A science nerd with a dark side

FREDERICK, MD. - Dr. Bruce E. Ivins arrived in July at a group counseling session at a psychiatric center with a startling announcement: Facing the prospect of murder charges, he had bought a bulletproof vest and a gun as he contemplated killing his co-workers at the nearby Army research laboratory.

"He was going to go out in a blaze of glory, and he was going to take everybody out there with him," a social worker said at a court hearing in which she sought a restraining order against him. She called Ivins a "revenge killer" who tried to murder several people, some by poisoning.

The homicidal ranting marked the final stages of psychological decline by Ivins that ended when he took his life last week, as it became clear that he was the FBI's prime suspect in the 2001 anthrax attacks.

For most of his career, he was a casting agent's vision of a bench scientist: shy, eccentric, nerdy, soft-spoken. But sometime this spring, with the FBI closing in on him, Ivins' life took a dark turn that frightened his closest friends.

The allegations dumbfounded friends and co-workers who knew Ivins as a gentle, big-hearted family man who raised two children in Frederick, volunteered for community charities and played keyboards for the local Catholic church.

His work with the deadly anthrax bacteria was devoted to developing more effective vaccines that could save lives in a future biological attack. "He was passionate about it -- he really cared," said a fellow scientist who co-authored studies with Ivins.

Yet, slowly during the past two years, FBI investigators began to focus on Ivins under the theory that he had used his knowledge of anthrax bacteria to pull off the nation's deadliest episode of biological terrorism. As a researcher for the Army's main lab for studying bioterror agents, Ivins had easy access to anthrax bacteria, including the specific strain used in the attacks on media outlets and congressional offices in the fall of 2001. His expertise eventually earned him a front-row seat for the FBI's investigation, as he was called upon to help the bureau with its analysis of the wispy powder used in the attacks.

"He just looked worried, depressed, anxious, way turned into himself," recalled W. Russell Byrne, an infectious-disease specialist who last saw Ivins on a recent Sunday at the Catholic church in Frederick to which they both belonged. "It would be overstating it to say he looked like a guy who was being led to his execution, but it's not far off."

Storybook family

Ivins was born in 1946, the youngest of three sons who grew up in Lebanon, Ohio. His father owned a drugstore, while his mother stayed at home and volunteered in her sons' PTAs, according to his eldest brother.

"He was a bookworm," said Tom Ivins, 72, of Middletown, Ohio, who said he had been estranged from his youngest brother for two decades. He conceded the possibility that his brother may have been the anthrax mailer. "It makes sense, what the social worker said," Tom Ivins said. "He considered himself like a god."

At the University of Cincinnati, Bruce Ivans earned three degrees, including a doctoral degree in microbiology. When he applied to Fort Detrick in the late 1980s, he had "an impressive résumé," said John Ezzell, a former top scientist. "We thought he worked out really well. He was a critical part of our vaccine studies."

Ivins eventually would be awarded the Defense Department's highest honor for civilian performance for helping to resurrect a controversial anthrax vaccine. "Awards are nice. But the real satisfaction is knowing the vaccine is back online," he told a military publication.

After the anthrax mailings in October 2001, the Fort Detrick labs went into a frenetic response, testing suspicious mail and packages virtually around the clock. Ivins was part of a team that analyzed the letter sent to Sen. Tom Daschle, D-S.D.

In early 2002, without notifying his supervisors, Ivins began sampling areas in the Detrick lab that he believed might be contaminated with anthrax. He took unauthorized samples from the lab containment areas and later acknowledged that he had violated protocol.

Ivins' odd behavior was detailed in an Army investigation of the matter, but he did not surface as a potential suspect in the mailings case.

In fact, in early June 2003, when the FBI drained a pond in rural Maryland in search of clues in the anthrax attacks, Ivins was one of the Red Cross volunteers who brought investigators coffee and donuts. Investigators, however, asked him to leave "because he was somebody involved in the investigation," said Byrne, Ivins' former colleague.

A downward spiral

By this spring, Ivins' life seemed to be falling apart. Police were first called to his house on March 19, when he was discovered unconscious and briefly admitted to a hospital. On July 10, they encountered Ivins again, this time after a counselor called from Fort Detrick to report that the scientist was a danger to himself and making death threats. He went peacefully with police to Frederick Memorial Hospital, where he was admitted to a psychiatric ward.

He was later released, but his erratic behavior prompted his therapist, Jean Duley, to seek a protective order on July 24.

"As far back as the year 2000, the respondent has actually attempted to murder several other people, either through poisoning," she said, according to an audio recording of the court session. "... When he feels that he's been slighted or has had -- especially toward women -- he plots and actually tries to carry out revenge killings."

She added that Ivins "has been forensically diagnosed by several top psychiatrists as a sociopathic, homicidal killer. I have that in evidence. And through my working with him, I also believe that to be very true."

His family has made no public statement about the investigation or about Ivins' suicide. But his children both placed messages on their Facebook pages, hinting at the torment their father went through in his final months.

"I will miss you Dad. I love you and I can't wait to see you in Heaven," his son, Andy Ivins, wrote. "Rest in peace. It's finally over."