The corners of Connelly’s mouth turned up in a slight, humorless smile. “Well, you know what they say about things that sound too good to be true.”
Desh frowned. “They usually are,” he finished.
Connelly nodded.
Desh had his answer. Too bad, he thought.
Not the damsel after all.
Jim Connelly reached into a small white refrigerator that was tucked away against the wall of his office, pulled out two chilled plastic bottles of spring water, and handed one to Desh. Desh nodded his thanks, unscrewed the cap, and took an appreciative sip, while Connelly slid a wooden coaster across to him.
The colonel took a drink from his own bottle. “From what we understand, Kira Miller is even more of a genius than her record would suggest,” he said. “Especially when it comes to gene therapy. In this field, scientists who have worked with her think she might just be the most brilliant, intuitive scientist alive today.”
“Gene therapy?”
“It’s just like the name suggests,” explained Connelly. “It’s a therapy to cure disease, or even birth defects, by correcting faulty genes. Or by inserting totally new ones,” he added.
“That’s possible?”
“For quite a while now. I wasn’t aware of it either. I guess those involved in this field haven’t done a good job of spreading the word.”
“Or you and I have had our heads in the sand.”
The colonel chuckled. “I wouldn’t rule that out either,” he said, amused.
“How is it done?”
“The most popular way is to use viruses, which insert genes into host cells naturally. These viral genes commandeer our cellular machinery to make endless copies of themselves. Some types, like herpes viruses and retroviruses, actually insert their genes right into human chromosomes.”
Desh’s face showed a hint of disgust. Even though it occurred at the submicroscopic level, the thought of a virus inserting its genetic material into a human chromosome was disturbing. “Retroviruses,” said Desh. “You mean HIV?”
“The AIDS virus is in the retrovirus family, yes. But regardless of the virus type, the idea of gene therapy is to use modified versions of these viruses as delivery vehicles, forcing them to insert human genes into our cells rather than their own. If you cut out all the nasty parts of a retrovirus and add back in a human gene—say, insulin—the virus will insert perfect, working copies of insulin genes into your chromosomes. Presto—no more diabetes. Simple as that.”
“So the AIDS virus could actually be used to save lives?”
“Properly hollowed out and genetically engineered, yes. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Very,” said Desh. He was intrigued. Rather than treating the symptoms of a disease, gene therapy offered an outright cure: virus-aided microsurgery on the genes themselves. “It sounds ideal,” offered Desh.
“In many ways it is,” responded Connelly thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, the field hasn’t progressed as quickly as scientists had hoped. It might sound simple on paper, but I’m told it’s treacherously complicated.”
“It doesn’t even sound simple on paper,” noted Desh wryly.
The corners of Connelly’s mouth turned up into a slight smile. “Apparently she had quite a knack for it,” he said. He lifted the water bottle to his lips and gestured at the photographs lying on the desk in front of Desh.
Desh flipped the picture of Kira Miller on its back and revealed the second photo in the stack. It was a two-story yellow brick building, not particularly attractive, with a large placard over the door that read, NeuroCure Pharmaceuticals.
“She joined NeuroCure, a publicly traded biotech company in San Diego, right out of Stanford,” continued Connelly. “She was well liked, and by all accounts performed as brilliantly there as expected.”
He gestured again and Desh dutifully flipped to the next photo, a small, nondescript building in the middle of an industrial strip. The building had an address affixed to it but no name.
“NeuroCure’s animal research facility,” explained the colonel. “The building that Kira Miller worked out of, and for which she was responsible. Notice there’s no way to tell it’s at all associated with NeuroCure, or that there are animals inside. Biotechs don’t like to advertise these facilities. Not with all the PETA types running around.”
Connelly stroked his mustache absently with the tips of two fingers, something he had had a tendency to do ever since Desh had known him. “Kira was a model employee her first two years at NeuroCure, performing with the level of brilliance expected of her. During this time she was promoted twice, which is fairly unprecedented.” He raised his eyebrows. “Then again, so is graduating Stanford with a Ph.D. at twenty-three.” Connelly leaned forward in his chair. “Which brings us to about a year ago,” he said meaningfully, a hint of weariness in his voice.
“Let me guess,” said Desh dryly. “That’s when all hell starts to break loose.”
“You could say that.”
“Interesting,” noted Desh. “Up until now, at least, you’ve painted Kira Miller as a model citizen. It must have been some year.”
“You have no idea,” said Connelly ominously.
The colonel motioned for Desh to flip to the next photograph in his thin stack. It showed a short, slightly pudgy man with a hard look, holding a cigarette loosely.
“Larry Lusetti,” said Connelly. “Private Investigator; ex-cop. One morning about eleven months ago he’s found dead in Kira Miller’s condo in La Jolla, his skull bashed in with a heavy marble bookend and his body severely lacerated. After he was bludgeoned, he fell through a picture window in the front of the condo, which explains the lacerations.” He paused. “Kira must have managed to pull him back inside and close the shutters, but a neighbor heard the glass shattering and went to investigate. When no one answered the neighbor’s knock—and then Kira sped out of her garage and raced right past him—he called the police.
“Kira Miller couldn’t be located, but later that morning police found that the victim’s apartment had been broken into and turned upside down. Turns out Lusetti had installed a motion-activated nanny-cam inside a hanging plant in the apartment. Because of the nature of his work he tended to be a bit paranoid.”
You’re not paranoid if they really are out to get you, thought Desh dryly, but he didn’t interrupt.
“Lusetti’s secretary alerted the authorities to the existence of the camera, which recorded some nice footage of Kira Miller ransacking the place and leaving with a large file folder and Lusetti’s laptop. They were able to enhance the footage enough to make out the label on the file she took. Turns out it was a file Lusetti had on her.”
“Interesting. Do we know why she was under investigation?”
Connelly shook his head. “No. Lusetti’s secretary knew nothing about it. And Kira Miller’s file was the only one he kept at home. There were no other records ever located that made any mention of her at all—other than the ones she took, of course.”
Connelly gestured at the photographs and Desh flipped to the next one.
“Alan Miller,” said Connelly. “Kira’s older brother.”
Desh studied the photo. Blue eyes. Handsome. He could see the family resemblance.
“Around midnight that same day, brother Alan turned up dead in Cincinnati. His house was found burned to the ground with his charred remains inside.”
“Arson?”
“No question about it. A rental car was found abandoned near the house with traces of acetone inside, the fire accelerant used in the arson. The DNA from a strand of hair found on the driver’s seat of the car matched Kira Miller’s DNA from hair samples police had taken from her condo.”