Page 166 of Random in Death

Bryce dragged a hand through his thick mane of sun-streaked brown hair, and sat. “It’s his space. Privacy is very important to Francis. I don’t want to get into this, except to say his mother developed an addiction.”

“To heroin.”

“Yes.” When he folded his hands on the table, his knuckles went white. “She wasn’t able to conquer that addiction, and eventually it killed her. When we were separated and early in our divorce, she would bribe or bully her way past the nanny, and take things, valuables, from the house, from Francis’s room, to sell. Eventually, I replaced the nannies with a droid, as they can’t be bribed or bullied. Privacy is important to Francis, and it’s little to ask after what he dealt with.”

“I see. Peabody, let’s give Dr. Bryce a look at his son’s home lab.”

She brought up the recording, and as planned zoomed in on the glass-walled cabinet. Under the summer tan, Bryce went very pale.

“You’d recognize the names of these substances. Some are labeled by your company.”

“I—he shouldn’t have these. He—I—he must have taken them from the lab. He occasionally interns there. I’d never permit him to take these, to experiment with these. I’ll see they’re removed, immediately.”

“Already done, and in evidence. You see the equipment on the workstation? And do you recognize the wrapped cakes, the molds?”

Now the pallor took on a gray tinge. “Oh my God. Oh God. Is he using? I’ve never, I swear to you, seen a single sign. I know the signs. I lived with them.”

“There’s no evidence he’d used illegals on himself. There is quite a bit of evidence that he’s created a lethal substance which he’s used on others.

“Show him the formulas, Peabody. Side by side. On the left is the formula from your son’s lab computer. On the right, the tox reports on Jenna Harbough, age sixteen, and Arlie Dillon, age seventeen. Your son injected Jenna, without her knowledge or consent, on Saturday night, and Arlie, without hers, on Sunday night. They died, painfully, within minutes.”

“He wouldn’t. There has to be some mistake.” But Bryce’s breath had quickened. “He couldn’t.”

“You haven’t heard about the murders, Dr. Bryce?”

“I was at a medical conference until yesterday. I was taking a few days off after… He didn’t want to go. He rarely does.”

“So he stayed home alone.”

“He’s almost seventeen, and he’s never… Another year, he’ll be in college. He’s never given me a moment’s trouble. He excels in school, has already been accepted by ten universities. He’s quiet, prefers his own company, but…”

Eve took the baggies, trench, wig, shades, shoes from an evidence box. “Do you recognize any of these?”

“No. Those aren’t his.” Relief flooded his voice, his face. “You’ve mistaken him for someone else. Francis wouldn’t wear anything like that. I actually bought him pants like that a couple of times, pants like a lot of them wear. He returned them. He’s a bit fussy about his clothes. I ended up hiring a personal shopper, as he didn’t like what I’d choose, and disliked shopping.

“He’s fussy,” Bryce repeated. “And yes, somewhat socially awkward. But you’re talking about murder.”

She’d gotten a sense, Eve decided, of a father who didn’t know his son. Of a father who trusted and indulged his son because he didn’t see him for what he was.

But he would, she thought, and continued.

“He attempted to inject Kiki Rosenburg on Monday night, but was unsuccessful. She only got a very small dose. We have witnesses who saw him wearing these, at the scene of Jenna Harbough’s murder, at the scene of the attack on Kiki Rosenburg.”

She paused, just a beat, to let that sink in.

“And these are what he was wearing tonight when he dosed another girl, this time with a date-rape drug of his own making. He had that empty syringe and a second loaded with the lethal dose in his possession when he was captured.”

“This isn’t my son. Francis is well-mannered, well-educated. He’s quiet, studious.”

“Notes, Peabody, on Jenna and Arlie. You’ll see he chose these two girls at random, though he’d worked out a very careful plan. He didn’t know them. The photos, copies of media reports, his personal notes, were added the day after each was killed.”

The relief had died. Even the fear had faded against a kind of desperate disbelief.

“You’re making him into a monster.”

“I’m not making him into anything. I’m giving you facts and evidence.”

“You’re telling me my boy’s a monster. He’s—he’s never been violent. Wouldn’t even play sports. He’s shy, but always polite. How can he be a monster? How could he do these things you’re telling me he did?”