Banning did not answer.
“People just don’t do things out of the clear blue sky, for no reason,” Callas said softly. “Brainwashing isn’t easy. But here’s how I would work such a scheme. There’s historical precedent. I’d find vulnerable people in the neighborhood, near my targets, and I would set them up and work them. However they do it. Drugs, hypnosis. Phone calls in the night.”
I clamped my teeth.
Callas flipped through more copies. “Let’s check my hypothesis. Dr. Stanley Mauritz, accused of assault and murder in Washington state, is pleading not guilty by reason of insanity. His medical record, filed with the court by his attorney, includes treatment for bipolar disorder. And your submarine pilot, David Jackson Press . . . Treated in 1998 for depression. He became born-again shortly thereafter.”
“Rob was never treated for anything,” Lissa said. “He had no mental disorders when I married him.”
Callas looked at me for confirmation. “True?”
“We’ve never been diagnosed with any clinical mental conditions,” I said.
“Rob wasn’t harassing or threatening to kill anybody, was he?”
“No.” Lissa shook her head. “Not that I know.”
“Never,” Banning said.
I agreed.
“He was mostly a victim, a target—as Mr. Banning claims to have been.”
“I was mentally clear of disorders before 1992,” Banning said, his voice thin.
“But since then . . . paranoia, anti-Semitism, obsessive racist thoughts, total collapse of your academic and writing career because of inappropriate behavior and associations,” Callas read from a list. “Or is all that just character assassination?”
Banning took an interest in his knees.
Callas shuffled all the papers on her desk into a neat stack. “I’d like Rudy and Lissa to step back into the office for a few minutes. I want to talk with Hal alone.”
Lissa stood and walked away at once. Banning got up more slowly, glancing forlornly between us.
After they had left, Callas said, “People who kill people usually want something, or they don’t want something. What are you doing that someone would kill for?”
“My research.”
“Research on living longer.” She smiled dubiously. “Are you competing with a major corporation to get a drug onto the market?”
“Not that I know of. No drugs.”
“Have you stolen secrets from somebody? Truth is important here, Hal.”
“No. Nobody rational would believe that, anyway.”
“Have you seen anybody you think might have been associated with these efforts—anybody suspicious?”
I told her about the man with the spray bottle in the market in Berkeley.
“What would anyone spray on lettuce?” she asked.
“Bacteria,” I said.
“To make you sick?”
“Not in the normal sense. To change behavior.”
“I don’t follow that, Hal.”
“Neither do I.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“No.”
Callas mulled this over. “A permanent place of residence?”
“Not now.”
“Gun laws being what they are, and with your name still circulating in the police system, it could take you several weeks to get a pistol and a concealed weapons permit. Maybe longer. Are you willing to buy a handgun illegally? It won’t be cheap.”
“Do I need one?” I asked.
“Yes, you do.”
“How much?”
“A good nine millimeter, about seven hundred dollars, no questions asked. A reliable Saturday night special, maybe two, three hundred.”
