by Greig Beck
Mitch shook his head and then pointed at the cage. “Did you come in here? There was a laboratory rat in this cage, and it seems to have got out.”
“No, I didn’t. But if I saw that huge rat that had been hanging around, I’m more than likely to drop a heavy book on it.” She made a gagging expression.
“This one, stay away from,” Greg said.
“Okay, thanks, Shelly. Keep a lookout and tell me if you see it. But don’t go near it.” Mitch sighed.
She nodded and went outside.
“There goes my controled experiment.” He blew air between his lips.
“One question,” Greg said. “Has anyone checked on Mr. Bimford lately? You know, the guy attacked by his friendly old dog that was turning to something like wood?”
“I’m thinking that should be our next stop,” Mitch replied. “But first, it’s time to visit the mayor and see if we can get some help.”
CHAPTER 26
Mitch drove Greg up the familiar private road toward the line of orange trees. Peeking above them was the three-story Georgian mansion with huge white columns framing a double door entrance, ivy climbing all the way up one wall, and box hedges creating borders around smaller gardens.
“Very nice. I could live here,” Greg said. “When are you going to run for mayor?”
“Pfft. All that money, respect, and luxury? Way too rich for my blood.” Mitch grinned. “I’m happy being one of the little guys.”
“Nah, you were always a leader, not a follower,” Greg added. “You’d be good at it. Give it a run after you’ve added a few years.”
“And a few pounds.” Mitch grinned. “Wait until you meet Mayor Melnick.”
They pulled up out front and stepped out of the car. Mitch thought it seemed like the property was even bigger without the party crowd. Also, quieter.
Mitch turned at the top of the steps. “And remember, they’re not called butlers or maids, they’re called staff.”
“Got it—to their face.” Greg snorted. “Because I’d still be telling everyone I had a butler, not staff.”
Mitch pressed the bell and within seconds, one of the huge doors was pulled inward.
A middle-aged man in a perfectly pressed suit Mitch had seen serving drinks at the mayor’s cookout stood rod straight in the doorway.
“Doctor Taylor, how can I help you?” He reserved a flat smile for Mitch, but his eyes shot Greg a cool gaze as they lingered on him for a moment or two.
“Good morning, Alston,” Mitch began. “Please tell the mayor I’d like a brief word about the work we’re doing regarding Hank and Alfie.”
His eyes went to Greg again and the suspicion was still writ large on his face. “And who else should I say is calling?”
“Doctor Taylor and associate.” Mitch stared back, not giving an inch.
“Very good, Doctor Taylor.” He closed the door on them.
Greg chuckled. “He seems nice.”
A few minutes later, Keith Melnick appeared in a polo shirt and pressed pants.
He greeted Mitch warmly and then stood back. “And who have we here?”
Greg stuck his hand out. “Good morning, Mayor Melnick. I’m a friend of Mitch’s and also work in the medical field.”
“Private research or corporate?” Melnick held onto his hand, searching his face.
“Neither actually—military,” Greg replied.
Melnick dropped his hand and his eyes slid back to Mitch.
Mitch patted Greg’s shoulder. “He’s a medically experienced friend acting in a private capacity as a sounding board. But it is why we’re here. We need a little more help. This thing that infected Hank and Alfie…”
“You found Alfie?” Melnick asked.
“No, but—” Mitch began.
“So, we still don’t know it infected Alfie, if at all, then?” Melnick’s brows rose.
The guy was a bulldozer and Mitch knew then how this was going to go. “Mayor, whatever is affecting people in this town…”
“Which people? The sheriff told me about Harlen’s dog, Buford I think he said. But who else?” The mayor’s smile was stuck on and held no warmth.
“Mayor, we have missing people, and we know it was caused by whatever it is leaking out of the mine. I conducted a test on a rat, and it changed into something…unnatural. We need to bring in some professional help on this one.” Mitch’s jaws clenched.
Melnick frowned. “You have this changed rat? I want to see it.”
