by Robin Cook
Once on the freeway, Kim used his cellular phone to find Tom. He tried him several places before catching him in his lab at the hospital.
“I have to ask another favor,” Kim said.
“How’s Becky?” Tom asked.
“To be honest, she’s very bad,” Kim said. “I’ve been using a lot of denial about her condition, but I can’t do that anymore. It doesn’t look good. I had no idea this E. coli was so pathogenic and essentially untreatable once the toxin gets into the system. Anyway, I’m not optimistic.” Kim paused, fighting tears.
“I’m so sorry,” Tom said. “What a tragedy. What can I do to help?”
“Could you follow my inpatients for a couple of days?” Kim managed. “I’m strung out.”
“No problem at all,” Tom said graciously. “I’ll be doing my own rounds when I finish here in the next few minutes, and I’ll just add them on. I’ll also tell the nurses so they’ll call me if there’re any problems.”
“Thanks, Tom,” Kim said. “I owe you.”
“I wish I could do more,” Tom said.
“Me too,” Kim said.
Bartonville was less than forty minutes out of town. Kim cruised down its main street and then followed the directions he’d gotten from a service station at the freeway exit. He found Mercer Meats without a problem.
It was a far bigger plant than he’d expected. The building was all white and modern-looking but otherwise nondescript. The grounds were immaculately landscaped with granite-lined drives and islands of trees in the parking area. The whole complex projected an aura of high profitability.
Kim parked relatively near the front door in one of a half-dozen “visitor” spaces. He slid out from behind the wheel and started toward the entrance. As he walked, he reminded himself not to lose his temper. After the experience at the Onion Ring, he knew that if he did, it would only work against him.
The reception area looked like it belonged at the entrance to an insurance company rather than a meat-packing concern. Plush wall-to-wall carpeting covered the floor, the furniture was richly upholstered, and there were framed prints on the walls. Only the subject matter of the prints gave a hint of the nature of the business: They were prints of various breeds of cattle.
A matronly woman wearing a cordless headset sat at a circular desk in the center of the room.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“I hope so,” Kim said. “What’s the name of the president of Mercer Meats?”
“That would be Mr. Everett Sorenson,” the woman said.
“Would you call Mr. Sorenson and tell him that Dr. Kim Reggis is here to see him?” Kim said.
“Can I tell Mr. Sorenson what this is about?” the woman asked. She eyed Kim skeptically. His appearance was bordering on that of a homeless person.
“Is it necessary?” Kim asked.
“Mr. Sorenson is a very busy man,” the woman said.
“In that case,” Kim said, “tell him it’s about Mercer Meats selling contaminated hamburger patties to the Onion Ring restaurant chain.”
“Excuse me?” the woman said. She’d heard Kim, but couldn’t quite believe it.
“Or better yet,” Kim said, already beginning to forget his promise to himself about maintaining his composure, “tell him I’d like to discuss the fact that my only daughter is fighting for her life after consuming a Mercer Meats patty.”
“Perhaps you’d like to sit down,” the receptionist said. She swallowed nervously. Kim was now leaning over her desk, resting on his knuckles. “I’ll give the president your message.”
“Thank you,” Kim said. He gave the woman a forced smile and retreated to one of the couches.
The woman spoke into her headset, while casting nervous glances in Kim’s direction. He smiled again. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but from the look on her face, he knew it was about him.
Kim had his legs crossed. He bounced his foot. Five minutes dragged by. The more he waited, the more his anger flooded back. Just when he thought he couldn’t sit there any longer, a man appeared with a long white coat not dissimilar to the one Kim was wearing, except it was clean and pressed. On his head was a blue baseball hat with MERCER MEATS emblazoned above the bill. He was carrying a clipboard.
He came right up to Kim and stuck out his hand. Kim stood up and shook the man’s hand although he’d not intended to.
“Dr. Reggis, I’m Jack Cartwright. I’m glad to meet you.”
“Where’s the president?” Kim asked.
