The image of the sainted academic with the sterling reputation crumbled, revealing a much darker portrait. A researcher who wasn’t just observing, but potentially manipulating. A scientist who might be willing to create her own data, to eliminate variables—human variables—that interfered with her work.

  “Her notes,” Kari said, her mind seizing on the detail from Alice Benally. “Robert Benally said she took detailed notes about his bad reaction. What if those weren’t just research notes? What if they were notes on a trial run? A test of her methods.”

  The trip to Tucson was back on. But the purpose had changed entirely. They were no longer going to check a box or follow a fringe lead. They were going to confront their primary suspect.

  “We need to see her lab,” Kari said, a cold, hard certainty in her voice. “We need to see her research. We need to look her in the eye and ask her about her relationship with three dead people.”

  This was it. This was the path. All roads, it seemed, led to Dr. Alarcon

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The University of Arizona campus was an oasis of manicured green lawns and stately brick buildings, a world of academic order that felt a universe away from the raw, windswept landscapes where three people had died.

  Getting a meeting with Dr. Elena Alarcon had been a challenge in itself. Her assistant had initially told them she was booked solid with lectures and lab work for the rest of the week. It was only after Kari invoked the seriousness of a multi-jurisdictional homicide investigation—and hinted that their next call would be to the university’s legal department to compel an interview—that a two-hour window magically opened up that afternoon.

  They found her in the Life Sciences building, a modern complex of glass and steel that smelled of floor wax and something vaguely chemical. Her lab was on the third floor. Through a large plate-glass window, they could see a space that was a perfect blend of the old and the new. State-of-the-art lab equipment—gas chromatographs, centrifuges, electron microscopes—stood alongside shelves filled with carefully labeled jars of dried herbs, Native American pottery, and framed botanical illustrations.

  It was the office of someone who walked comfortably in two worlds.

  Dr. Alarcon met them at the door. She was in her early fifties, with intelligent, dark eyes that held a searching intensity. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut in a practical, stylish bob, and she wore a white lab coat over a simple black dress. She looked more like a physician than a botanist.

  “Detectives,” she said, her voice calm and professional. She shook their hands, her grip firm. “Please, come in. My assistant mentioned this was about a tragedy on the Navajo Nation. How can I help?”

  She led them past rows of humming equipment to a small seating area with two chairs facing her desk. The desk itself was a chaotic but organized landscape of academic papers, notebooks, and a high-resolution monitor displaying a 3D model of a complex molecule.

  “Dr. Alarcon,” Kari began, deciding a direct approach was best. “We’re investigating three recent deaths. Maria Sandoval, Jerome Natanii, and Robert Benally. We believe you knew all three of them.”

  A flicker of shock crossed Alarcon’s face. “Knew them?” she repeated, her voice suddenly strained. “Maria and Jerome, yes. We spoke on several occasions. Robert Benally… I met him once. But you said… deaths?”

  She sank into her desk chair, looking distressed. “What exactly happened to them?”

  “Maria Sandoval died of exposure eight days ago,” Ben explained, his tone even. “Jerome Natanii fell from a cliff five days ago. And Robert Benally was found drowned yesterday morning. All three deaths occurred after they attended Native American Church ceremonies.”

  Alarcon looked stunned, her hand going to her mouth. “Oh, my god,” she whispered. “That’s… that’s horrifying. They were good people. Maria was so insightful. And Jerome… he had such a powerful faith.” The grief in her eyes seemed genuine. Kari felt a flicker of doubt. This was not the reaction she'd expected.

  “Our investigation has shown that you are the primary link between the three victims,” Kari said, pressing forward, not allowing herself to be swayed by the woman’s emotional response. “The only common denominator we’ve found, besides the nature of their deaths, is you.”

  Dr. Alarcon looked up, her expression shifting from grief to a kind of wary, intellectual curiosity. She was processing the information, analyzing it.

  “Me?” she asked, sounding puzzled. She swiveled in her chair and began typing on her keyboard. A database interface appeared on her monitor. “My research team and I maintain a detailed log of all our community contacts for our ethics oversight committee. Let’s see.”

  She typed in the names. First, Maria Sandoval. A contact sheet appeared, with dates and notes. She cleared her throat and read: "Met at cultural fair. Discussed traditional dyes. Follow-up conversation re: ceremonial medicine vs. western pharmacology. Subject is highly intelligent, spiritually grounded."

  Then Jerome Natanii. “Introduced by Haske. Subject is a strong believer, seeking guidance for family issues. Spoke about the importance of validating traditional knowledge through scientific study. Provided valuable insight into the participant’s perspective.”

  Finally, Robert Benally. “Subject approached me after a ceremony three months ago. Reported adverse physical reaction to a previous dose: severe headache, nausea. Detailed his experience. Data point is significant as it deviates from the typical psycho-spiritual response. Follow-up recommended but not yet scheduled.”

  Kari watched, unsure what to make of these detailed notes—and Dr. Alarcon's willingness to share them. Was she demonstrating her innocence? Or putting on an elaborate show?

  “So you keep detailed records on the people you speak with,” Ben said.