“Not anymore. It escaped.” Mitch knew how feeble that sounded, and by the look on Melnick’s face, he did too.
Melnick turned to Greg. “Did you see it?”
Greg shook his head. “I didn’t need to, I saw the DNA evidence, and there was definitely a biological agent that acted as an accelerant for genome changes at the DNA level.”
“I see.” Melnick nodded as he walked a few paces further out onto his front porch, leaving the door open behind him.
He turned. “So, we have a dead man, that the sheriff is thinking is a potential homicide case. We have a dead dog, that I believe was diseased, rabies maybe. We have a deformed rat, missing. And we have…what else?”
Mitch felt his face going red as his temples throbbed.
Melnick reached out and put an arm over his shoulders. “Mitch, I trust your judgment. And my request still stands for you to handle this with the sheriff, as he is one of the most competent men in the town.”
He stopped, glanced at Greg, and then back to Mitch. “If things start to get a little more complicated, then we can revisit the discussion on whether we need more resources.” He looked at Mitch from under lowered brows. “But you know my reservations on that. Eldon survives on tourist income, and anything we do to jeopardize that could spell disaster for working families in and all around the town and country.”
Mitch sighed. “I think we have a bigger problem than you imagine.”
“I can only imagine based on the facts presented to me. Until I see something more compelling, then I can’t imagine authorizing anything more.” Melnick waited a moment as he stared back at Mitch. “I think we’re done here, Doctor Taylor.” He reached down to take Mitch’s hand and shook it. “Keep up the good work—I like you, I really do. And let me tell you, I appreciate your passion and all your hard work.”
Melnick turned to Greg and simply nodded. “And now, I have work to do.”
The mayor vanished back inside, and then Alston closed the door without a single glance at either of them.
Greg turned. “We sure showed him.”
“Yep, had him eating out of my hand.” Mitch chuckled. “Now do you see what I’m up against?”
“Yeah. But you and I both know something weird is going on. And I’m hoping that by the time we do collect enough proof, it isn’t too late.”
Mitch nodded. “Then only one thing to do: gather more proof. Let’s pay a visit to dear old Mr. Harlen Bimford.”
*****
Mitch drove slowly past Harlen’s drug and convenience store, noticing that the door usually open and welcoming was now shut up tight.
“He never shuts that door this time of day.” Mitch slowed to a crawl.
“Maybe he’s in mourning for his dog,” Greg said.
“Yeah, maybe.” Mitch pulled into the sidewalk and pushed his door open. He put his hand over his eyes from the midday sunshine and squinted at the store.
“And all dark inside,” he observed.
The pair approached the door and cupped their hands around their eyes to peer inside.
“Nothing,” Greg replied slowly. He shifted his gaze. “But I can see a few things scattered on the floor.”
“Sheriff said he was attacked by Buford, so maybe he just hasn’t got around to cleaning up yet.” Mitch moved to the door.
“Was he hurt?” Greg turned to him.
“Kehoe didn’t mention it. Otherwise, ole Harlen might have paid me a visit. Come on.” He tried the door but it wouldn’t budge. “Locked.”<
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“’Round back?” Greg turned to the corner. “Try this way.”
Mitch followed down the sidewalk and then took a hard right past a pottery shop. He turned about and saw that the street was unnaturally quiet. Odd, given it was a Thursday, and it was neither overly hot nor cold.
The rear of the shops was a laneway with a few trashcans out, some garages or vans parked, and power poles. The pair quickly made their way to the back of Harlen’s shop.
“This looks like it,” Mitch said.
Greg lifted the shop’s trashcan’s lid and peered in. “He likes his soda.” He reached in and pulled an empty bottle out. “Eldon Spring Water—Super Health Tonic.” He was about to close it and then paused. He turned about, reached for a broken length of rod, and used it to lift something else from the bin’s interior.
He held it out. “Torn shirt, with blood.” He looked up. “The dog’s blood or owner’s?”
Mitch frowned. “Ripped to shreds. But then again, that dog thing had teeth like rose thorns. Good reason to check on the guy.” He turned to the door. “Here goes.” He knocked on the door, hard.
