Wired - Douglas E. Richards [8]
“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.
3
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