“He’s tied up at the moment,” Jack said. “But he asked me to come out and talk with you. I’m one of the vice presidents and among other things I’m in charge of public relations.”
Jack was a stocky individual with a doughy face and a slightly upturned porcine nose. He smiled ingratiatingly.
“I want to talk with the president,” Kim said.
“Listen,” Jack said without a beat, “I’m truly sorry to hear that your daughter is ill.”
“She’s more than ill,” Kim said. “She’s at death’s door, fighting for her life against a bacteria called E. coli O157:H7. I imagine this is a bug you’ve heard of.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Jack said. His smile vanished. “Everyone in the meat business is aware of it, especially after the Hudson Meat recall. In fact, we’re so paranoid about it, we make an effort to exceed by far all USDA rules, regulations, and recommendations. And as proof of our efforts, we’ve never been cited for a single deficiency.”
“I want to visit the hamburger-patty production area,” Kim said. He wasn’t interested in Jack’s obviously canned spiel.
“Now, that’s impossible,” Jack said. “We understandably limit access to avoid contamination. But . . .”
“Hold up,” Kim interjected as his face reddened. “I’m a doctor. I understand contamination. I’ll be willing to put on any suit that’s normally worn in the area. Whatever has to be done, I’ll do. But I’m not going to take no for an answer.”
“Hey, calm down,” Jack said good-naturedly. “You didn’t let me finish. You can’t go onto the production floor, but we have a glassed-in observation walk so you can see the whole process. What’s more, you don’t have to change out of your street clothes.”
“That’s a start, I suppose,” Kim said.
“Great!” Jack commented. “Follow me.”
Jack preceded Kim, leading him along a corridor.
“Are you only interested in hamburger production?” Jack asked. “What about some other meat product, like sausage?”
“Just hamburger,” Kim said.
“Fine and dandy,” Jack said cheerfully.
They got to a stair and started up.
“I want to emphasize we’re tigers about cleanliness here at Mercer Meats,” Jack said. “Hell, the entire meat-production area gets cleaned every day, first with high-pressure steam and then with a quaternary ammonium compound. I mean, you could eat off the floor.”
“Uh-huh,” Kim intoned.
“The whole production area is kept at thirty-five degrees,” Jack said as they reached the top of the stairs. He grabbed the handle of a fire door. “It’s tough on the workers but tougher on the bacteria. You know what I mean?” Jack laughed; Kim stayed silent.
They went through the door and entered a glass-enclosed corridor perched a floor above the production area. It ran the entire length of the building.
“Pretty impressive, wouldn’t you say?” Jack said proudly.
“Where’s the patty area?” Kim asked.
“We’ll get to that,” Jack said. “But let me explain to you what all this machinery is doing.”
Below, Kim could see workers going about their business. They were all dressed in white uniforms with white caps that resembled shower hats. They were also wearing gloves and shoe covers. Kim had to admit that the plant looked new and clean. He was surprised. He’d expected something significantly less impressive.
Jack had to speak loudly over the sound of the machine
ry. The glass on either side of the walkway was single-paned.
“I don’t know if you are aware that hamburger is usually a blend of fresh meat and frozen,” Jack said. “It’s course ground separately over there. Of course, the frozen stuff has to be defrosted first.”
Kim nodded.
“After the course grind, the fresh and the frozen meat are dumped into the formulation blender over there to make a batch. Then the batch is finely ground in those big grinders.”
Jack pointed. Kim nodded.
“We do five batches per hour,” Jack said. “The batches are then combined into a lot.”
Kim pointed to a large rubber or plastic bin on wheels. “Does the fresh meat come in those containers?” he asked.
“Yup,” Jack agreed. “They’re called ‘combo bins,’ and they hold two thousand pounds. We’re very particular with our fresh meat. It has to be used within five days, and it’s got to be kept below thirty-five degrees. I’m sure you know that thirty-five degrees is colder than a standard refrigerator.”
“What happens to the lot?” Kim asked.
