CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“How do we find out which classroom he's in?” Miles asked as they approached the main entrance.
“Easy. We ask.” Vic pushed through the glass doors into a lobby filled with students moving between classes. She approached the information desk where a young woman with purple hair sat behind a computer.
“Excuse me, we're looking for Professor Marcus Thompson. Do you know where he might be teaching right now?”
Miles nodded. “Thanks. Seems like perfect timing.”
They climbed the stairs to the second floor, following signs to the chemistry department.
The hallway smelled of cleaning chemicals and old linoleum.
There was also an undercurrent of strong coffee.
Classroom doors were spaced every thirty feet or so, most with small windows that allowed glimpses of students bent over textbooks or listening to lectures.
Through the window of room 247, Miles could see about twenty students seated at lab tables while a man in his early forties wrote chemical formulas on a whiteboard.
Marcus Thompson looked exactly as he had in the news interview.
Average height, brown hair starting to thin at the crown, wearing khakis and a button-down shirt.
He moved with the confidence of someone comfortable explaining complex subjects.
“That's our guy,” Miles said quietly.
They waited outside the classroom as Thompson wrapped up his lecture.
His voice carried through the door as he explained the molecular structure of organic compounds, his tone patient and engaging.
Miles found himself impressed by Thompson's teaching style.
Whatever his theories about corporate chemical warfare, he seemed genuinely dedicated to education.
At exactly 9:45, the classroom door opened and students began filing out. Miles and Vic waited until the last student had left before entering the room. Thompson was erasing the whiteboard, his back to them.
“Professor Thompson?” Vic said.
He turned, eyebrows raised in mild curiosity. “Yes? Can I help you?”
Vic showed her badge as they approached the front of the room. “I'm Special Agent Stone, FBI. This is Dr. Sterling. We'd like to speak with you about some cases we're investigating.”
Thompson's expression shifted to concern, but he remained calm. “FBI? What kind of cases?”
“We're investigating a series of murders involving fluorine gas poisoning,” Miles said, watching Thompson's face carefully for any reaction.
Thompson's eyes widened in genuine shock. "Fluorine poisoning? That's... that's terrible. Here in the D.C.?"
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
He took a moment to process this, his face going grave. “My God. How many victims?”
“Three so far,” Vic replied. “All killed using rather simple delivery systems on a remote. We were hoping you might have some insights.”
Again, Miles took note of the way Vic seemed neutral at first, making the suspect believe they were only being visited for information or maybe even for assistance of some kind.
Thompson set down his eraser and turned to face them fully. “I can understand why you'd want to speak with me, given my background and my public statements about chemical contamination. But I…well, can tell you right now that I had nothing to do with any murders.”
Miles studied Thompson's demeanor. The same calm confidence he'd displayed in the news interview was present, but there was also genuine distress at learning about the killings.
“We're not accusing you of anything at the moment,” Miles said.
“We're trying to understand who might have the knowledge and motivation to commit these crimes.”
Thompson nodded slowly. Miles was pretty sure he was buying the subtle misdirection. “I see. And my theories about corporate chemical contamination make me a person of interest, yes?”
“Can you tell us more about those theories?” Vic asked, ignoring the slight jab. Maybe Thompson wasn’t going to be easy to fool. That, or he was just incredibly paranoid.
Thompson glanced around the empty classroom, then gestured to two chairs near his desk. He eyed them skeptically, making it clear that he did not trust them. Even his tone seemed to echo this when he said, “Please, sit down. This might take a few minutes to explain properly.”
They settled into the student chairs while Thompson leaned against his desk.
“I spent eight years working for Meridian Chemical. During that time, I documented numerous safety violations involving fluorine and other reactive compounds. When I reported these violations to management, I was told they were within acceptable parameters.”
“But you disagreed,” Miles said.
“The parameters were set by the company itself, not by independent safety agencies. They were prioritizing cost savings over worker safety and environmental protection.” Thompson's voice carried the conviction Miles had heard in the interview.
“When I took my concerns to OSHA, I became the bad guy and the company fired me for insubordination.”
“That must have been frustrating,” Vic observed.
