Murder Theory (The Naturalist, #3)

by Andrew Mayne

They say you should never meet your heroes. Killing them only makes things more awkward.

I have the need to hunt as well.

Professor Rickman—Rick, as we called him—asked us to imagine a toolbox and inside it pairs of glasses that affect what you see and what you think. With each one comes a certain knowledge set.

Each one helps us understand that our points of view are shaped by what we see, what we’ve been told, and, lastly, how we process it all.

When Europeans came to the Americas and witnessed Aztec sacrificial rituals, they were coming from a continent with practices that in many ways were equally barbaric, but because they understood the justifications of their own practices, they viewed them differently.

Oyo saw himself as a normal man who practiced a religion that others didn’t understand. He didn’t see himself as a monster. Neither did the Aztec chieftains, the priests of the Inquisition, or the Third Reich doctors who made a moral justification that led from stemming the spread of tuberculosis to genocide.

This is what scares me—the idea of becoming a monster without ever realizing it.

How does a man find himself naked on a blood-soaked floor with the dead body of a child at his feet with bite marks all over its skin and sa...

The old adage that lie detection can only tell you whether someone believes something is true doesn’t really apply to the new forms of detection. We can see which parts of the brain are triggered when a subject is asked certain questions. If I asked you where you were last Thursday, and you’ve convinced yourself you were at home, when I ask what you ate that night, your brain would be forced to create an answer if you didn’t have a memory. While you may not be aware that your subconscious is inventing this on the fly, we can see a different section of your brain firing up, attempting to fill in the blank.

We’re even at the point where we can ask you to remember to whom you talked and a computer can create a fuzzy image of their face, distinct from if you were asked to make up an image. It’s both incredibly promising and equally terrifying.

I’m in yet another FBI conference room, making me wonder if there’s an endless number of them in this building, each appearing like some kind of magical Harry Potter chamber whenever summoned.

That got me thinking of toxoplasmosis . . .” “The thing in cat crap?” asks Van Owen. “Yes,” I reply. “It’s in the soil, us, everywhere. In high concentrations, it may cause schizophrenia. Maybe. But we know it affects the behavior of mice, making them lose their fear of cats. Which leads them to getting eaten and the cats spreading the protist in the feces across a wider range. It may also affect humans, making them collect more cats.” “Great. The ‘cat-litter’ defense,” says Weltz. “I’m sure Marcus’s lawyer will love you for that. Can I go now?”

anything related to Toxoplasma gondii. I think the carrier cycle’s too short for that.” “Thank goodness. And I appreciate the fact that you’re keeping the talk nontechnical,” Weltz mugs to the room. I take a deep breath and try to control myself . . . and fail. “Would you shut the fuck up for a moment? Seriously.

Thank you for coming in. And as a bit of personal advice, you really should double-check your laboratory procedures for the possibility of cross-contamination.” My fist wants to contaminate his face.