Maggie O Dell 09 Hotwire

by Alex Kava

  “The second day, some began passing blood and complained of light-headedness. The third day, several experienced extreme pain. Some hallucinations. There were two seizures.”

  “When did they call you?”

  “This morning. Day four.”

  Platt only now realized he had shoved aside the plate with his half-eaten hamburger. Under the table his hands balled up into fists. It couldn’t be happening again. It wasn’t possible. Less than two months ago in Pensacola, Florida, dozens of soldiers who had returned from Iraq and Afghanistan had gotten ill—several fatally—after surgeries to repair or replace their injured limbs. The symptoms had been similar. It ended up being a tissue contamination that no one could have suspected or predicted. Realizing another massive contamination could be happening again, only now at a high school, sent a wave of nausea through Platt.

  Bix continued. “Most food-borne illnesses hit those with compromised or weak immune systems—the elderly or little kids. But these are teenagers—their immune systems not yet fully developed but they’re not high risk. Whatever this is hits quicker, faster, and harder than anything I’ve ever encountered.”

  “Any deaths?” Platt almost didn’t want to know the answer.

  “No. It’s early, but I don’t think there will be because, for the most part, these kids are all fairly healthy. That’s not to say there won’t be long-term effects for some of them. We’ve got almost a dozen hospitalized and I still haven’t been able to find the source of the contamination. I’ve personally ripped apart the kitchen. Found a few questionable lapses in cleanliness but nothing that warrants this degree of illness.”

  “What about a kitchen worker?”

  He shrugged. “Possible, but we interviewed and tested all of them. No one was sick. Could one of them have contaminated what they served because they went to the bathroom and didn’t wash their hands, didn’t glove up? I can’t say for sure, but this was so severe I’m thinking it had to be a food item that was already contaminated. For it to work this quickly I’m thinking the food had to have an established bacteria settled and waiting.”

  “Did you find anything in the leftovers?”

  “No leftovers. Remember, day four. Everything’s already in the trash. Dumpster already hauled off.” He held his hands up hopelessly. “I do have the list of what they ate and the suppliers. I could probably spend dozens of hours tracking down whether the contamination happened at the processing plant or at the distribution warehouse or even in the school kitchen. And these schools get stuff from all over the place, not just one center. It’s crazy, is what it is.”

  “This can’t be the first time it’s happened.”

  “CDC hears about it only when kids are hospitalized or if there are deaths. Haven’t had any reports in months. But schools are notoriously slow about reporting to us. And kids get sick. A lot.”

  “Waiting until there’s forty-two at one time seems inappropriate. What are you finding in the victims?”

  “I told you what we’re not finding—none of the usual strains. My lab guys back in Atlanta are still searching. It might be salmonella but a mutated strain. Do you remember the spinach recall in 2006? Two hundred and five cases. Twenty-six states. One hundred and two hospitalized. Five deaths. Only five, thank God. That was E. coli 0157:H7, a particularly virulent strain.

  “I worked that case. We started by checking all the wrong things. It was E. coli so we were pulling victims’ refrigerators and trash cans apart looking for hamburgers, anything with ground beef. Several victims kept telling us, ‘No, we don’t eat red meat, we’re very health conscious.’ Spinach was one of the last things we even thought to look at. The victims were healthy but the strain was brutal.

  “This reminds me of that case and I don’t like it.” He tapped his fingers against his lips. “I’m afraid this is going to be something like salmonella on steroids.”

  “Any chance it’s intentional?”

  Bix sat back again, the vinyl creaking beneath him. He started to rub his eyes then crossed his arms instead, and Platt figured he had just watched Bix shut down. He was surprised when the CDC chief said, “Yeah, I do. I can’t tell you why, but I do suspect it might be deliberate.”

  “Have you told that to the USDA?”

  “I called the department responsible for the school lunch program and they referred me to the new undersecretary of the Food Safety and Inspection Service. All I could get was some lackey in her office who told me that the undersecretary would get back to me after she gets my report and is able to do an assessment. Then she referred me back to the department that I originally called. I hate that runaround crap. And FSIS has a brand-new undersecretary, Irene Baldwin. I don’t know her but I already don’t trust her. She was the CEO of some huge food corporation. To me it seems a little like inviting the fox in to watch the henhouse.”

  “Okay, then how about the FBI? Aren’t they supposed to be in charge of … what do they call it, agroterrorism? If this is intentional it would fall under their jurisdiction.”

  “Right. In partnership with FSIS, FDA, and DHS. But yeah, FBI leads it. They put me in touch with Assistant Director Raymond Kunze. Actually I asked for Margaret O’Dell. I remembered she was the one who helped you crack that Ebola case last year. But I was told she’s out of town on assignment. Someplace out west in Oklahoma or Idaho.”

  “Colorado.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Kunze is giving me R. J. Tully. He was on the Ebola case, too, but I heard he got suspended. Not sure I like getting second string.”

  “Tully’s good. That case was personal for him. You’d be lucky to get him on this.”

  Bix nodded.

  “I’m not sure why you called me, though. You’ve got the FBI. You have some of the best scientists in the country back in Atlanta. If you want me to be a part of some task force, of course, I’ll help. But I’m not sure what I bring to the equation.”