They waited a few moments, while Mitch held his ear closer.
“Nothing.” He tried the door handle and found it locked.
“He might be out,” Greg said.
“Where? The guy is about 75 in the shade.” Mitch grinned. “I really hope he’s not sitting in my office waiting room bleeding out.”
“We should call the sheriff. I mean, this is his territory,” Greg said.
“No, we can’t wait for him. Harlen could be hurt or worse.” Mitch listened at the door again. “Gotta go in—no one left behind to suffer.”
“Geez, you still hung up on that?” Greg scoffed. “Let it go, Mitch. Sheriff can be here in a minute or two. Come on, buddy, drop that Syrian baggage.”
Mitch frowned. “I’m not hung up on anything.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Greg replied evenly.
“Listen, I…” Mitch put his hands on his hips and stared at the ground for a moment. He didn’t come here just to walk away. Besides, if someone was hurt, he was never walking away again.
Maybe I am hung up, he thought.
He decided. “Fuck it. Potential medical emergency, we’re going in.”
He grabbed the handle, leaned back a little, and then rammed his shoulder into the door. It gave off a sound of wood cracking but didn’t budge.
“One more.” He held onto the door handle but leaned back about an arm’s length this time and then pulled and propelled himself into the door. It exploded inward with a shower of splintered wood.
The pair went in fast, Mitch going left and Greg right, and found themselves in the rear of Harlen’s shop, which he had obviously been using as a kitchen, washroom, and storeroom.
Greg put his arm over his lower face. “Jesus, spoiled food.”
“Spoiled something,” Mitch replied.
He tried the light switch and got nothing. “Of course they won’t work.”
“Got a flashlight?” Greg asked.
“Yeah, in my car.” Mitch pushed the door open a little further to give them some more light and also some better quality air.
“You’re off the hook.” Greg found a flashlight on a shelf. He switched it on, and though the beam was a little yellow, it would do the job in the darkness.
Mitch held up a hand. “Mr. Bimford? Harlen? It’s Doctor Taylor. I took over from Ben Wainright.” He tilted his head to listen but heard nothing.
“Time to advance, buddy,” Greg said softly.
“Lead on,” Mitch said.
Greg lifted the flashlight and paused to speak over his shoulder. “Why do I wish I had a sidearm right now?”
“Stay cool, eyes out,” Mitch whispered.
Greg headed in, moving the beam of light from one side of the passageway to the other as he went. “Got a room here.” He stopped and then quickly stuck his head around with the light. “Clear.”
The next room had a disheveled bed pushed into a corner so it seemed old Harlen was sleeping in the back of his shop. The room was filthy, with the sheets yellow and rumpled, and dog food tins and empty meat packets scattered about.
“He was eating dog food?” Greg asked.
“Protein,” Mitch replied, suddenly remembering the state of Hank Bell after Alfie had finished with him. “We might have a problem here.”
The pair moved at near glacial speed and with a silence only learned from Special Forces duty. Mitch felt himself moving into a hyper-alert state just like when on-mission.
They paused at the doorway to the large area at the front of the shop. Light from the glass windows gave them some illumination but with the lights out there were still far too many shadows.
Mitch held up a hand to his friend and stepped just inside the doorway. “Mr. Bimford? It’s Doctor Taylor, are you there?”
They waited for a response, but the only sound was the soft hum of a refrigerator against a far wall.
Greg looked to Mitch and nodded, and both men went into the room, Mitch to the left and Greg to the right. The pair searched the aisles of the shop until Greg called out.
“Got him. Over here.”
Mitch followed the flashlight beam and rounded a line of shelves. It was Harlen, probably. The man was slumped in a chair, empty soda bottles surrounding him, and a shotgun between his knees. The top of his head was missing.
“Ah, shit.” Mitch grimaced. “Poor guy.”
“Guess the old fella’s dog dying was too much to bear.” Greg held the light closer. “Hey, come here and look at this.”
