This gets my attention. I look at him.
“The argument that night in the faculty dining room, Jordan and Crone,” he says.
“Did Epperson weigh in?”
“Not exactly, though according to one version he put himself between the two of them for a moment and tried to get her to leave. One thing’s for sure,” says Harry. “He’s the closest thing to a witness as to what was said.”
“And he won’t talk to us?”
Harry shakes his head. Usual criminal process does not permit us to depose him, to take a statement under penalty of perjury outside of the courtroom.
“What do we know about him?”
“Not a lot. He doesn’t seem to cultivate people at work. Except for Jordan, that is.”
“Was that platonic?” I ask him.
Harry gives me a “Who knows?” “They coulda been hitting the sheets. But if so, neither of ’em kissed and talked. I couldn’t get any of the other people at the lab to even speculate. When I asked, it was like I was spreading bad rumors.
“Nobody seems to know him that well. An enigma,” says Harry. “According to the lab techs, he was a big question mark at work. Didn’t say much. Kept to himself.” Harry’s reading from notes now.
“Did Crone hire him?”
“That’s not exactly clear,” says Harry. “Some in the lab think that it may have been Jordan herself who brought him in.”
What is troubling here is that there are no statements to the cops as to what Epperson may have told them. At least nothing they’ve disclosed. Which means they debriefed him verbally and kept it to themselves. There is no doubt a reason for this.
Harry has tried twice to talk to Epperson and twice has gotten the door slammed in his face.
Harry looks through his notes, takes a sip of scotch. “Twenty-eight years old. He appears to have yanked real hard on his bootstraps to get out of Detroit. Went to inner-city schools, never got in any trouble. Seems to have been able to jump well,” says Harry.
I look at him, puzzled.
“Full scholarship to Stanford to play basketball,” says Harry. “According to the press reports, the kid was a high-school prodigy. Lew Alcindor on his way to becoming Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.”
“Really?”
“At seven foot six, it’s either that or get a job changing bulbs on streetlamps. Unfortunately for him, the basketball thing didn’t work out.”
“Why not?”
Harry reading from his notes. “They call it cardiac arrhythmia. Real common, I guess, in the very tall. According to the stories, they’re doing some studies on it, particularly African-Americans over six feet. Enlarged hearts,” he says. “Epperson has a bum ticker. He couldn’t fulfill the terms of the scholarship, so they cut him loose. But that wasn’t the end of it. Seems the kid’s pretty resilient and very bright. He didn’t get the athletic thing, but they ended up awarding him an academic scholarship, and it wasn’t for P.E. or communications,” says Harry.
“What?”
“Math and science. Crushes every myth,” says Harry. “Kid goes to an inner-city school where he’s gotta dodge gunfights in the halls and find an outhouse cuz the urinals are all cracked, and he still gets straight A’s. He does it again at Stanford. Straight A’s for four years in the engineering department. Graduates near the top of his class, and nearly gets trampled in the recruiting stampede that follows. Every company on the Fortune Five Hundred and a dozen universities all bidding for his services. One thing’s real clear.” Harry takes a sip of scotch. “The kid’s not going back to Detroit.”
He flips a few pages, finds his place. “After that, Epperson spends a year working for this corporation. Place called. . Cyber-genom, genam, genomics.” He looks at me.
I shrug.
“According to what I could find out, they’re not on the Internet. At least Cybergenomics Incorporated, is not. Gotta be some high-tech thing with a name like that. Anyway, a year later Epperson ends up going to work for Crone at the lab. That’s it as far as his resume goes.”
“Is there any indication that he might have known Jordan before he went to work there?”
“Get to that in a minute,” says Harry. “What’s interesting is that I asked Crone that very question. He told me he didn’t think so. What’s more, neither Epperson nor Jordan has a background in medicine, life sciences or genetics, and yet they’re working at this genetics lab. She’s into this thing called molecular electronics. His specialty is nanorobotics.”
“What’s that?”
“Field of engineering,” says Harry. “Involves small robots. We’re talking microscopic here. Riverdancers doing their fling on the head of a pin.”
“What are these robots used for?”
“Got me. I’m told one application could be medicine.”
“Well, there you go. There’s the link,” I say.
“Right.”
“And what does Crone say?”
“What he always says. Fell back on the old ‘My lips are sealed’ crap. Like the highest calling of the scientist is to keep his mouth shut. They ought to put this asshole in charge of Los Alamos. He gets my vote. With a client like Crone, who needs a prosecutor? He’ll screw himself to the wall before he’s finished, and us, too. He’s already doing a good job of it.” Harry on a roll.
“What are the other people at the lab saying?”
“The same sorry mantra. Almost makes you think somebody got to them,” he says.
“Does, doesn’t it?”
“The only thing they would say was in reference to some old sci-fi flick, Fantastic Voyage. Ever see it?”
I shake my head. “Must have missed that one.”
“They shoot this miniature submarine up some guy’s nose or something. Inject it through a needle. Inside are people all shrunk down,” says Harry.
“I knew I missed it for a reason.”
“Anyway the plotline. .” Harry ignores me. “They’re going on a voyage through this guy’s body to cure some disease or other. If I could remember what he was dying of, I could replace Siskel and Ebert.”
“Siskel’s dead,” I tell him.
“Yeah, well, this tiny sub. It seems we’re there.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this nanorobotics shit.”
“Shrinking people?”
“No. I don’t think so. Just the submarine,” says Harry.
“Really?”
“I don’t know. Hell. They would talk and look over their shoulders. A couple of the lab techs. Probably laughing their asses off after I left. I had to pick my time carefully, when the guy Tash wasn’t around.”
“Were they afraid of him? These lab techs?”
“I don’t know if afraid is the word. But he has a certain chilling affect on conversation,” says Harry. “It’s like all these people took a vow of silence. And when Tash is around, you can’t even get ’em to do sign language.”
“People I talked to were lab assistants. I got one of ’em to go on coffee break with me. Guy said he was speaking only in general terms. And if anybody asked, he wasn’t speaking at all. All he would say about this nanorobotics was a reference to this movie.”
“Tiny submarines?”
“That’s the one. On a crash dive through some sorry guy’s bowels. I don’t wanna even know where they come out. I’m feeling like I’ve already been on that trip with Crone. When I pressed each of the lab techs, they all ended up singing the same old chorus. Trade secrets, in four-part harmony,” says Harry.
“Well, at least he’s telling us something that’s true.” I’m talking about Crone.
“Only if you want to take the time to pick through the lies,” says Harry.
“What do you mean?”
“Remember I told you that I asked Crone whether Jordan and Epperson knew each other before Epperson came to the lab? He told me he didn’t think so?”
I nod.
“I wouldn’t take it to the bank,” says Harry.
“This company, Cybergenomics. The one Epperson worked for before he joined the lab. I come to find out they’re one of the companies underwriting Crone’s work at the lab.”