The T Program lobby was no larger than an oversized closet with a chair, telephone, and an LLNL phone book. Set into one wall was a reflective glass door like an airlock. The words CAIN ACCESS had been stenciled on the front. The other walls held a safety bulletin board, an equal opportunity flyer, and a large green EXCLUSION AREA sign.
Paige opened the heavy CAIN booth door on the far wall and unclipped the badge from her blue blouse. “We do this one at a time, just like you did at the badge office. Stick your badge in the reader, key in your PIN, and the other door will open. You’ll hear the click. Just watch me.”
Paige’s expression became stern as she stood with the door half open. “I should warn you that if you make a mistake with your PIN, the booth will flood with colorless but deadly nerve gas. Can’t trust those old bomb designers, you know.” She slipped in and closed the door.
Craig stood appalled, then realized she was joking. Paige Mitchell seemed to enjoy testing how stuffy he could be. He could see only her hazy outline inside the booth, but he heard a succession of beeps as she keyed in her PIN. After an unlocking clunk he lost sight of her outline as the door on the other side of the booth opened.
He pulled at the door and stepped into the booth as the heavy door shut, sealing him in. Behind a glass panel, two TV cameras peered at him. A silvery LCD display above the magnetic strip reader blinked PLEASE INSERT YOUR BADGE. Craig punched in his PIN and the inner door clicked, allowing him to join Paige.
He found himself in an open trailer space broken by islands of low office cubicles and offices with doors on the far wall. Randomly arranged tables served as holding platforms for computer workstations, bundles of wires, circuit boards, bound preprints of scientific papers, users manuals, and stacks of floppy disks. He could smell burned insulation, solder, and cleaning chemicals.
Down one carpeted hall in the back of the trailer, a large room stood partially open like a bank vault. He recognized instinctively the centerpiece of the laboratory area — the VR chamber — but he also saw the yellow CONSTRUCTION AREA tape that had once been stretched across the door opening to seal the crime scene — now, though, it lay discarded on the floor.
Craig stepped toward the chamber, anger sharpening inside him just as a man in his mid-twenties sauntered through the open vault door. The young man stepped on the yellow tape as if on purpose and moved toward one of the office cubicles, shuffling papers. Craig burned the image of the man into his mind: pale skin, red hair, and the beginnings of a paunch. He wore jeans and an ash-gray t-shirt with a garish drawing of Nexus, apparently some comic-book superhero.
The man looked up, noticed Craig and Paige, and altered his course to come over to them. “Oh. You the FBI guy? I can always tell visitors around here because they’re the only ones who wear monkey suits.”
Craig stiffened within his dark suit. “Yes, I’m from the FBI. And you are…?”
The red-headed man held the sheaf of papers like a shield and did not offer his hand. “Gary Lesserec, the one who’s trying to hold this program together in the middle of a shitstorm. I’m the only one who knows what’s going on, now that Michaelson bit the big one.”
“Excuse me, but was that the VR chamber I saw you exit?” Craig narrowed his eyes, feeling a growing uneasiness.
Lesserec said flippantly, “That’s where we work, you know.”
Craig nailed him with his gaze. “So you blatantly crossed a crime scene line. I see. Are you aware of the penalties you could now face, Mr. Lesserec?”
Craig didn’t wait for the red-headed man to answer, turning to Paige. “The guards should have sealed this building the moment Dr. Michaelson’s body was found, and it doesn’t look like they did a very good job. If a felony was committed here, no one should have been given the chance to tamper with the crime scene. It’s been hours since Michaelson was discovered — how much has been changed?”
“Wait just a minute!” Lesserec tossed the papers down on an equipment-strewn table, where they lay on top of the clutter. “This is my lab, Mr. FBI, and our whole team has an impossible challenge to meet, thanks to Michaelson. The President of the United States and the whole world is counting on us, and we can’t just go on vacation because somebody wants to make a Federal case over a heart attack.”
Craig kept his cool with an effort. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Lesserec, but I’ve got a job to do. I am declaring the VR chamber off limits to everyone as of this moment. Paige, I want you to see that a permanent, uh, PSO is stationed right outside the door. Mr. Lesserec and his team members are not — I repeat, not—allowed to set foot inside until I have declared the area clear.”
Paige bristled, but she glared more at Lesserec than at Craig. “I understand, Mr. Kreident. Let me make a call to Protective Services.”
“Hey, you can’t do that,” Lesserec said with fading bluster. “I’ve got a simulation running, and I need to download some files. At least let me go in and get—”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Lesserec. And if you doubt whether I have the authority to do this, perhaps you should speak to your Director. In the meantime, I’d like to set up an interview with yourself and each of your team members.” Craig maintained a placid expression. It took Lesserec only about five seconds to glance away.
Craig spoke more quietly. “The sooner we can dismiss Dr. Michaelson’s death as an accident, the faster your people can get back to work.”
Lesserec ran a hand through his spiky red hair, stumped for a moment. Then, lifting his nose, he regained his composure. “Whatever you need to do, Mr. FBI, get on with it. We have only a few weeks to get a full-blown demonstration ready. Can’t afford to lose a single day.”
Craig worked his jaw to keep his temper under control. Who did this clown think he was? “Can you show me where you found the body, Mr. Lesserec?”
The question seemed to throw Lesserec. He shrugged. “Sure — follow me.”
Craig and Paige followed him around a table of equipment toward the vault in the corner of the trailer complex. Without waiting for them to catch up, Lesserec stepped over the torn yellow tape again. “Don’t touch anything — the guards nearly ruined Michaelson’s experiment.”
Craig entered the darkened room. The ceiling was ten feet high, but the chamber seemed small because of its odd shape. The walls were filled with arrays of lenses, and two rows of movie-theater seats stood in the middle hooked to complex and unsightly hydraulics. A chalk outline of the body showed where Michaelson had crumpled to the floor. Craig walked carefully to the chalk and squatted down to squint at the rough carpet. He would have to get a forensic team in here to test for blood, saliva, fingerprints, chemicals — anything. He expected to find traces of the acid to which Michaelson had been exposed.
Lesserec stood by the doorway, skinny arms folded. “After they hauled the body away, I held a meeting with my people, and they’re at their workstations crunching code. Some of our mech techs need to get into the chamber to make modifications, but I’m keeping them busy at the Plutonium Building on another part of the demo. You’d better get what you need as soon as possible. Life goes on, you know?”
Craig clenched his teeth. “It seems we have different priorities, Mr. Lesserec. Until we rule out foul play in Dr. Michaelson’s death, practically everyone with access to this building is suspect.”
Lesserec gave a snorting, bitter laugh. “Oh, don’t limit yourself. Michaelson made enemies out of a lot more than just T Program people.”
Craig refused to be distracted. “That makes my job even more difficult. And if you don’t cooperate, I can have you held in jail for obstruction of justice — then where would your deadline be?”