“Frustrating doesn't begin to cover it,” he said bitterly. “I'd devoted my career to industrial chemistry, and suddenly I was unemployable in my field. No chemical company would hire someone who'd blown the whistle on safety violations.”
Miles leaned forward. “In your news interview, you mentioned corporate chemical warfare. Can you explain what you meant?”
Thompson's expression grew more serious. “I believe certain corporations are deliberately exposing the population to low-level chemical contamination. Not to cause immediate harm, but to create long-term dependency on their products.”
“Dependency how?”
“Well, just think about it for a second. If you gradually introduce trace amounts of chemicals that cause minor health issues, people become reliant on medications, supplements, air purifiers, water filtration systems. The same companies that create the contamination also sell the solutions.”
Miles found the theory disturbing but not entirely irrational. “You're saying they're creating markets for their own products by making people sick.”
“Not sick enough to die or even realize what's happening. Just enough to feel slightly unwell, slightly anxious, slightly dependent on consumer products that promise to make them feel better.” He shrugged and then said, in a conspiratorial tone: “Not too dissimilar from Big Pharma. You see it all the time with doctors, medicines, health insurance.”
Vic pulled out her phone, opening up the Notes app—another irregular trait Miles had noticed about her. “Can you account for your whereabouts over the past three days?”
“Of course.” Thompson moved to his desk and pulled out an appointment book. “Monday I taught three classes and had office hours until six. Tuesday I taught two classes and attended a faculty meeting. Yesterday I taught one class and spent the afternoon grading papers in my office.”
“And after work?” Miles asked.
“Monday… I was at home, watching the Nationals lose. Ordered Doordash from an Indian place. Tuesday, I went to a bar—Dietrich’s on Fifth—and took part in a poorly organized Trivia Night. And last night, home again.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“My students, my colleagues, the department secretary. I'm not exactly invisible around here. But as for the time after work…I suppose the folks at the bar, but that’s about it. I’ve got proof of the Doordash order.” He shrugged, as if he didn’t seem all that worried about it.
Miles realized Thompson's alibis would be difficult to verify precisely, but the man's entire demeanor suggested someone dedicated to legitimate academic work rather than vigilante violence. It was just a hunch he felt in his gut. He wondered if that was a natural thing for people to feel while working in the field. It could be, but surely he hadn’t been doing this long enough for such an instinct to develop.
“Professor Thompson, the person we're looking for has sophisticated knowledge of fluorine chemistry,” Miles said. “They've created delivery systems that can be deployed through building ventilation systems and activated remotely. Not only that, but they’d need to know their way around the gas intimately in order to handle the doses they’re using.”
Thompson's expression grew troubled. “Honestly, that level of sophistication suggests someone with industrial experience, not just academic knowledge. Working with fluorine gas requires specialized equipment and extensive safety protocols.”
“What kind of equipment, do you think?” Vic asked.
“High-pressure containment vessels and remote handling systems, first of all. And then…well, there’d be specialized valves and regulators. Fluorine is incredibly reactive. It attacks most materials, including glass and metal. You’d need specialized alloys and protective coatings.”
Miles felt a surge of interest. He also saw a strange mix of passion and horror in Thompson’s eyes as he spoke—passionate about the topic, horrified that someone could be using it in such a deadly way. “Where would someone obtain that kind of equipment?”
“Industrial suppliers. But they keep careful records on purchases like fluorine handling equipment. It's heavily regulated.” Thompson paused, considering. “Unless they had access to an existing industrial facility.”
“Like a chemical plant?” Vic guessed.
“Or a research lab, a university chemistry department, even a government facility. Anywhere that already has the infrastructure for handling reactive gases.”
Vic made notes in her app as Thompson spoke. “What about the delivery method? Say you want to kill just one person, and you don’t want it to linger around and kill anyone else. How difficult would it be to figure out the right dose for that?”
“It would be technically challenging, but do-able if you know what you’re doing. Too little fluorine and it's ineffective. Too much and it becomes immediately obvious. And if these people were killed by it, I’m assuming it sort of… snuck up on them, right?”