Mitch leaned closer. The top of the skull from the nose upward was missing, and the ceiling above was spattered with a dry, brown crusting. But there was little blood. Or at least little liquid blood or glutinous cranial matter.
Greg held the light into the cavity. “It’s dry. Like he was a year-old corpse.” He moved the flashlight.
Mitch carefully reached out to pull Harlen’s shirt aside and saw the rash. He immediately let it go and looked around, found a wooden spoon on the shelf, and used it to hold the shirt aside.
“That’s no ordinary rash,” he observed. “A little like one of the town kids had on his lower back, but much more advanced.”
Greg lifted his sleeve and saw the rash became more like dark scaling. He looked up. “Like his dog?”
“I want to examine him. If this skin condition was transmitted from the dog to Harlen through a bite, then just staying away from the mine might not be enough.” Mitch let the man’s collar drop. “Might be the evidence I need to convince Mayor Melnick to call in the cavalry.”
“Okay, so what now? Putting my biomedical hat on, I’m going to suggest it’s not a good idea to stick this guy in your car. Or us even to be handling him without at least gloves and masks.” Greg straightened.
“Yeah, I’ll give Sheriff Kehoe a call and then arrange for Harlen to be brought into my rooms for analysis.” Mitch turned about. “Let’s get out of here and get some fresh air.”
CHAPTER 27
Back at Mitch’s practice rooms, Harlen Bimford’s naked body was stretched out on the steel operating table. Greg had acted as the forensic technician and had undressed the man and cleaned his body.
Sheriff Kehoe stood back against the wall with a mask over his mouth and nose and a drained-looking complexion.
Mitch walked once around the body, his training as a physician taking over now. He had been involved in autopsies before and he had two options for approaching his task: the first, the forensic autopsy, was used to determine the cause, mode, and manner of death. But given the top half of the man’s head was blown off by his own hand, that immediately became redundant.
However, the second option, a clinical autopsy, that also involved a human dissection of the abdominal and thoracic regions, delivered more insight into pathological processes and determined what factors contributed to a patient’s death. For example, biological material for
infectious disease testing can be collected during an autopsy, and this would be critical for understanding and preparing for any future cases of this thing he had come to know as Angel Syndrome.
“Let’s begin.” His first step was the external examination, and Mitch spoke in a methodical and emotionless tone as he looked over Harlen’s body.
“Obvious manifestation of significant skin trauma caused by immune system response to some sort of allergen, toxin, or microbial intrusion to the system.”
He ran a hand over the arm and then lifted it by the wrist. There was a pebbly rash starting from the hand, but as it worked its way up the arm, the lumps got bigger, and then sharper, until they became like thorns at the upper bicep.
“Thickening of the derma by what seems like keratin, but isn’t.”
He then noted the chest that had developed a hard, scaled texture that ran from the neck down to the pubis. Mitch knocked on it, making a hard shell-like noise. “Epidermal layers are crusted to the point of creating a bark-like…growth.”
“Scleroderma?” Greg asked.
“Sclero-what?” Kehoe asked.
“Scleroderma.” Mitch nodded. “Or possibly some sort of variation.” He looked up at the sheriff. “It’s a rare skin disease that involves the hardening and tightening of the skin and connective tissues. But it usually affects women more often than men and is also site-specific, not over the entire body—it usually targets the joints, knuckles, and looks more like angry callouses. But old Harlen here is beginning to look more like a spiked tortoise.”
“Never seen or heard of anything like this before,” Kehoe muttered.
Mitch looked up at the sheriff. “I have, in Ben Wainright’s notes.”
“Or on Harlen’s dog,” Greg added.
Mitch nodded. “That reminds me.” He checked the man’s arm and quickly found the bite. It seemed to have been healing nicely and there was no sign of infection surrounding the wound.
“From looking at this, not sure if the dog transmitted the infection. Maybe it went straight to his bloodstream without causing any epidermal reaction.” He moved to the top of the body. “Okay, hold onto your lunch, kids, I’m going in.”