Bloody Genius (Virgil Flowers, #12)(30)
* * *
—
Virgil drove out to the street, pulled over, and called Trane. Trane was in her car. “I talked to my husband. He’s an internist, not a research scientist, but he knows some things. Basically, he said that the university would have a committee that would have to approve human experimentation. With what was on the CD, there’s no way they would give it. He also thought that there was no way that Quill could have avoided getting it, either—no way around the rules. As it turns out, that doesn’t mean anything for us.”
“It doesn’t? There could be a motive . . .”
“I talked to Nancy Quill. She listened to the recording and the first thing she said was, ‘That’s not Barth. None of them is Barth.’”
Virgil thought about it, silently, until she said, “Hello? You still there?”
“Then why would he have the recording? After he got it, why would he keep it? Why would he have been listening to it just before he died? I can’t believe that CD was in the player for very long—he obviously listened to a lot of music and he had about a thousand CDs in there.”
“I don’t know the answers to any of that,” Trane said. “Was he doing something with the computer, in the library, he didn’t want anyone to know about and somehow tied into the CD? Maybe he reviewed the CD before he met somebody over there to talk about it?”
“How about this? Quill was given the CD by one of those guys arguing against human experimentation. Something bad happened—like the experiment went bad and the patient died,” Virgil said. “Quill did know who it was on the CD. He planned on giving it to the committee, or maybe even the cops, but he wanted to check it out first to make sure he wasn’t being played.”
“And somebody on the CD killed him to keep the secret safe. Because if the secret wasn’t kept, some big shot doctors could be looking at murder charges.”
“Yes.”
“I like that,” Trane said. “I like that a lot. But who are the other people?”
“Doctors.”
“What doctors? And when?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“Maybe talk to some of his medical associates, the guys who actually do the surgeries for him. Find out what they think.”
“You gotta be careful, Margaret. You don’t want to play that CD for the wrong guy even if he’s wearing a white doctor’s coat.”
“Not to worry. I’ve got a big gun, and I’m nervous. Now, what are you doing?”
He told her about his interview with Combes. “I believe him.”
“Only one problem with all that,” Trane said. “We know that Quill had cocaine and that somebody had used some of it. Maybe not Quill; maybe he provided it to the hypothetical hookers you were talking about. You say that the drawers in that desk weren’t all that secret because your grandfather had one like that. Well, guess what? My grandfather didn’t, and I’d be willing to bet that ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the people out there didn’t have grandfathers who did. Those drawers were secret for normal people. I never would have found that coke in fifty years, and the Crime Scene guys didn’t, either. That toot was put in the desk by Quill.”
“You’re saying I’m not normal?”
“I thought there was substantial agreement on that.”
* * *
—
Virgil told Trane that he wanted to make a run at Quill’s daughter.
“You know I got nothing useful from her, but go ahead,” Trane said. “Maybe if a cowboy blows softly in her ear, she’ll cough something up.”
“You think she’s . . . needy . . . ?”
“That’s a kind way of putting it, but yes,” Trane said. “She’s a sad sack. She wants somebody to love her, and she’s nice-enough-looking, but she’s annoying. She winds up sleeping with people who want the sex but not the woman. You’ll see.”
“Where am I going to find her?”
“You know, it’s Saturday, so she’ll probably still be asleep, if she’s home. She’s over in St. Paul. Let me give you the address.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Megan Quill lived in the upstairs apartment of a tree-shaded private home off Selby Avenue, three blocks from the University of St. Thomas. The home was older, pre–World War II, two stories with an attic under the roof, with white clapboard siding and a stingy front porch. Virgil was familiar with Selby from his days as a St. Paul cop—he’d taken any number of calls on the street, including a murder, but miles farther east. He parked under a maple tree and walked up to the front door, which had three mailboxes to one side.
Access to the second-floor apartment was up an interior staircase.
Virgil rang the doorbell, and, a moment later, an elderly lady shuffled up to the door, opened it three or four inches, and asked through the crack, “Can I help you?”
Virgil identified himself, and asked about Quill.
“Well, she’s up. I heard her flush the toilet,” the old woman said, opening the door all the way. She was chewing something and smelled of masticated bread. “You can go on up, she’s in number one. There’s another ringer by her door, push the button. She has friends over.”