She walked over to her desk and slipped the card into a little metal card box. She then moved over to her computer terminal. “What would you like to know?”

“The man who attacked me was named Chuck Hanratty. I’m still trying to figure out why he went after me in particular. It’s a bit unnerving, having somebody try to kill you.”

Helen tapped at the keyboard with two fingers. Her delicate eyebrows went up. “You offed him.”

“He fell on his own knife, actually. Does it really say I killed him?”

“No, no. Sorry. It says he was killed in a struggle with his intended victim. What do you want to know?”

“Anything at all. Anybody else he’d ever attacked, for instance.”

“I’ll print you out a copy of his rap sheet; just don’t ever tell anyone where you got it. And — that’s interesting. After he died, some of our people went over his rooming house. Guy lived in the Tenderloin — rough neighborhood. Anyway, among the things they found was a wallet containing credit cards belonging to a fellow named Bryan — that’s with a Y — Proctor. Cross-reference in the file says that Proctor was shot to death here in SF by an unknown intruder two days before the attack on you.

They found a gun at Hanratty’s place, too. Ballistics confirmed it was the murder weapon in the Proctor case.”

“Did this Proctor leave any family behind?”

Helen touched some more keys. “A wife.”

“Is there any way I could speak to her?”

Helen shrugged. “That’d be up to her.”

“Pierre Tardivel?”

Pierre was bent over his lab countertop. He looked up. “Yes?”

A short man with a bulldog face and blue-gray stubble entered the room. “My name is Avi Meyer.” He snapped open an ID case, flashed a photo card. “I’m a federal agent, Department of Justice. I’d like to have a word with you.”

Pierre straightened up. “Ah — sure. Sure. Have a seat.” Pierre indicated a lab stool.

Avi continued to stand. “You’re not an American—”

“No, I’m—”

“From Canada, right?”

“Yes, I was born—”

“In Quebec.”

“Quebec, yes. Montreal. What’s this all—?”

“What brings you to the States?”

Pierre thought about saying “Air Canada,” but decided against it. “I’m on a postdoctoral fellowship.”

“You’re a geneticist?”

“Yes. Well, my Ph.D. is in molecular biology, but—”

“What is your association with the other geneticists here?”

“I’m not sure what you mean. They’re my colleagues; some are my friends—”

“Professor Sinclair — what’s your association with him?”

“With Toby? I like him well enough, but I hardly know him.”

“What about Donna Yamasaki?”

Pierre raised his eyebrows. “She’s nice, but her name—”

“Did you know her before coming to Berkeley?”

“Not at all.”

“You work under Burian Klimus.”

“Yes. I mean, there are several layers between him and me, but, sure, he’s the top person here.”

“When did you first meet him?”

“About three days after I started here.”

“You didn’t know him beforehand?”

“Well, his reputation, of course, but—”

“You’re not related to him, are you?”

“To Klimus? He’s Czech, isn’t he? No, I’m not—”

“Ukrainian, actually. You had no contact with him prior to coming to Berkeley?”

“None.”

“Do you belong to any of the same groups as any of the other geneticists here?”

“Most of us are in some of the same professional associations. Triple-A-S, stuff like that, but—”

“No. Outside your profession.”

“I don’t belong to any outside groups.”

“None?”

Pierre shook his head.

“You were attacked a short time ago.”

“Is that what this is about? Because—”

“Did you know—”

“—I gave the police a full report. It was self-defense.”

“—the man who attacked you?”

“Know him? Personally, you mean? No, I’d never seen him before in my life.”

“Then why did he attack you? You of all people?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

“So you don’t think it was just a random attack?”

“The police certainly believe so, but…”

“But what?”

“Nothing, really. It just—”

“Do you have reason to think it wasn’t a random attack?”

“—seemed to me… what? No, no, not really. Just— no.”

“And you’d never seen the attacker around this lab before?”

“I’d never seen him anywhere before.”

“Never seen him with, say, Professor Klimus?”

“No.”

“Ever see him with Dr. Yamasaki? Dr. Sinclair?”

“No. Look, what’s this all about?”

“The man who attacked you belonged to a neo-Nazi organization.”

“The Millennial Reich, yes.”

“You know the group?” said Avi, eyes narrowing.

“No, no, no. But one of the police officers mentioned it.”

“You have any connection with the Millennial Reich?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“What are your politics, Mr. Tardivel?”

“NDP. What diff—”

“What the hell is ‘NDP’?”

“A Canadian democratic-socialist party. What possible difference—”

“Socialist? As in National Socialist?”

“No, no. The NDP is—”

“What do you feel about, say, immigration?”

“I am an immigrant. I came here less than a year ago.”

“Yes, and you’ve already killed an American citizen.”

“It was self-defense, damn it. Ask the police.”

“I’ve seen the report,” said Avi. “Why would a neo-Nazi want to attack you, Mr. Tardivel?”

“I have no idea.”

“You have no connection to neo-Nazi organizations?”

“Certainly not.”

“There are a lot of anti-Semites among the Montreal French.”

Pierre sighed. “You’ve been reading too much Mordecai Richler; I’m not anti-Semitic.”

“What about the other geneticists here?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Do any of the geneticists here at Lawrence Berkeley — or down at the university — have connections that you know of to Nazi organizations?”

“Of course not. I mean, well—”

“Yes?”

“No, nothing.”

“Mr. Tardivel, your evasiveness is trying my patience. You’re not yet a citizen here; you wouldn’t want any special annotations in your immigration record. I could have you back in Canada faster than you can say Anne Murray.”

“Christ, I— look, the only guy who even comes close to being a Nazi is…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want to get him in any trouble, but… well, Felix Sousa is a professor at UCB.”

“Sousa? Anyone else?”

“No. You know Sousa?”

Avi grimaced. “The whites-are-superior-to-blacks guy.”

Pierre nodded. “Tenured prof. Nothing they can do to shut him up. But if anybody’s a Nazi here, it’s him.”

Avi nodded. “All right, thank you. Don’t mention this conversation to anyone.”

“I still don’t know—”

But Avi Meyer was already out the door.

“Susan? It’s Avi. Yeah — yeah. What? Corrina, Corrina, with Whoopi Goldberg. Yeah, it was okay; better than the food anyway. Yes, I saw Tardivel this afternoon. He didn’t come out and say it, but I think he feels the attack was aimed right at him, which makes the connection even tighter. I’m going to spend tomorrow going over the files at the SFPD and the Alameda County sheriffs office on the Millennial Reich. No, I’m avoiding Klimus, at least for the time being. Don’t want to tip our hand…”