Do or Die (11 page)

“We used to think every function had its own special corner of the brain, but we know now that's it's much more collaborative than that. Yes, there are specialized centres for different things, but there are also more neural connections from one to another than can be imagined.” Halton wrote something on a notepad and held it up. “Read this.”

It was the word “cat”, and Green smiled in spite of himself. In his work, he'd seen more brains than he cared to, splattered on the floor beneath a corpse or laid bare by the pathologist's saw. He found this abstract insight intriguing but sensed that the professor had lost his rare moment of humility and was settling back into his favourite role of Grand Poobah. To forestall this, even more than to hasten the interview, Green shook his head.

“Professor, I don't—”

Halton held up his hand sharply. “Now you bear with me, Detective. If you're going to be running roughshod through the intricacies of my students' work, I want you to understand the complexity of this organ, and the daunting challenge we face. Besides, you'll never understand what you're investigating without a bit of background.”

Dutifully, Green said “cat” and Halton grinned. “Now, in your brain, the following probably just happened, all within two or three hundred milliseconds. The visual cortex
deciphered the shapes, said oh, letters, and pulled in the left temporal lobe to get the sounds to match the letters, then the millisecond you got the word ‘cat', a big chain of neurons all over your brain went off—in your visual cortex to activate the picture of a cat, in the temporal lobe because cats meow, maybe in the parietal lobe because they feel furry. All those ideas are part of your image of a cat, and it takes the whole brain to remind you what a cat is. And if you're afraid of cats, the amygdala, which is the emotional control centre deep down inside here, might kick in its two-cents worth too.” He set the brain down again in the corner of his desk and took a deep breath, as if he were finally nearing the crucial point.

“For the past twenty-five years, I've been chipping away at the black box using this EEG technology to study language processing, especially in people with language impairment. But every day, expensive new technology is developed, and if I want to stay on the cutting edge, I have to keep up, or give up. Without money, I can't buy equipment, without equipment, I can't attract top students and researchers, without them, I can't build a credible program to attract grant money.”

“Ring around the rosy.”

Halton looked up with a grim smile. “Exactly. In Canada especially, it's a constant struggle to stay competitive with the Americans. High-resolution EEG is a wonderful tool for tracking a chain of events that all occur in less than half a second, but EEGs are not good at pinpointing the exact location in the brain. We can calculate a rough idea from electrode placements on the scalp. But brain imaging techniques that measure blood flow inside the brain can give us three-D pictures of exactly where the activity is occurring. They're slower, so they can't measure changes in tenths of a second, like an EEG, but the latest ones can tell us exact
locations. So, put the EEG and the imager together, and you've got dynamite. And that's exactly my next step.”

Halton leaned forward with his shaggy brows drawn, and Green could feel the drama. “At this very moment, I'm in the midst of negotiations to team up with some medical researchers from Yale and combine resources to buy the most state-of-theart, high-resolution functional magnetic resonance imager.”

“You mean an MRI? Like the ones in the hospital?”

“Yes, but one designed to study not just abnormalities in the brain but specific areas of the brain as we stimulate it in different ways. We could map the brain on a far more detailed and complex level than was ever possible before. There are only a few of these units around for research purposes, because they are prohibitively expensive. Over three million dollars each. I have spent years building up the necessary financial backing to make this deal, and I now have the reputation I need to get the backing. But one hint that my results might be fraudulent, and the reputation, the backing, and the deal will collapse in moments. And with it, all hope of making the breakthroughs in learning that I know are just around the corner. Breakthroughs that will help the learning disabled, the retarded, the brain damaged. You cannot let that happen, Detective. And I can assure you Jonathan Blair would not have wanted himself to be the cause.”

Finally, we're back to the crux of the case, Green thought. “What do you want to tell me, Professor?”

“I have wrestled with this all day. Believe me, Detective, I do not want to obstruct a police investigation. I have searched my soul to decide whether it was relevant. I honestly don't know. The implications horrify me, but I can't ignore the possibility that they are true.” Professor Halton took a deep breath. His humility had returned; he looked pale, even small,
behind his desk. Green waited out the silence patiently until Halton resumed.

“David Miller is a rare find in the highly technical field of brain research today. He's a first-rate mathematician and statistician, a master at computer programming and simulation, and he has solid knowledge of brain research. For his Ph.D. dissertation, he developed an algorithm for analyzing multiple event-related potentials that is nothing short of genius. But half the people in the field can't understand his work. They think it's obscure, hopelessly complex and theoretical. And Dave can't sell himself. He comes across like a bumbling, absent-minded, half-mad scientist. You can't be like that anymore. The days of the creative genius left alone in his lab to make discoveries are long gone. Dave had trouble finding a university willing to continue his research once he got his doctorate. When I read his thesis, I thought he was on to something, and I offered him a post-doc. I hoped eventually to persuade the university to give him a proper professorship once he'd established his name with me.”

Halton stood and began to pace. “Joe Difalco has been with me since his undergraduate years. He's my most senior doctoral student, and he has spent years piecing together a theory of word processing deficits using EEG data. When we know where the deficits are—what part of that ‘cat' chain doesn't work right, for example—then we can begin to study how to fix them. Joe is a bright boy, and he has a wonderful intuitive intelligence. He makes creative leaps and as a result he's always been a useful addition to my group. He can critique others' work as well, and it helps to advance our thinking.” Halton paused at the window, tracing a drop of rain down the glass. “I've kept Joe on for another reason too. This may sound crass,
and it's not my favourite aspect of university life, but Joe is my salesman. He can be smooth, charming and persuasive, unlike Dave, who stands head and shoulders above him intellectually but can't sell himself to save his soul.”

“Does Difalco know he's mainly window dressing?”