“As soon as it comes out of the fine grinder it goes by this conveyor below us to the patty-formulating machine over yonder.”
Kim nodded. The formulating machine was in a separate room, closed off from the rest of the production area. They walked down the glass corridor until they were directly over it.
“An impressive machine, wouldn’t you say?” Jack said.
“How come it’s in its own room?” Kim asked.
“To keep it extra-clean and protect it,” Jack said. “It’s the most expensive piece of equipment on the floor and the workhorse of the plant. That baby puts out either regular tenth-of-a-pound patties or quarter-pound jumbos.”
“What happens to the patties when they come out of the formulating machine?” Kim asked.
“A conveyor takes them directly into the nitrogen freeze tunnel,” Jack said. “Then they are hand-packed into boxes, and the boxes into cartons.”
“Can you trace the origin of meat?” Kim asked. “I mean if you know the lot number, the batch numbers, and the production date.”
“Sure,” Jack said. “That’s all recorded in the patty-room log.”
Kim reached into his pocket and withdrew the piece of paper on which he’d written the information from the labels in the Onion Ring walk-in freezer. He unfolded it and showed it to Jack.
“I’d like to find out where the meat came from for these two dates and lots,” Kim said.
Jack glanced at the paper but then shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t give you that kind of information.”
“Why the hell not?” Kim demanded.
“I just can’t,” Jack said. “It’s confidential. It’s not for public consumption.”
“What’s the secret?” Kim asked.
“There’s no secret,” Jack said. “It’s just company policy.”
“Then why keep the logs?” Kim asked.
“They are required by the USDA,” Jack said.
“Sounds suspicious to me,” Kim said, thinking about some of Kathleen’s comments earlier that morning. “A public agency requires logs whose information is not available to the public.”
“I don’t make the rules,” Jack said lamely.
Kim let his eyes roam around the patty room. It was impressive with its polished stainless-steel equipment and lustrous tiled floor. There were three men and one woman tending to the machines.
Kim noticed that the woman was carrying a clipboard on which she scribbled intermittently. In contrast to the men, she did not touch the machinery.
“Who’s that woman?” Kim asked.
“That’s Marsha Baldwin,” Jack said. “She’s a looker, isn’t she?”
“What’s she doing?” Kim asked.
“Inspecting,” Jack said. “She’s the USDA inspector assigned to us. She stops in here three, four, sometimes five times a week. She’s a real hard-ass. She sticks her nose into everything.”
“I suppose she could trace the meat,” Kim said.
“Sure,” Jack said. “She checks the patty-room log every time she’s here.”
“What’s she doing now?” Kim asked. Marsha was bending over, looking into the yawning mouth of the patty-formulating machine.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Jack said. “Probably making sure it was cleaned the way it was supposed to be, which it undoubtedly was. She’s a stickler for details, that’s all I know. At least she keeps us on our toes.”
“Three to five times a week,” Kim repeated. “That’s impressive.”
“Come on,” Jack said, motioning with his hand for Kim to follow him. “The only thing you haven’t seen yet is the boxes being packed into the cartons, and the cartons being put into cold storage prior to shipping.”
Kim knew he’d seen as much as he was likely to see. He was convinced that he would not get to talk with Everett Sorenson.
“If you have any further questions,” Jack said back at the reception area, “just give a holler.” He gave Kim a business card and flashed a winning smile. Then he pumped Kim’s hand, slapped him on the back, and thanked him for his visit.
Kim walked out of the Mercer Meats building and got into his car. Instead of starting the engine, he turned on the radio. After making sure his cellular phone was on, he leaned back and tried to relax. After a few minutes, he rolled the window partly down. He didn’t want to fall asleep.
Time moved very slowly. Several times he almost gave up and left. He was feeling progressively guilty about having abandoned Tracy in the ICU waiting room. But a little over an hour later, Kim’s patience paid off: Marsha Baldwin walked out of Mercer Meats. She was dressed in a khaki coat and carried what looked like a government-issue briefcase.
