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by Robin Cook

  "In some ways yes and in some ways no, " Chester said, "He'd been a kinda wayward kid. Nothing like his older sister or older brother. To tell you the truth, we were embarrassed by the way he dressed and looked, especially with that Nazi sign he tattooed on his forehead. My uncle died fighting those Nazis.

  Brad and I had a set-to about that tattoo, the good it did."

  "Teenage rebellion is sometimes hard to understand, " Laurie offered.

  She wanted to steer the conversation away from the boy's appearance.

  One of her worries was that the Cassidys would request to see the pictures of their son that had been taken on his arrival at the morgue.

  Such photographs were not fit for any layperson to see, much less a parent.

  "Trouble was, he was no longer a teenager, " Chester said. Shirley nodded in agreement. "But he'd gotten in with the wrong crowd. They all had that Nazi stuff. And then they started going around beating up on people who were different, like gays and Puerto Ricans."

  "That's how he got in trouble the first time, " Shirley said, speaking up for the first time. She had an unexpectedly high, strident voice.

  "I understand he'd had difficulties with the police, " Laurie said.

  She started to relax. It seemed as if the Cassidys merely wanted to talk.

  They could appreciate that kind of urge, considering their grief and bafflement at their son's untimely death. The only problem was that there were things that Lou and Agent Tyrrell had told her about the victim that she wasn't in a position to disclose, such as the fact that he'd been cooperating with the authorities as part of a plea bargain.

  "We heard that some awful things had happened to Brad from our daughter, Helen, " Chester said.

  "Brad had come down here recently to stay with her in the city. But she couldn't tell us very much about the details of his death. That's why we came ourselves from where we live upstate."

  "What would you like to know? " Laurie asked. She was hoping she could speak in generalities.

  The husband and wife glanced at each other to see who should go first.

  Chester cleared his throat, "One of the things we wanted to know was whether he was shot."

  "He was, " Laurie said. "Most definitely."

  "I told you so, " Shirley said to Chester, as if the news validated her position in an argument.

  "For all they who taketh the sword shall perish with the sword, Matthe twenty-six."

  "Do you know what kind of gun it was? " Chester asked.

  "No, " Laurie said. "And I'm not sure we'll ever know. The bullet, of course, will be examined, and if a particular gun was believed to be involved, it could be implicated."

  "Was he shot only once? " Chester asked.

  "We believe so, " Laurie said with less emphasis. She was uncomfortable giving more than sketchy details, since Brad's homicide was under.. . investigation.

  "Then maybe it wasn't one of his guns, " Chester said to Shirley. "If it had been, then he probably would have been hit many times."

  "Did your son have a lot of guns? " Laurie asked.

  "Too many guns, " Shirley said. "That's how he got in trouble the second time. We thought he was going to go to prison. I tell you, I don't know what men see in guns."

  "Now, it's not all guns that are bad, " Chester said.

  "Most of them, if you ask me, " Shirley snapped. "Particularly those automatic ones." Then turning to Laurie she added, "That's what Brad got involved in. He was selling assault rifles."

  "Where did he get them? " Laurie asked. The idea of a skinhead youth selling assault rifles in upstate New York gave her a shiver.

  "We don't rightly know, " Chester said. "They came from Bulgaria originally. At least that's where they'd been made. I came across a bunch of them hidden in our barn."

  "That's terrible, " Laurie said.

  She knew it was a trite response, but she meant it. With her particular interest in the forensics of gunshot wounds, she'd seen a lot of cases, more than anyone else at the office.

  She couldn't help but wonder if she'd ever autopsied anyone victimized by one of Brad Cassidy's customers.

  "There's one other thing we'd like to ask, " Shirley said haltingly.

  "We'd like to know if our boy suffered." Laurie looked away for a moment while her mind wrestled with the question. She hated to have to choose between truth and compassion. It was undeniable that Brad Cassidy had been mercilessly tortured, but what purpose would it serve to relate such horror to his grieving parents? On the other hand, she hated to lie.

  "You can tell us straight, " Chester said, as if sensing Laurie's quandary.

  "He was shot in the head, and I believe he died instantly, " Laurie said, suddenly realizing she had an out.

  By such a statement she wasn't being entirely honest, since she was not answering Shirley's question, yet she wasn't Lying either. It was up to the Cassidys to ask the critical question about the order of events preceding Brad's murder.

  "Thank the Lord! " Shirley said. "He was a troubled boy and certainly not a good boy, but the idea that he might have suffered bothered me deeply."

  "I'm glad we could be of service, " Laurie said. She pushed off the desk, eager to avoid more questions by breaking up the meeting.

  "If there's anything else I can do, please give me a call." Chester and Shirley stood up. They were grateful to Laurie, and the father pumped her hand enthusiastically. Laurie gave him one of her cards as she escorted them out of the cubicle and across the ID room.

  She opened the door to the waiting room, and the Cassidys filed out.

  After a final goodbye, Laurie let the door close and lock. Then she breathe a sigh of relief.

  "Were you doing an ID in there of a case I don't know about? " George Fontworth asked. He was bent over the list of fatalities, trying to schedule the day's autopsies.

