“And she had rented the car?”
“Yes. Using an alias. The name and license she used to rent it turned out to be untraceable. But the rental car agent identified her picture from ten that were shown to him. Later, police found a cab driver who recognized her picture. The Cabbie said he had picked her up a few miles from the brother’s house, about an hour after the fire, and had taken her to the airport.” Connelly frowned. “This is where the trail ends. We presume she took a flight, but if she did she used fake identification.”
Desh pulled Kira Miller’s 8-by-10 from the photo pile and examined her once again. She had such a friendly and appealing look. But this was just a carefully constructed mask. Being burned alive was one of the more horrible ways to die. Killing anyone in cold calculation in such a sadistic fashion—especially a family member—pointed to a psychopathic or sociopathic personality. And these soulless monsters were hard to spot. In fact, Desh knew, they were often quite intelligent and charismatic, and highly skilled at hiding their true nature.
Connelly nodded toward the last photo Desh held in his hand. It was of a tall man, probably in his early fifties, with wavy, seemingly uncombed salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in business casual slacks and shirt. He had a long, thin face and a wild, faraway look in his eye that reminded Desh of a stereotypical professor.
“Tom Morgan. He was NeuroCure’s Chief Scientific Officer and Kira’s boss when she joined. He was killed in an auto accident almost exactly three years after Kira Miller’s hire. In light of future events, we now think there’s a good chance it wasn’t an accident.”
Desh frowned and was silent for several long seconds, digesting what he had been told so far. “You said her parents were deceased. How did they die?”
“I figured you’d jump to this question,” said Connelly approvingly. “You really do have a singular talent for connecting dots.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” said Desh. “But these particular dots aren’t exactly difficult to connect.”
“You’d be surprised. Anyway, to answer your question, her parents both died in the same auto accident. While she was in high school. As with Morgan, the police didn’t suspect foul play at the time and didn’t do much of an investigation. But in light of everything else, it’s not hard to imagine that their daughter was behind it.”
Desh knew signs of sociopathy were usually present from a very young age if anyone was looking in the right direction. If Kira Miller could torch her brother in cold blood, she wouldn’t likely be squeamish about killing her parents either. A thorough examination of mysterious deaths and disappearances with her as epicenter was almost certain to be revealing. Perhaps brother Alan had been helping this private investigator, Larry Lusetti. This was as good a conjecture as any for why she killed him so soon after recovering the file Lusetti had on her. Alan Miller could probably have pulled any number of skeletons from his little sister’s closet—perhaps literally.
“Any other unexplained accidents in her wake?” said Desh.
Connelly nodded grimly. “An uncle drowned while swimming alone when she was twelve. And he was known to be a very strong swimmer. There were two other incidents involving teachers at Kira’s high school the next year. One turned up dead in her apartment, her face so badly eaten away by sulfuric acid it was unrecognizable. The other went missing and was never found. Neither case was ever solved.”
So the breathtaking, fresh-faced girl smiling in the photo was a psychopath, and was at the very least a double murderer. The tale Connelly had spun was truly grisly. But Desh knew the worst was yet to come. There was only one reason any of this would warrant the colonel’s attention. “So what’s the terrorism connection?”
Connelly sighed heavily, as if he had hoped he could somehow avoid this discussion. He rubbed his mustache once again and said, “As the Lusetti investigation and hunt for Kira Miller continued, the police found evidence that she had been in communication with several known terrorist organizations, including Al-Qaeda and Islamic Jihad.”
“Nice groups,” said Desh dryly.
“The case was turned over to Homeland Security. There’s a detailed report in the accordion file, but they quickly found that she had millions of dollars deposited in banks throughout the world, well hidden, including several numbered Swiss accounts. They’re certain they haven’t found it all. The methods she used to obscure the trail between herself and her money were quite sophisticated. They also found several false identities, and are convinced she has more.”
“Working with Jihadists is an interesting choice for a Western woman, even for a sociopath. These groups aren’t exactly known for being progressive when it comes to a woman’s place in society.”
“It’s a puzzle alright. She’s not Muslim and there’s no evidence she ever supported this ideology. She could be in it just for money, but somehow I think there’s something we’re missing.”
“Do you think she’s attracted to the danger of working with terrorists?”
Connelly shrugged. “It’s impossible to say. Normal motives don’t necessarily apply to psychopathic personalities. Jeffrey Dahmer murdered and cannibalized seventeen people, three of whose skulls were found in his refrigerator.”
“That’s perfectly rational behavior,” said Desh sarcastically. “He just didn’t want them to spoil.”
A smile flashed across Connelly’s face, but only for a moment. “You’ll read in the report that they found a flotation tank in her condo,” he continued. “Top of the line. That’s a pretty unusual device to have taking up space in your living room.”
“Flotation tank?”
“They used to be called sensory deprivation chambers. Basically a giant coffin filled with water and Epsom salt. Seal yourself up in one and you bob around like a cork, weightless, in total silence and total darkness. You receive virtually no sensory input while inside.” Connelly grimaced. “One can only imagine what she was doing with it. Performing bizarre rituals? Locking people in for days at a time as a means of torture?” he shuddered. “This girl is our worst nightmare: brilliant and totally unpredictable. No conscience; no remorse.”
The room fell silent. Both men were alone with their thoughts. Desh knew that any problem Connelly had that he couldn’t solve with his vast resources and was important enough for him to summon Desh had to be very, very ugly. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know what it was. Maybe he should just leave now. What did it matter, anyway? Stop one villain and another would always spring up to take his place. But he couldn’t bring himself to walk away, at least not until his curiosity was satisfied.
Desh took a deep breath and locked his eyes on Connelly. “So let’s cut to the chase, Colonel. What are we really talking about here, biological warfare?”
Connelly frowned. “That’s right. And she’s the best around—maybe ever.” Connelly’s demeanor, already fairly grim due to the nature of the events he had been reporting, took a sharp turn for the worse.
“With her skills and experience engineering viruses,” said Desh, “I’m sure she could make them more deadly and contagious. But to what end? You can’t contain them. They could easily boomerang back on the terrorists. I know these groups aren’t very selective in who they kill, but their leaders, at least, aren’t in any hurry to meet the seventy-two virgins awaiting them in heaven.”
“My bioweapons experts tell me someone with her skill can get around the containment issue by designing in molecular triggers. The DNA not only has to be inserted, it has to be read and turned into gene products,” explained Connelly. “There are promoter regions on the DNA that control under what circumstances this happens. Triggers. Someone as talented as Kira Miller can engineer these to her specifications. Like a Trojan Horse virus that infects your computer. It lies dormant until whatever predetermined time the asshole who invented it has specified. Then it emerges and demolishes your files.”