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questions, Detective, you are doing a very good job of making me feel like a suspect.”
    “Yes or no, doctor. Did anybody else see you on the loading docks, collecting lung tissue specimens?”
    I had insulted him, and it flustered him. His one good eye took on a pouty look and he turned slightly toward a row of files along one wall. Outside I could hear a truck backing up, and a man yelling orders at somebody.
    “Almost certainly,” he said. “I met Dr. Herrera on the floor of the main building. We had a conversation with Dr. Laurent, and Dr. Walter Cole from the Metropolitan Health District, and probably four or five members of Dr. Herrera’s staff. One of his nurses, in fact, a Ms. Susan Hinton, helped us take tissue specimens.”
    “Okay. How about other members of the WHO staff? Were any of them out in the field today?”
    “I’m sure they were,” he said, and then waved his hand in the air like he wanted to put me back on the right track. “Listen, Detective, if you want to know Emma Bradley’s mind, you should really read her research journal.”
    “Her journal?”
    “Yes. A red hardcover book. She wrote in it constantly. Emma always took exacting notes on her field research. It would contain a minute by minute diary of her work.”
    “That might be very helpful, Dr. Myers. Do you happen to know where she kept her journal?”
    “She would have had it with her,” he said. “She always had it with her.”
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Chapter 5
    Chunk and I spent another hour interviewing members of the WHO staff, then, after getting a list of Dr. Herrera’s staff, finally made it back to our car. We left Arsenal and drove to the Research Protection Unit’s office, hoping to contact Officer Wade.
    I was driving. Chunk was on the phone with Tom Treanor, the lieutenant in charge of the Research Protection Unit and Officer Wade’s direct supervisor. I heard Chunk say, “Yes, sir. Okay. Ten minutes maybe. Okay, sir. See you then.”
    He hung up.
    “Well?”
    “Treanor said he hasn’t heard from Wade since this morning. Said he hasn’t checked in all day.”
    “That doesn’t sound good.”
    “Treanor didn’t seem concerned about it. He sounded more upset that the folks at WHO were bad-mouthing one of his boys than anything else.”
    Outside, on the curb, I saw small groups of men standing around, talking, glaring at us. They watched us drive by.
    “What do you think?” I asked Chunk.
    “About Wade?”
    “Yeah.”
    “It doesn’t look good for him, that’s for sure.”
    “Yeah, but how likely is that?” I said. “I mean, really. The guy’s a cop. Why feed the body back into the system, knowing how easy it would be to trace back to him?”
    “He might’ve just lost his mind,” Chunk said. “It happens. Even to cops. And I’d believe it of Wade before most.”
    “Really? Why?”
    “Because I’ve seen him lose it before.”
    “When?” I asked.
    “When he was a cadet. Back when I was helping out the PT staff with baton training at the Academy.”
    Back before we got promoted, Chunk used to teach tactics to the cadets. They used him on account of his size and reputation. They put him in this red padded suit of armor and let him attack the cadets while they fought him off with their batons, only the batons they were given were padded too, so they were practically useless.
    “When it was Wade’s turn,” Chunk said, “I went after him. He stroked my legs a couple of times, like he’s supposed to, but I could tell he had something the others didn’t, and I wanted to see what that was. You know how some people are. You can tell just by looking in their eyes that they’re fighters. So I slapped him in the ear a couple of times.”
    “You provoked him.”
    “Sure. Anyway, he got pissed. He threw the baton down and charged me. Laid me out with the best damn tackle I’ve ever seen.”
    “He laid you out?”
    “It gets better,” Chunk said. “I’ve got all that padding on, so when he knocked me on my