of bourbon tucked into my Ford's glove compartment, ready for later. But I didn't feel much like drinking yet.

My apartment had the stale smell of a place too long closed up. I opened the windows despite the damp and threw my overcoat and jacket to their usual place on the back of the sofa. A train screeched and flashed past, making me want to dive for cover in the split-second it took me to realize what it was and resume kicking off my shoes and finding a new pack of cigarettes. I wondered if Janet Pym's mother had found her illicit smokes yet. I had to empty my pockets onto the table to find my lighter. The keys jangled musically as they hit the worn wood. A small packet of pills followed, and then my lighter with a heavy thump.

I lit a cigarette and stared at the little packet of pills. Banner's pills. I took a long drag and tipped the packet upside down. A few green pills rattled onto the table's surface. I stared at them for a few moments, smoking and tapping ash and thinking.

Just like Reno, they kept turning up. Banner had them. Pym had them. Stark had them. I didn't know about Richards, but it seemed a safe bet to assume he had them, too. For all the good it had done him.

It had been nagging me since we'd first found Banner's little pillbox. I rubbed a hand over my eyes while my thoughts slowly began to gel. Banner and Pym had both taken the pills. They both had sudden, violent mental breakdowns. The coincidence was just too much to ignore; I couldn't bring myself to believe that both men would have simply snapped in the same way a year and a couple thousand miles apart. Yet the pills were the only common factor. Besides, Stark didn't take them, and while he was a lot of things, he wasn't crazy. At least not like Banner and Pym.

I took a drag on my cigarette and held the smoke in my lungs a couple heartbeats before exhaling slowly. It couldn't be the pills, though, could it?

The answer was there somewhere, dangling just out of my grasp. I set the butt of my cigarette in the ashtray, but I did not take another one. I stared at the little pile of Banner's pills on the table and picked one up instead. It felt small and powdery between my thumb and forefinger. Slowly, deliberately, I got to my feet and filled a glass with water.

I bit my lip, hesitating. Hank McCoy was working on it, sure, but he had too much to do. It might be days before he could tell me what was really in the pills. Meanwhile, I could settle this for once and all. It couldn't be the pills, right? Iodine never made anyone lose their marbles and kill a girl. Nothing would happen if I took one. Nothing at all.

The hell with it. Best to be sure. I tossed the little green pill into my mouth and washed it down with a swig of water.