“It was not really a change in plans,” Dr. Sanders explained. “Not every patient who’s sent in is autopsied. There is a constant evaluation of the need. In your wife’s case the attending physician certified the cause of death, which was certainly consistent with her history of asthma. Of course, her weight probably didn’t help her situation either.”
“I’m sure not,” Yuri said. “Thank you for talking with me.”
“My pleasure,” Dr. Sanders said. “And my condolences for your loss.”
“It is a difficult time for me,” Yuri said. “Thank you for your concern.”
Yuri replaced the receiver as a wonderful sense of self-satisfaction spread through him. It was as if the last barrier for Operation Wolverine had crumbled and the goal was in sight. He couldn’t wait to tell Curt.
Yuri rinsed his cereal dish, polished off the rest of the vodka, then headed down into the basement. He whistled as he opened the lock on the entry chamber. In his euphoria he didn’t even feel particularly tired.
He took off the padlock on the storeroom and stepped into the space. Facing the shelving he selected the culture nutrients and other supplies he needed. He brought it all out and placed it next to the door into the lab. Then he donned his breathing apparatus and finally the hazmat suit. When he was ready he opened the inner door and lifted in all the supplies.
The first thing he did was take out the anthrax cakes from the dryer and put them into the pulverizer. When he turned the pulverizer on he was thankful for the sound of the compressed air inside his hood. It helped compete with the racket of the steel ball bearings in the metal cylinder.
The next order of business was to harvest more anthrax spores from the fermenter and get the slurry into the dryer.
After that was completed, Yuri recharged the fermenter with fresh nutrients to let the bacteria continue their rapid reproduction and spore formation.
Finally, Yuri turned to the second fermenter. Once again he checked the level of growth of the Clostridium botulinum and once again it was less than it should have been. Yuri was still mystified, but no longer concerned now that he was going to convert the fermenter to Bacillus anthracis. With both fermenters producing the anthrax spores, he’d have the required eight to ten pounds in a matter of days.
Pausing in his labors, Yuri pondered what he should do with the existing culture of the Clostridium botulinum. Even though the growth had been far less than anticipated, the unit contained gargantuan numbers of the bacteria. He looked around for some kind of storage facility. The only thing that might have worked was using the empty nutrient containers, but he’d been discarding them as he’d gone along. What he currently had on hand wasn’t enough to hold the fermenter’s volume.
There was only one other solution: let the entire contents of the fermenter drain directly into the sewer. Yuri tried to think if there would be any consequences that might alert the authorities. He stood for a moment and pondered the consequences, but he couldn’t think of any. He couldn’t imagine that sewage treatment plants would worry about the bacterial content of the influx. They only worried about the outflow.
Confident of his decision, Yuri got out the plumbing tools he left in the lab and set to work. The job only required opening a few valves, since Yuri had originally plumbed the fermenters to a drain for flushing purposes.
With the appropriate valves open, Yuri watched the fermenter’s level fall. A gurgle issued forth from a relief valve on top of the unit.
Once the fermenter was empty, Yuri flushed it out. Then he began loading it with fresh nutrient broth. Finally he seeded it with a fresh growth of anthrax from the original culture he’d isolated from the Oklahoma soil sample.
When Yuri was finished, he straightened up. He gave the fermenter a pat and told it to make him proud. Then he turned his attention back to the pulverizer to see how much time was left on the current run. As soon as that was over and he’d unloaded the powder, he planned on going upstairs and taking a long-needed and deserved nap.
_______
ELEVEN
Tuesday, October 19
1:00 P.M.
Jack tossed aside the textbook on infectious disease that he’d gotten from the library and cursed loudly. He was trying to read more about anthrax. The case of Jason Papparis was still bothering him, but he found concentrating difficult. He swung around and eyed Chet’s empty chair, wondering where his officemate was. Jack was eager to relate his most recent experience confirming his suspicion that women were impossible.
During the night, Jack had awakened to agonize over letting Laurie down by not being more positive about her new boyfriend. Although Jack was well aware that jealousy played a role in his evaluation of the man, he still felt there was something about the individual that he legitimately didn’t care for. As he’d implied to Lou, it involved the overly gallant gesture of sweeping Laurie off to Paris for the weekend. To Jack such behavior smacked of a kind of bribery. In Jack’s experience such men invariably resorted to overt male chauvinism once a relationship was established and the woman was emotionally committed.
Around four o’clock in the morning, Jack decided he’d eat humble pie. Even though it irked him, he resolved to go the whole nine yards and apologize. Then he’d compliment Paul in some way that he’d figure out on the spur of the moment. The decision had taken a number of hours. What had tipped the balance was Jack’s realization of how important Laurie’s friendship was to him.
But things had hardly gone the way Jack envisioned. After doing what he’d resolved to do, Laurie barely accepted his apology before walking off. All morning she’d gone out of her way to avoid him, much less voice any kind of appreciation of his gesture. Jack felt damned either way. She’d been mad because he’d not been complimentary about Paul and now she was mad because he had been. Jack shook his head. He didn’t know what more he could do.
