Neil Ryland’s beaten body came as no surprise. With the head of the bed propped at a forty-five-degree angle, Ryland lay with his left arm wrapped in a bulky sling. His head was wrapped in so much gauze that his hair wasn’t visible. On his face and neck were numerous nicks and lacerations, several of which were held together by fine blue suturing thread. His right eye was so bruised it was swollen shut. His left eye studied them groggily as they approached the bed. Kilburn assumed Ryland must have been pumped full of narcotic painkillers.

A nurse fiddled with the IV pole at the head of his bed. “And you are?” she asked warily.

“Investigators,” Cohen said vaguely.

“More cops,” the nurse sighed, rolled her eyes, and turned her attention back to the IV.

“Hello, Neil,” Cohen said, stopping at one side of his bed while Lopez and Kilburn gathered on the other.

Ryland stared blankly back.

“Are you okay to talk?” Cohen asked.

Ryland winced, but said, “Fine. I wanted to see you.”

Cohen nodded. “Lieutenant Franklin told us about your conversation. He said you didn’t see the other driver.”

“I didn’t,” Ryland said hoarsely. “Didn’t even see the car until it was beside me.”

“That must have been terrifying,” Lopez said.

Ryland looked at her. “I didn’t have time to be scared. It happened so fast.” He turned to Cohen. “I think I know what Ellen was talking about in her note.”

“You mean, she was warning you,” Cohen prompted.

“Exactly!” Ryland nodded vigorously, bringing another flinch of pain. “I think someone killed Vik. And probably Ellen. She was trying to tell me that in her note.”

“We think so too,” Lopez said.

Kilburn held out hand. “Who?”

“‘The risk was all inside.’” Ryland quoted Horton’s note in a slurred but urgent voice. “Had to be someone in SeptoMed! Someone well connected, too.”

Cohen nodded. “Neil, we spoke to Oksana Leschuk this afternoon.”

Ryland’s left eye drifted over to Cohen. “She okay?”

“Yes,” Cohen said. “But she told us her husband became very distressed after MRGAS surfaced.”

“MRGAS?” Ryland croaked.

“Vik told his wife that you and he had engineered the bacteria.”

“What?” Ryland gasped. “We didn’t create MRGAS!”

“What was Oksana talking about?” Kilburn asked.

“Not MRGAS.” Ryland’s good eye shut slightly. “We did synthesize a multiresistant form of staph aureus. Oraloxin worked on it like a hot damn too.”

“But Neil,” Kilburn said, “it wouldn’t have been difficult to transfer the resistance genes from your staph aureus to a group-A strep.”

“True.” Ryland sighed. “Are you suggesting MRGAS was created at SeptoMed?”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it?” Cohen asked.

Ryland grimaced as he tried to reposition himself on the bed. “How so?”

Cohen shrugged. “SeptoMed has invested a fortune on a drug with a fatal flaw that could come to light any day and with FDA approval looming—”