  “Your presence brings the one thing I hope I don’t need.”

  “What might that be?”

  “The United States Army.”

  ELEVEN

  NEBRASKA NATIONAL FOREST

  After the last of the survivors was removed from the scene Maggie wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  “I’ll radio for Olly Cushman to come on in,” Sheriff Skylar told her.

  “No, wait. Does the county attorney have medical training?”

  “Medical training? Probably as much as you or me.”

  “I spent three years in premed.”

  He stared at her. Then finally said, “I’m sure he’s taken the same death investigation workshop I did.”

  “A crime scene like this one is going to require someone with more training than a weeklong workshop.”

  “Actually, it’s a day.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s pretty comprehensive,” Donny offered, then he quickly looked away, rubbing at his jaw but it was too late. Maggie had already seen his disapproval.

  “You can’t examine these bodies out here anyway. We need to bag ’em up, get ’em to a proper facility. Maybe North Platte.” Skylar was addressing Donny now as if the two of them would make the decision. “Got to get them out of here before those clouds burst open and wash away any evidence.”

  “That’s exactly why we need to get someone here now,” Maggie told him. “I think it’s important to examine them at the scene, especially with it being outside. It won’t matter how many photos we take. Has Cushman ever investigated a death?”

  “Of course he has,” the sheriff said. “Beginning of summer. We pulled a woman’s body from the Middle Loup. That was a mess.”

  “Homicide?”

  “Accident.”

  “I thought someone saw her jump from the Highway 83 bridge,” Donny said.

  “It was ruled an accident.”

  “What about homicides?”

  “We haven’t had a homicide in Thomas County as far back as I can remember.”

  “What abo
ut the State Patrol?” Maggie looked to Donny. “You must have someone who serves as a medical examiner.”

  “We do in Scottsbluff.”

  He had picked her up in Scottsbluff. From what Maggie remembered of the drive it seemed like an eternity and that was in daylight. She looked over her shoulder.

  “We need someone now. There has to be someone closer. Someone in law enforcement with a medical background?”

  “There is one person. Just outside of North Platte. She’s retired now. Lucy Coy.”

  “No, not that crazy old Indian woman.” The sheriff tucked his thumbs in his belt, looking defiant.

  “Lucy follows procedure,” Donny said. “We’ve never had a complaint.”

  “Of course not. Anybody criticize, she’d probably put a curse on ’em.”

  Maggie watched Donny’s jaw clench. She turned her back to the sheriff and asked Donny, “She has a medical background?”

  “I don’t think she’s a certified MD, but she worked on death investigations with the State Patrol for years. Long before I joined. She taught several of our best investigators. Our course is a week long.”

  “She probably taught them black magic, too.”

  “She taught me, Frank.”

  The sheriff held up his hands in surrender, shaking his head and smiling like he didn’t mean anything but indicating that he wasn’t really apologizing, either.

  “How far away?” Maggie asked.

  “Hell, I think her place is just south of here.”

  “Call her.”

  “It’d be better to take these kids in and let them get properly examined,” the sheriff protested.

  “Call her,” Maggie repeated.

  Donny pulled out his cell phone, checked for reception, and slipped it back in his pocket as he tugged his two-way radio off his belt.

  “We could have a downpour at any minute,” Skylar still protested. “Everything will be washed away while you wait for Lucy Coy. And then just watch, she’ll be collecting spirit dust and lightning bugs. We’ll be here till dawn.”

  This time Maggie pinned him down with a glare that made the man take a step back. Maybe he remembered this was the same woman who earlier pulled her gun on half the county elders.

  “I’m still hoping that you’ll choose to be a productive part of this investigation, Sheriff.” She stopped there when she wanted to ask him to leave, but personal experience had taught her that co operation from the local law enforcement was vital to winning a community’s support. This sheriff could be her greatest asset or her worst liability.

  Hank and one of his men returned.

  “Hank, do you have some unused brown paper bags?” she asked.

  “Yep. Up in the gift shop.”

  “How about more tarps or rain pouches? Especially anything unused. And rope or twine?”

  “I think we can find some.”

  “We’re going to divide this area up into five sections,” Maggie explained, “and each of us will work a grid. That’s if you’re staying, Sheriff?”

  They stared at the sheriff. He released a sigh then nodded, just as Donny called out, “Lucy’s on her way.”

  TWELVE

  Lucy Coy made her way down to the crime scene as Maggie heard the first drops of rain begin to hit the forest’s upper canopy. There was absolutely nothing about the woman that would have prompted Maggie to use or even think the words “old” or “crazy.”

  She wore hiking boots, blue jeans, a white shirt with the untucked tails sticking out from underneath her rain jacket. Tall and thin, Coy carried herself like a dancer with an elegant but unassuming confidence. Adding to her mystique, there were featherlike wisps of silver in her dark hair that was clipped short. It stuck up in places and would have made anyone else look as if she had just gotten out of bed. On Lucy Coy it looked stylish.