Twisting around in his chair again, Jack reached for his phone. If he couldn’t read about anthrax, at least he could work the phone. Over the previous hour he’d called a half dozen New York hospitals to talk with chief residents in infectious disease or, if the hospital didn’t have one, the chief resident in internal medicine.
When he’d gotten the appropriate individual on the phone, he outlined the case of inhalational anthrax that had come from the Bronx General Hospital and asked if there were any cases in their hospital that might be anthrax. The responses had been uniformly negative, but at least Jack felt he was planting the seed of suspicion with the right people. In that way, if a case did come in or if they had a case undiagnosed, they’d at least think about it. Anthrax was never high on any New York hospital house staff’s differential diagnosis list.
The chief resident in infectious disease at Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center picked up Jack’s page, and Jack went through his spiel. Although shocked to hear about Mr. Papparis, the resident assured Jack that there was no one in his medical center who’d be considered a candidate for a diagnosis of anthrax.
Jack hung up and looked over to the open page in the yellow telephone directory for the number of another hospital. Before he could dial, the phone rang. He picked it up eagerly. But it wasn’t a resident calling him back with potentially interesting news. It was Mrs. Sanford, the chief’s secretary, with a familiar request. The chief wanted to see Jack ASAP.
Hardly in the mood for bureaucratic nonsense, as Jack termed his frequent run-ins with the front office, he took the elevator down to the first floor. Like a schoolboy expecting to be chastised, he presented himself to Mrs. Cheryl Sanford, who smiled at him and winked. Over the years Jack and Cheryl had become well acquainted, since every time the chief demanded Jack come quickly, Jack invariably had to wait. The time provided an opportunity for friendly conversation.
Jack winked back. It was part of an established method of nonverbal communication the two had evolved. It meant that Jack could relax, since the upcoming confrontation with the chief was procedural only, meaning the chief felt obligated, n
ot motivated, to bawl Jack out for whatever the transgression was.
“How’s that boy of yours?” Jack asked as he sat down on the rock-hard vinyl sofa across from the secretary’s desk. The door to the chief’s office was to Cheryl’s left and it was always ajar. The chief could be heard on the phone.
“Just fine,” Cheryl said proudly. “He’s still getting all A’s in school.”
“Fantastic,” Jack said. By coincidence Jack knew Cheryl’s son, Arnold. Occasionally he played basketball on the same court as Jack. He was a young, tentative player but with obvious natural skill. Cheryl, an African-American single mother, lived in a building on 105th Street that Jack could see from his bedroom window.
“He says he hopes to be able to play basketball as well as you some day,” Cheryl said.
Jack let out a derisive laugh. “He’s going to be ten times better than I ever was.” Jack was not exaggerating; Arnold had only recently turned fifteen and yet was a player sought after even by Warren.
“I’d prefer to see him take after your doctoring skills,” Cheryl said.
“He’s expressed some interest,” Jack said. “He and I had a chat last week when we were both waiting to get into the game.”
“He told me,” Cheryl said. “I appreciate you taking the time.”
“Hey, he’s a nice kid,” Jack said. “It’s a pleasure talking with him.”
At that moment the chief, Dr. Harold Bingham, bellowed for Jack to get the hell into his office.
Jack stood up and headed for the door. As he passed Cheryl’s desk she whispered, “Be nice now! Don’t aggravate him! He’ll be a bear all day.”
The chief was ensconced behind his massive, cluttered desk. He’d just reached his sixty-fifth birthday and looked every bit of it. In the four years Jack had been working at the OCME, Bingham’s bulbous nose had seemingly expanded along with the web of capillaries hugging his nasal alae. Light from the window behind him bounced off his perspiring bald pate to create a glare that made Jack squint.
“Sit down!” Dr. Bingham commanded.
Jack did as he was told and waited. He had no idea what he’d been called down for but knew there were lots of potential topics.
“Don’t you get tired of this routine?” Bingham questioned. He narrowed his rheumy, steel-blue eyes that were unwaveringly studying Jack through wire-rimmed glasses. Although he looked as old as Methuselah, the chief was as sharp as ever and was a veritable walking encyclopedia of forensic data and experience. He was recognized the world over as one of the giants of the field.
“It’s nice to see you once in a while, chief,” Jack said. He winced; he knew by his flippancy he’d already ignored Cheryl’s admonition.
Bingham took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes with his thick fingers. He shook his head. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t quite as sharp as you are, because then I’d know exactly what to do with you.”
“Thank you for the compliment, chief. I needed a little boost today.”
“The problem is, you are one big pain in the ass.”
Jack bit his tongue. A few witty quips came to his mind, but he resisted voicing them in deference to Cheryl. After all, she had to be around Bingham for the rest of the day. Bing-ham’s temper was almost as legendary as his wealth of forensic knowledge.
“Do you have any idea why you’re down here?” Bingham demanded.
“I refuse to answer on grounds of self-incrimination,” Jack said.
Bingham smiled in spite of himself, but the grin vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “You are a trip, my boy. But listen! I got a call from Dr. Patricia Markham, the Commissioner of Health, a little while ago. Seems you’ve been aggravating the city epidemiologist again, Dr....”
Bingham slipped on his glasses and rummaged through the papers in front of him looking for the name.
