Left To Die

Adele circled to the edge of the table and lowered into a sitting position on the table next to Peter’s clenched fist. She was only inches away from the man suspected of killing Marion, killing the three Americans. The same man who had callously murdered his victims and left their bodies to rot. The same way Adele’s mother had been left in that park.

She felt a flash of rage, which she quickly pushed deep down in her chest.

Somehow, though, she felt a burbling of pity, too. Perhaps Robert had been right. Perhaps even these sorts, the monsters of the world, were once destined to be masterpieces, but somehow vandalized.

Or perhaps her own instincts were trying to tell her something.

But what?

He couldn’t be innocent, could he? It was far too damning of evidence for him to have stolen the drug, have a packed suitcase, match the employee records, request a leave of absence…

“Adele,” said Agent Marshall, waving her phone.

But Adele held up another quieting finger and stared at Peter, studying the side of his face. “All right, let’s say you took the drug. Where have you been for the last five weeks?”

“Here, in Germany! I swear it. I’ve been with my family; you can ask my wife, my kids! I was at my daughter’s soccer practice last Wednesday. Everyone can tell you!”

“BKA is running your credit cards and passport right now,” said Adele. “You’re convincing, I’ll give you that. But this charade is pointless. If they find that you’ve been spending money in France, or that your passport was spotted at any of the borders, you’re going to spend the rest of your life behind bars. I hope you know that.”

Peter Lehman’s voice broke, shuddering with a sob. “I didn’t kill anyone. I took the five weeks because of the politics. Like I said. Those bastards at Lion wouldn’t stick up for us. I’m a chemist, not a killer. I was leading my team as best I could. I made promises, promises that they should’ve seen fulfilled. We all worked so hard…”

His voice strained, and he emitted another defeated sob. At last, he turned, meeting her gaze, his eyes laden with sadness. “I needed the time off to recover. I took the drug. I admit that. There’s no sense pretending, you found it. But I took it to sell it.”

He hesitated for a moment, his nostrils flaring as he realized what he’d said. But, shaking his head, he tried to steady himself. Then, soldiering on, with a grim look of determination like someone plunging into an icy river, he said, his voice strengthening with each word, “I was going to travel. I did pack a suitcase, but it wasn’t because I’ve returned from France, but because I was going to leave for Switzerland. I told my wife there was a conference, but really, I was going there to meet a Swiss pharmaceutical company. I told them about the drug. I offered to sell it to them. You have to understand; I’m not a bad man. But I spent three years working on this project.” He reached up as if to rub at his forehead, but his hand couldn’t make it the full way. The chain rattled as his hand dropped limply back to the table. “To throw it away, so callously, with Director Mueller not even taking a second to try to salvage it…it’s a crime. That’s the real crime!”

Adele still sat on the edge of the metal table, her legs crossed, her hands folded in her lap, her shoulder brushing against Lehman’s waving forearm as he gesticulated wildly, causing the chains to rattle back and forth and his hands to move up and down like a seesaw through the metal bracket holding him tight.

“Agent Sharp,” Marshall repeated again, waving with her phone.

Adele sighed, and finally glanced over at the young BKA agent.

“Yes?” she said.

Marshall winced apologetically. “He’s telling the truth,” she said, shaking her head. “BKA can’t find any record of credit card purchases or travel outside the country. And the officer sent to speak with his wife has her swearing up and down that he’s been home for the last five weeks, wallowing in it, in her words, but home.”

Adele felt a pit forming in her stomach. She stared at Agent Marshall. “You have to be kidding.”

The German agent winced again, shaking her head.

Adele glanced at Peter, who was hunched over now, crying, his forehead resting against his hands.

She turned to John, her expression grim. “There was no one else? No one in the employee records who worked on the project? Who requested absence? No one with red hair?”

John scowled. “Would you stop it with the red hair? He doesn’t have red hair.” He jabbed a finger toward Peter again. “He’s the killer!”

But Adele shook her head and translated what Marshall had told her as well as what Peter had said. As she relayed the facts, John’s expression morphed from one of anger to sheer contempt. He flung out a hand and grunted as if waving away everyone in the room. “He has to be the killer,” John said, mulishly. “He had the drug on him, in the suitcase. You saw!”