  “Of course,” Alarcon replied, turning back to them. “It’s required by our research protocols. We document every interaction. My work is built on transparency and trust.” She looked from one of them to the other, her eyes clear and direct. “Detectives, I understand why you’re here. It’s a statistical improbability, and your job is to investigate those. But my interactions with these individuals were purely professional. I am a scientist. I observe, I document, I analyze. I don’t interfere.”

  “Your research involves isolating psychoactive compounds,” Kari said, pointing to the molecule on the screen. “You study how to alter the effects of the medicine.”

  “I study how to understand the medicine,” Alarcon corrected her, a hint of academic pride in her voice. “The peyote cactus contains over fifty distinct alkaloids. We are trying to understand which compounds, in which combinations, produce which effects. Does one alkaloid heighten visual phenomena? Does another impact emotional response? If we can understand the mechanism, we can better understand the healing. It’s groundbreaking work.”

  Her passion was obvious, her belief in the importance of her research absolute. It was easy to see her as a dedicated, brilliant scientist. But Kari could also see another possibility. Perhaps she was so obsessed with her work, so driven to get clean data, that she was willing to bend the rules.

  Or even break the most fundamental laws of morality.

  “Dr. Alarcon,” Kari said. “These three people you had a professional relationship with are all dead. Their deaths have all been made to look like accidents caused by disorientation during a peyote ceremony. You are a botanist with expert knowledge of how to manipulate the effects of peyote. You have to see how that looks.”

  For the first time, a flash of anger appeared in Alarcon’s eyes. “How it looks?” she repeated, her voice sharp. “It looks like a tragedy, one that you are trying to twist into a conspiracy. My entire career has been dedicated to honoring these traditions, not desecrating them. The suggestion that I would harm a participant is not only deeply offensive, it’s absurd. It would be the antithesis of everything I stand for.”

  She was good. She was either an innocent woman, rightfully outraged, or a masterful performer. Kari couldn’t decide which. The ambiguity was maddening.

  On one hand, Alarcon had the means, the knowledge, and a direct, documented connection to all three victims. On the other, her motive seemed non-existent, and her emotional response appeared entirely genuine.

  “We’d like to see your lab records,” Kari said. “Specifically, your logs for chemical acquisition and compound synthesis for the last six months.”

  Alarcon’s anger solidified into a cold, defensive wall. “Absolutely not,” she said. “My research protocols, my lab notes, and my chemical logs are proprietary and protected under the terms of my federal grant and by university intellectual property rules. I can’t just turn them over to you without a warrant. And even then, my legal team would fight it.”

  It was the first time she had been anything but cooperative. The refusal was a red flag, but her reasoning was sound. She was protecting her life’s work.

  “A warrant is a road we can go down, Doctor,” Ben said. “But it will make things very public. For you, for the university, and for the Native American Church chapters you work with. It will draw the kind of attention I imagine no one wants.”

  Alarcon stared at them, a silent battle taking place behind her intelligent eyes. She was weighing her options, calculating the risks.

  The intercom on her desk buzzed, startling all of them. A young man’s voice, polite and deferential, came through the speaker. “Dr. Alarcon? Sorry to interrupt. I’ve finished transcribing the notes from the growers’ conference. Do you want me to file them, or would you like to review them first?”

  “Just file them, Marcus,” she said, her voice tight with suppressed frustration. “I’m in a meeting.”

  “Okay, no problem,” the voice replied.

  The interruption broke the tension. Dr. Alarcon stood up, a clear signal that the interview was over. “Detectives, I have told you everything I can. I share your desire to find out what happened to these poor people. But I was not involved. And I will not have my research jeopardized by a fishing expedition. If you come back, you’ll need to do so with a warrant. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lecture to prepare for.”

  She showed them to the door. They walked down the long, sterile hallway and out into the afternoon sunlight, the questions they had arrived with now multiplied, tangled with ambiguity and doubt.

  “So, what do you think?” Ben asked as they reached the SUV.

  “I think she’s either the best liar I’ve ever seen, or she’s innocent,” Kari said. “Her grief seemed real. Her anger seemed real. But her connection to the victims is undeniable, and she shut down the moment we asked for records.”

  “She was protecting her work,” Ben said. “Any good scientist would.”

  “Or she was protecting a secret,” Kari countered. “We have nothing to hold her on. And she’s right, getting a warrant for her lab records will be an uphill battle. A judge will need more than a statistical anomaly to sign off on that.”

  They were back at square one, but it was a different square one. They had a primary suspect who was, for the moment, untouchable. They had a motive that was purely theoretical. They needed more. They needed to dig deeper into the world of Dr. Elena Alarcon.

  “We go back,” Kari said, making a decision. “We look into her background. Her financials. Her publications. We talk to her colleagues, her students. We learn everything we can about her. If she’s guilty, she’s made a mistake somewhere. We just have to find it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “If Dr. Alarcon's hiding something, it’s not going to be in a public paper,” Kari said, pulling up a university database that required her father’s login credentials to access. “We need to look at the edges. Conference proposals, grant applications, academic disputes.”