  Under the brash floodlights the woman’s face showed no distinctive lines, just smooth skin over high cheekbones. Her dark eyes focused on Maggie as introductions were made. The woman was sizing up the FBI agent who had summoned her from her warm, dry home, but with no hint of annoyance. Instead, Lucy Coy looked eager to understand exactly what was expected of her and get right to it.

  If anything Maggie could understand the sheriff’s awe of Lucy. She seemed out of place with these men, but at the same time she fit in comfortably with these surroundings, almost at home in the middle of the forest. She didn’t appear to even notice the rain.

  The men from the other side of the hill had brought and left at the perimeter the items Maggie had requested: digital camera, latex gloves, paper bags, markers, and several plastic coolers. Maggie had insisted on unused and sealed tarps to prevent introducing debris to the crime scene. Those were now strung from trees and hung above areas deemed important and waiting for closer inspection or possible casting.

  The impact of what had happened to these teenagers was sinking in as each of the injured made their way to the triage area. The boy wrapped in barbed wire had sustained the severest injuries from what Maggie could tell, but that was only if they didn’t count the two left behind who waited for Lucy Coy.

  Maggie noticed Lucy’s rich voice had a tone of reverence. She spoke in perfect rhythm with the breeze and the night birds, offering few words and listening intently.

  “We’ve already taken all the photos we need,” Maggie told her. “I thought it was important for someone with a medical background to see the bodies as they were found, before they’re moved.”

  Maggie followed Lucy, who followed Donny. The sheriff lagged well behind as if still pronouncing his annoyance. Yet he wouldn’t dare miss this, either.

  When the rain had finally come it did so with little fanfare. A rumble of thunder periodically quaked through the trees and sometimes the sky above the canopy would brighten with a soft glow of lightning. But the violent electricity that had forked through the clouds earlier had seeped out somewhere on the horizon. Maggie was grateful and recognized the pitter-patter of the soft rain as a blessing compared to what she had expected. Even the cicadas and crickets agreed and had begun competing with the low hum of the gas generator left up the steep incline, its sound muted by the brush and easily forgotten except for the tentacles of orange extension cords that trailed down the slope.

  As they passed under the dead owl still suspended from the branch, Lucy stopped. She stepped closer until she was directly underneath the bird.

  “The wings are singed,” Lucy said.

  Then she bent down to examine the ground beneath the bird. Several orange stakes marked where Maggie had stumbled over the boy wrapped in barbed wire.

  “One of the injured was found here,” Maggie explained.

  Lucy nodded as she swirled a finger in the sand between two areas stained with blood.

  Maggie saw the sheriff glare at Donny. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him mouthing, “See, I told you so.” As if that wasn’t enough, he spun his index finger at his temple to emphasize that Lucy Coy was, indeed, crazy.

  As she stood up Lucy stopped to examine one of the lower branches.

  “There’s some kind of a thread here,” she pointed out. “It’s tangled but doesn’t look weathered. Can we bag this?”

  Donny nodded.

  “And the owl. Can we bag it, also?”

  Lucy walked around the upside-down bird to look into the creature’s eyes. Ignoring the sheriff’s reaction to her she added, “Plains Indians believed owls carried the souls of the departed.”

  “Is that why you want us to take it, because you think it might have captured their souls?” the sheriff asked, trying to keep a straight face.

  Maggie was finding it difficult to control her anger at Skylar, and yet at the same time she hoped she hadn’t made a mistake asking this woman to join the investigation—a woman whose opinion could be influenced by her ancestors’ spirit world, a world that Maggie believed carried no weight in a criminal investigation; a world Maggie had little patience, interest, or respect for.<
br />
  Lucy Coy, however, calmly went on to explain: “I believe whatever happened to these teenagers also happened to this owl. The way its talons are still gripping the branch”—she pointed to the bird’s feet—“along with the singed feathers tells me there’s a good possibility this owl was electrocuted.”

  “Electrocuted?” Donny asked.

  “That’s ridiculous,” the sheriff muttered.

  But Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. That was exactly what she thought had happened to the boy wrapped in barbed wire and to the two dead victims.

  THIRTEEN

  VIRGINIA

  Platt noticed the car following him soon after he pulled out of the diner’s parking lot. At first he thought maybe Bix had forgotten to tell him something and Platt knew the paranoid CDC chief would rather run him down than risk a cell-phone call being traced. But the vehicle following him, five car lengths back, was definitely not Bix’s compact rental car. The double headlights sat up as high as Platt’s Land Rover.

  He took the ramp onto the interstate, goosing the accelerator. The double headlights followed. He switched lanes, crossing over two and watched in the rearview mirror. The double headlights followed, keeping a car in between. Traffic raced around them but the car stayed with Platt. He drove a few miles then crossed back to the right and at the last second swerved to take the first exit. Not so discreetly, now, his tail followed, provoking a horn blare from another vehicle that had to slam on its brakes.

  Platt turned into a gas station and pulled up next to a credit-card-only pump. He didn’t get out. He waited, ready to floor it if the vehicle followed. It’d be impossible to pretend here, especially after pulling up to one of the pumps. But the double headlights, which he now saw belonged to a black Suburban with tinted windows, didn’t even slow down as it passed the station.