  "No! They were the parents of one of yesterday's cases, " Laurie said while staring off into the middle distance. With the Cassidys gone, she found herself preoccupied by the horror of their son selling assault rifles, probably to other skinheads. With what she'd learned the day before from Special Agent Gordon Tyrrell, putting such deadly weapons in the hands of such violent and bigoted people was an invitation to disaster, especially since the farright neo-Nazi militias were busily recruiting the skinheads as shock troops.

  What's this world coming to? Laurie voicelessly questioned to herself.

  Her strong support for gun control ratcheted up yet another notch.

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 19

  11:15 A. M. With the cab's motor running, Yuri got out and opened his garage door.

  Despite his exhaustion, the sight of the pest control truck brought a smile to his face. The fact that it was sitting there waiting for the big day was a source of great satisfaction and gave meaning to the effort he was expending and the anxieties he was suffering. Yuri pulled his taxi inside and shut the overhead door.

  He didn't want anyone to see the truck.

  At his back door Yuri hesitated for a moment and let his eyes roam his immediate neighborhood. He wanted to make sure no one was paying him any heed. It wasn't usual for him to be coming home in the middle of the morning. And certainly all the commotion of the ambulance in the wee hours of that morning must have gotten the neighbors' attention.

  Yet he saw no one. It was a peaceful Indian summer day with the temperature in the low seventies. For the moment, there weren't even any dogs barking.

  Inside, Yuri went directly to his refrigerator and poured himself a vodka. He leaned against the counter and took a calming sip. He was still nervous about Connie's body having been taken to the medical examiner's office at Kings County Hospital. He'd gone with it for purposes of identification, even though he'd been told it wasn't necessary since he'd made adequate identification at Coney Island Hospital. But he'd gone anyway in hopes of talking the doctors out of doing the autopsy.

  Yet it turned out he never even got to see a doctor. The person he'd met with describe
d herself as a forensic investigator. At least Yuri made sure she got the story about the asthma and the allergies. She told him that the autopsy wouldn't take place until some time after eight, when the medical examiners arrived.

  It had been five o'clock in the morning by the time Yuri had gotten home. Although exhausted, he'd sensed there was no chance that he'd sleep. He was too keyed up, so he'd taken his cab out for a jump on rush hour.

  It had been a good decision. Not only had he been able to earn some decent money, but the work took his mind off his worries, at least while he'd been busy. As soon as there was a lull, it was a different story, and Yuri had started for home. Besides, he had other, more important things to do than spend the day driving. He was eager to get down into his lab.

  Even though he wasn't hungry, Yuri forced himself to eat some cold cereal. His empty stomach was growling from the previous night's pizza and too much coffee, and now vodka. As he ate, he eyed the telephone.

  The forensic investigator had given him a number to call that afternoon to find out when Connie's body would be released to the funeral home Yuri had selected. Yuri wondered if she was already set to be moved.

  As far as he was concerned, the sooner Connie was out of the medical examiner's office the better.

  Yuri dialed. To his surprise the phone was answered by a person rather than an answering machine. He identified himself and asked about his wife's body.

  "What was that name again? " the operator asked.

  "Davydov, " Yuri reiterated. "Connie Davydov."

  "Hold on a second, let me check." Yuri felt his pulse quicken. He hated dealing with bureaucracy of any sort.

  "I don't seem to find a Davydov, " the operator said. "Are you sure your wife came to the Brooklyn office? "

  "Of course! " Yuri said. "I was there myself."

  "How do you spell Davydov? " Yuri spelled out his surname. His anxiety mounted. Maybe they'd made the diagnosis and the police were called. Maybe the police were already on their way to his house that very minute. Maybe.. .

  "Oh, here it is, " the woman said. "No wonder I couldn't find it.

  Your wife wasn't autopsied."

  "You mean they haven't done it yet? " Yuri questioned.

  "No, I mean the doctors decided she didn't need to be posted, " the operator said.

  "Why not? " Yuri asked. It sounded too good to be true.

  "They don't tell us operators anything like that. You'll have to speak to the duty doctor. Today it's Dr.

  Randolph Sanders. Just a moment!

  " Yuri tried to get the operator's attention, since he wasn't sure he wanted to talk to the duty doctor, but she'd put him on hold. Elevator music flowed out of the receiver.

  Yuri struggled to control his excitement as he waited. The fact that it had been decided not to autopsy Connie was unexpected good news, provided it was true. He drummed his fingers nervously on the countertop.

  He took another swig of vodka.

  "This is Dr. Sanders, " a voice said, cutting off the music. "Can I help you? " Nervously Yuri explained who he was and what he'd been told.

  "Ah, yes, " Dr. Sanders said. "I know the case well. I was the one who decided the autopsy was not necessary."

  "So the body can be released? " Yuri asked.

  "Absolutely, " Dr. Sanders said. "It can be picked up at anytime by the funeral home you've chosen. I believe that's Strickland's."

  "That's right, " Yuri said. "Should I call them to let them know? "

  "I'm sure our mortuary office has done that already, " Dr. Sanders said.

  "Or at least they'll be doing it very soon."

  "Thank you very much, " Yuri said, purposefully toning down his excitement lest it be interpreted correctly. "Out of curiosity, why the change of plans? I mean, I'm relieved there was no autopsy because I was not happy about my wife's body being disturbed."

  "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 drier. After that was completed, Yuri recharged the fermenter with fresh nutrients to let the bacteria continue their rabid 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 his 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.

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 19

  1:00 P. M. Jack tossed asi
de 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 `sl 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.