  The screen filled with a dizzying array of institutional links. It was a digital fortress. Ben, sitting at his own desk, was taking a different approach, running Alarcon’s name through a law enforcement database that cross-referenced property records and financials. The only sounds in the squad room were the quiet, rhythmic clicking of their keyboards.

  “Nothing,” Ben said finally, pushing back from his desk with a sigh of frustration. “Her finances are spotless. Lives in a condo near campus, drives a four-year-old sedan, no liens, no major debts. She’s either clean or she’s very, very good at hiding her money.”

  “It’s not about money,” Kari said, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she clicked on a link titled 'Internal Review Board: Fieldwork Proposals.' “It’s about her work.”

  The documents were dense with academic jargon and bureaucratic procedure, but after another twenty minutes of scrolling, she found a pattern. A series of grant proposals, all authored by Alarcon. Each one sought funding for research into enhancing specific psychoactive compounds in peyote, framed as a way to create more targeted therapeutic treatments.

  “Ben, look at this,” she said.

  He joined her and leaned over her shoulder. Kari pointed to a series of notations in the margins of one proposal. “REJECTED: Methodology deemed insufficiently sensitive to non-quantifiable spiritual aspects.” Another had a comment from the ethics committee chair: “Proposed interventions risk commodifying a sacred rite. Recommend observational approach only.”

  “The chair of that committee is Miles Bennett,” Ben said, reading the name at the bottom of the memo. “He didn’t tell us he’d been fighting with her for years.”

  “He was protecting the university,” Kari said. “She’s not just studying the medicine; she’s actively trying to change it. And the system is telling her no.”

  It was a plausible motive: Dr. Alarcon's professional ambition, thwarted by the ethics committee, could have festered into a powerful resentment. That bitterness could easily fuel a desire to prove her critics wrong, creating a compelling reason for her to conduct her own secret, unsanctioned experiments.

  “We need to find her assistant,” Kari said. “Marcus Stone. He’s the one who would know if her official research and her actual research are two different things.”

  “He’s not going to want to talk to us,” Ben said.

  “Then we have to convince him.”

  Kari found his information in the online student directory: a campus email and a shared office number in the basement of the Life Sciences building. She dialed the office number. It rang four times, then went to a generic voicemail. A dead end.

  “Let’s try his email,” she said. She drafted a message, carefully wording it to appear non-threatening.

  Mr. Stone,

  We are conducting a follow-up investigation and would appreciate a moment of your time to clarify a few details regarding Dr. Alarcon’s fieldwork. This is a routine inquiry. Please let us know when you might be available.

  She sent it, then leaned back in her chair. Now all they could do was wait. The minutes stretched on. Kari rose and began to pace.

  “He might just avoid us,” Ben said. “He knows who we are. Alarcon must have warned him.”

  Kari began chewing her lower lip. "You're right—we can't wait. We need to go to him. Whether or not he wants to see us."

  ***

  The basement of the Life Sciences building was a maze of identical, drab hallways. The air was cool and smelled of old books and dust, a scent that instantly transported Kari back to her teenage years.

  It reminded her of the archives at the FBI field office in Phoenix, a place her father had sometimes taken her on Saturdays. She remembered the rows of filing cabinets, the low hum of the fluorescent lights, the feeling of being in a place where knowledge was dissected, cataloged, and stripped of its mystery. It was her father’s world—one of facts, data, and institutional order.

  A world she had once aspired to, and a world she now viewed with a complicated mix of respect and suspicion.

  They found the office number from the directory. The door stood slightly ajar. Inside, the small, windowless room was a chaotic mess of stacked papers, half-empty mugs, and botanical posters. It was the lived-in den of a student, not the sterile archive of her memory, but the underlying feeling was the same: a place dedicated to taking the world apart to see how it worked.

  Marcus Stone was bent over a microscope, his back to them. He didn’t hear them approach. Ben cleared his throat softly.

  Marcus jumped, startled, spinning around in his chair. He looked from Kari to Ben, his eyes widening in recognition and alarm behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “I… I got your email,” he stammered, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I was going to reply. I’ve just been really busy.”

  “We understand,” Kari said, her voice low and calm. “We just need a few minutes of your time.”

  “I don’t know anything,” he said quickly, his gaze darting around the room as if looking for an escape route. “I just transcribe notes. I’m just her assistant. You should talk to her. I can’t talk about her research.”

  “We did talk to her,” Ben said, stepping fully into the office and leaning against a filing cabinet, a casual posture that subtly blocked the door. “She was very helpful. But we have a few follow-up questions, and she’s a busy woman. We were hoping you could clear up a few minor details for us.”

  “This isn’t about getting you in trouble, Marcus,” Kari said, softening her tone. “This is about making sure Dr. Alarcon’s name is cleared. There have been some terrible accidents, and her name has come up. We’re just trying to eliminate any possibility of a connection. You can help us do that. You can help protect her reputation.”

  She saw the conflict in his eyes. His loyalty to his mentor versus his own instinct for self-preservation. She had framed it as a way for him to be the hero, to protect the person he looked up to.

  He hesitated, chewing on his lower lip. “Okay,” he whispered, his eyes flicking toward the hallway. “But not here. Can we go outside?”

 

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