Halton hesitated but did not contradict his appraisal. “The two of them are both working on word processing, but their theories are different, and Dave's means of analyzing the brain waves is much more complex than Joe's.”

“So suddenly the golden boy is dethroned.”

Halton nodded grimly. “I don't tolerate rivalry in my department, and I will not permit personal animosities to come before the advancement of science. Joe is a bright boy, but he's lazy and he's a sloppy researcher. Intuitive people often are; they haven't the patience to plod through all the steps. I've always had to watch him to make sure no corners had been cut. I thought I had done that, but between teaching responsibilities and travelling to present papers, trying to get my book together, negotiating this new joint project with Yale and arguing with granting agencies…” He sighed as if the mere thought of his obligations exhausted him. “I may have lost track of things a bit right here in the lab. I have twenty students working for me here at one level or another. I've been running things on my own this year; I have an associate, but he's on sabbatical, and I've been trying to take on another associate as well, but with the budget cuts to the university…well, my students have been left to fend for themselves more than they should. Joe Difalco was working hard on his research, he was wrapping up the final data analysis on the last phase of his dissertation, and the results looked impressive. It was an almost complete confirmation of his approach. Then Dave Miller came to me and told me he
thought Joe's data were fudged. He said he had run part of Joe's research through a computer simulation, and it was impossible for Joe to have gotten the results he did. So Dave went further. All the analyses and the original raw data—the EEG tracings themselves—are stored on our main computer in the central lab. Dave went into Joe's computer database and looked at his raw data, and he said they weren't anything like those Joe had reported.”

Green looked up from his notes. “What did you do?”

“I hauled Joe in. I will not tolerate anyone interfering with science. I didn't tell him what Dave had claimed. I merely asked to look over his raw data. To double-check, I said. I told him I had questions about the algorithm he'd used to transform the data for statistical purposes…” Seeing Green's eyes glaze, he waved a hand in dismissal. “Never mind. Just number crunching. Anyway, Joe came back and said someone had wiped out his data banks. The raw data was lost. He went further. He accused Dave of doing it to prevent him from proving the validity of his model over Dave's.”

Halton stared out the window at the gold-lit city. Outrage battled sorrow on his face. “Who was I to believe? Dave had admitted he went into Joe's databank. Both men knew the outcome of their studies was important to their futures. Yale wants one of my researchers to work at their end of things, and there is nothing more unwanted in science than negative results, no greater blow to your stature than to be wrong. Although, of course, negative results are essential to the progress of knowledge. If Joe's model was right, then Dave's was wrong. But if Joe, after years of work, found out he was wrong, well…Joe hates to lose, to come in second. I could see him erasing the raw data so I'd never know. A perfect whodunit, actually, Detective. You probably
run into this quite often. Two suspects, two perfect motives, two perfect explanations. Who's lying?” Halton turned from the window to face Green. “Tell me, detective. What would you do?”

“I'd look for independent corroboration, first of all. Did anyone else see the data? If not, I'd see if I could get some new data, to see which way it leans.”

Halton's eyes lit up. “And that's exactly what I did.” Suddenly the pieces fell into place. Green's pulse leaped. “You asked Jonathan Blair to check into the research.”

The professor nodded. “In strictest confidence. I asked him to examine the rest of Joe's computer files to see if he could glean any useful information. If he had to, he was to run a few subjects for us to see whether they supported Joe's conclusions.”

“Did Miller and Difalco know he was doing this?”

Halton met his questioning gaze levelly. “That, of course, is the question. That is why I've been soul-searching today. Is it possible they knew, and if so, did one of them kill him? I didn't tell them, that's for sure. I indicated to them only that I would be investigating the matter. I suppose I should have—” He broke off, his jaw working. He was a big man, barrel-chested and ramrod-straight, and he was obviously used to being in command. Self-doubt and regret probably did not come easily, and he struggled a moment to resume control.

Green trod carefully. “How might Miller and Difalco have found out? Who else knew?”

“No one. At least, I told no one.”

“Not even your secretary?”

“Not even her. It was a completely private matter. Jonathan was given access to Joe's files, but he was very careful.”

“Could Difalco tell from his computer records—by dates or something—that someone had been in his files?”

“The computer only registers something if there has been a change in the file. Jonathan never changed any data, he merely looked at them or printed them out.”

“What about Jonathan himself? Would he have told anyone else?”

Halton shook his head. “Oh no. Jonathan was very private, very honest. It's the reason I chose him, besides his intelligence and his knowledge.”

“If he did tell anyone, who would it probably be?”

Only the faint hum of the building's air conditioning punctuated the silence as Halton pondered the question. Finally he shrugged. “Perhaps his girlfriend, Vanessa Weeks, one of my Masters students. But she works under Dave, so I doubt he'd tell her.”

“What about Raquel Haddad?”

“Raquel!” The professor looked astonished. “Certainly not her! That would be tantamount to shouting it from the rooftops. Besides, Raquel was Joe's special number, if I recall.”

“She didn't go out with Jonathan?”

“Oh, she may have tried, but Jonathan was not that great a fool.”

Green grinned. “‘
Ven der putz shteit, hob der seicle in dreird'
, my father used to say. Yiddish, which roughly translated is ‘When the penis stands, the brain goes in the ground.'”

Halton laughed, a little too heartily, Green thought. “You've got a point. But even if Jonathan did bed her, he wouldn't confide in her.”

“What was Raquel's role around here?”

“Flirt, basically,” Halton replied without hesitation. “She's an undergrad taking some psych courses. I think it started when she took the physiological psychology course Joe teaches. He has an eye for an attractive woman, and Raquel
certainly is that. They were involved for some time, and he brought her around to help him. Dazzle her with all the technology is more likely. She became friendly with the other students on the floor.”