“Dr. Abelard,” Jack offered.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Bingham said.
“What was the charge?” Jack asked.
“He was angry that you were doing his job,” Bingham said. “What’s the matter? Don’t we give you enough to do around here?”
“I called the man, as Dr. Washington suggested,” Jack said. “I thought he’d want to know about the case of anthrax I diagnosed.”
“So I heard from Calvin,” Bingham said.
“But Dr. Abelard took the news in stride,” Jack said. “He said he’d get to it when he had time, or something like that.”
“But I understand the source is locked up tight in Queens,” Bingham said.
“True,” Jack admitted.
“Yet you took it on yourself to go out and rifle through the victim’s business records,” Bingham snapped. “What’s the matter with you, are you crazy? What if some civil liberty lawyer got ahold of this? You didn’t have a warrant or anything.”
“I asked the man’s wife,” Jack said with a shrug.
“Oh, that would hold up well in court,” Bingham said sarcastically.
“I was worried that some of the victim’s recent shipment had been sold. If it had, then the anthrax could have spread. We could have had a mini-epidemic.”
“Dr. Abelard is right,” Bingham fumed. “What you’re talking about is his job, not yours.”
“We’re supposed to be protecting the public,” Jack said. “I felt there was a risk that Dr. Abelard was not addressing. He wasn’t giving the situation the attention it deserved.”
“When you feel that way about a fellow civil servant, then come to me!” Bingham roared. “Instead of you running around playing epidemiologist detective, I could have called Pat Markham. As Commissioner of Health she can surely get people up off their fat asses if need be. That’s the way the system is supposed to work.”
“Okay,” Jack said with a shrug. In further deference to Cheryl he wasn’t about to get into an argument about bureaucratic inefficiency and frequent civil servant incompetence. It had been Jack’s experience as a city worker that all too often if he didn’t do something himself it didn’t get done.
“Fine, then get the hell out,” Bingham said with a wave of his hand. His mind had already switched to the next problem on his agenda.
Jack got up and walked out of the chief’s office. He paused at Cheryl’s desk. “How’d I do?”
“Honestly, about a C,” Cheryl said with a wry smile. “But since you generally get an F, meaning you aggravate him to a point just shy of apoplexy, I’d say you’re showing progress.”
Jack waved and started for the corridor. But he didn’t get far. Calvin caught sight of him through his open office door.
“How’s progress on the David Jefferson case?” Calvin yelled.
Jack leaned in through the door. “Nothing’s back yet. Did you call John DeVries up in toxicology to speed things up from his lab?”
“Right after I said I would,” Calvin said.
“Okay, then I’ll head up there right now,” Jack said.
“Remember, I want that case signed out by Thursday!” Calvin said.
Jack gave the deputy chief a thumbs-up sign even though he doubted it was going to happen, since all the lab work wouldn’t be back. But there was no use arguing about it now. Instead, Jack took an elevator to the fourth floor. There was always the chance of a miracle.
Jack found John DeVries in his tiny, windowless cubicle and asked about the prisoner-in-custody case. In response, John launched into an impassioned lament about toxicology funding. By the time Jack left, he was even more sure he would not be able to finish the case by Thursday.
Using the stairs, Jack climbed up to the sixth floor and entered the DNA lab. Ted Lynch, the director, was in front of one of his many high-tech machines along with one of his technicians. The machine’s instruction manual was open on the counter. It was apparent the unit was malfunctioning.
“Ah, just the man I want to see,” Ted said when he caught sight of Jack. He straightened up and then stretched his back. Ted was a big man and a former Ivy League football star.
<
br /> Jack’s face brightened. “Does that mean you have some positive results for me?”
“Yup,” Ted said. “One of all those samples you dropped off was positive for anthrax spores.”
“No kidding,” Jack said. He was surprised. Despite making the effort to take all the cultures, he’d not expected any positive results. “Which one of the samples? Can you remember?”
“Absolutely,” Ted said. “It was the one with the tiny blue iridescent star in it.”
“My word!” Jack commented. He could remember finding the star in the middle of the blotter on the desk. It seemed so out of place in the spartan surroundings. Jack had figured it was all that remained of some long-past celebration.
“Can you tell me anything else about it?” Jack asked.
“Yup,” Ted said agreeably. “I had Agnes send up a sample of the culture she’d taken from the patient. We’re running a DNA fingerprint now. We’ll be able to tell if it’s the same strain. I mean, one would assume it was, but it will be nice to have confirmation.”
“Indeed,” Jack said. “Anything else?”
“Like what?” Ted questioned peevishly. He thought Jack would have been more than satisfied with what he’d been told already.
“I don’t know,” Jack said. “You’re the one with all this high-tech wizardry. I don’t even know the right questions to ask.”
“I’m no mind reader,” Ted said. “I need to know what you want to know.”
“Well, how about whether the star was heavily contaminated with spores or only lightly contaminated.”
“That’s an interesting question,” Ted said. He stared off and chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment while he pondered. “I’ll have to give that some thought.”
“And I’ll have to give some thought to how it got contaminated,” Jack said.
“Wasn’t this from the victim’s office?” Ted asked.