In a mild panic to get to her before she climbed into her car, Kim struggled with his door. It stuck once in a while: a legacy of an old fender bender. Several thumps with his palm got it open, and he leaped out. He sprinted toward the woman. By the time he got to her, she had the back door open of her yellow Ford sedan. She was just straightening up from having stowed her briefcase on the floor of the backseat. Kim was surprised by her height. He estimated she had to be at least five foot ten.
“Marsha Baldwin?” Kim demanded.
Mildly surprised at being accosted by name in the parking lot, Marsha turned to Kim and gave him a once-over with her deep emerald-green eyes. By reflex she swept a lock of her dark blond hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. She was confused by Kim’s appearance and immediately put on guard by the confrontational tone of his voice.
“Yes, I’m Marsha Baldwin,” she said hesitantly.
Kim took in the whole picture, including the bumper sticker that said “Save the Manatees” on what was obviously a government-issue car and the image of the woman who was, in Jack Cartwright’s words, “a looker.” Kim estimated she couldn’t have been much over twenty-five, with coral-toned skin and cameolike features. Her nose was prominent but aristocratic. Her lips sculpted in sharp relief.
“We have to talk,” Kim averred.
“Really?” Marsha questioned. “And what are you, an unemployed surgeon or did you just come from last night’s costume party?”
“Under different circumstances I might think that was clever,” Kim said. “I was told you are a USDA inspector.”
“And who gave you this information?” Marsha asked warily. She’d been warned in her training that occasionally she might have to deal with kooks.
Kim motioned toward the Mercer Meats entrance. “By an unctuous Mercer Meats PR man named Jack Cartwright.”
“And what if I was a USDA inspector?” Marsha asked. She closed the rear door of her car and opened the front. She had no intention of giving this strange man much time.
From his pocket Kim extracted the paper with the details from the labels of the patty cartons in the Onion Ring. He held it at the top corner shoulder high. “I want you to find out where the meat came from for
these two lots.”
Marsha glanced at the paper. “What on earth for?” she questioned.
“Because I believe one of these lots has made my daughter deathly sick with a bad strain of E. coli,” Kim said. “Not only do I want to know where the meat came from, but I also need to know where these lots were shipped to.”
“How do you know it was one of these lots?” Marsha asked.
“I don’t know for sure,” Kim said. “At least not yet.”
“Oh, really?” Marsha questioned superciliously.
“Yes, really,” Kim said hotly, taking offense at her tone.
“Sorry, I can’t get you that kind of information,” Marsha said.
“Why not?” Kim demanded.
“It’s not my job to give such information to the public,” Marsha said. “I’m sure it’s against the rules.”
Marsha started to get into her car.
Picturing his deathly ill daughter in her hospital bed, Kim roughly grabbed Marsha’s arm to keep her from getting into the car. “Screw the rules, you goddamn bureaucrat,” he snapped. “This is important. You’re supposed to be protecting the public. Here’s an opportunity to do just that.”
Marsha didn’t panic. She looked down at the hand gripping her arm, then back up into Kim’s indignant face. “Let go of me or I’ll scream bloody murder, you crank.”
Convinced she was a woman of her word, Kim let go of her arm. He was nonplussed by Marsha’s unexpected assertiveness.
“Be nice, now,” Marsha said as if she were talking with a juvenile. “I haven’t done anything to you.”
“Like hell you haven’t,” Kim said. “If you USDA people weren’t acting out a sham and really inspected this meat industry, my daughter wouldn’t be sick, nor would some five hundred kids die each year.”
“Now, just wait one minute,” Marsha shot back. “I work hard at my job, and I take it very seriously.”
“Bull,” Kim spat. “I’ve been told that you people work hard at going through the motions. I even hear you’re in bed with the industry you’re supposed to be inspecting.”
Marsha’s mouth dropped open. She was incensed. “I’m not going to validate that comment by responding,” she said. She climbed in behind the wheel and pulled her door shut. She stuck her key in the ignition.