Maggie O Dell 09 Hotwire

by Alex Kava

  “Like I’m gonna trust them.”

  “Do you have a choice?”

  “Watch me.” Then he let his guard down and confessed, “I really need you to back me up.”

  Earlier, on the drive over to Fourteenth Street and Independence Avenue, Platt had made Bix talk, threatening he’d drop him in the middle of a District intersection to walk if he continued to withhold information.

  Truth was, Bix knew very little. Earlier that morning, someone who claimed to have insider knowledge told him there would be more schools. It would be the exact scenario as the Norfolk, Virginia, contamination. They’d find the same bacteria. Kids would get very sick. Some would be hospitalized. There might even be fatalities. When Bix demanded to know who the person was, he hung up.

  At first Platt wondered if it might be a reporter. Someone guessing, hedging his bets, creating a bigger story by being a part of the story. Maybe the man had simply made a lucky guess. But why call again and risk being wrong? Bix insisted the person told him specific details that only an insider would know. Platt, however, wasn’t convinced.

  The conference room looked suspiciously big for gathering information. Platt had been in other situations like this—or at least, what he imagined this to be—with government officials acting more like politicians than public servants, working their asses off to save their asses. If past experience was any indication, the plush conference room, reserved for catered meetings that required leather high-back chairs and big-screen presentations, was more for intimidation.

  As soon as their security escort left, Julia immediately headed for the refreshment table. Bix grabbed a can of Pepsi and popped it open. Gulped almost half the can. Platt didn’t think Bix would be able to pull this off as long as his upper lip remained sweaty.

  “What do you know about this person you’re calling a whistle-blower? If what he’s saying is true, we have just over forty-eight hours to figure out what’s going on. Do you even know he’s for real?”

  “I know enough to realize if there’s another attack the USDA is not going to come out smelling like a bouquet.”

  “Rose.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind,” Platt said. The man’s awkward meta phors shouldn’t make a difference right now, even if they got on Platt’s nerves. “You think the USDA is somehow responsible?”

  “This is what I know: Yesterday when I asked for their help they had no interest in doing anything more than sending me from one department to another. Today they invite me here for a strategy session.”

  “Is that what they called it? A strategy session?”

  “I don’t give a damn what they called it. You’re missing the point, Platt. Today every media outlet was on the scene and oh, by the way, now suddenly the USDA wants to help.”

  Platt couldn’t argue. Government agencies had a tendency to be reactive instead of proactive. But their timing didn’t necessarily mean they had something to hide. At the same time, he couldn’t shake the fact that someone had followed him from his meeting at the diner with Bix all the way to his parents’ home.

  “Would you recognize this so-called whistle-blower’s voice if you met him?”

  Bix shook his head. “He uses a computer voice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, where you key in your words on a computer and the program reads it out loud. Sort of like the mechanical voice that says, ‘You’ve got mail.’”

  “So maybe he is concerned you’d recognize his real voice.”

  “Too many veggies.” Julia returned with a plate full. “I’m so sick of people telling me what’s good for me,” she said as she crunched a celery stick. “Department of Agriculture, hmpf. You’d think they’d provide a few chunks of meat. Have you ordered a trace on the cell-phone call?”

  “I tried this morning. It’s a secure number.”

  “There’re usually ways to get around that.”

  Both men stared at her, waiting to hear what she meant when a woman came into the conference room. She wore a flowered silk blouse under a fitted blazer with a skirt that accentuated her willowy figure making her appear softer and betraying her stickler personality. She was attractive with wavy brown hair that fell past her shoulders and green eyes that sparked slightly with irritation as soon as she saw Platt. She was tall, almost as tall as him but mostly because she insisted on wearing three-inch spiked heels, which he knew she hated and was reminded how much when she walked across the long conference room.

  She offered her hand to Bix first.

  “You must be Roger Bix. I’m Mary Ellen Wychulis.”

  “This is Julia Racine and—”

  “And Colonel Benjamin Platt,” she interrupted Bix and didn’t even bother to glance at Julia.

  “You know each other.” Bix sounded almost as surprised as Platt was. He didn’t think he knew anyone at the USDA.

  “Yes,” Mary Ellen said. “Ben and I know each other.”

  “I didn’t know you worked here,” Platt said.

  Bix looked at him as if seeing a traitor. He was waiting for an explanation. Even Julia had bristled, her eyes darting between the two of them.

  “Mary Ellen and I used to be married.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  NEBRASKA

  “There was blood,” Lucy explained as she pointed to a black T-shirt on a stainless-steel tray. “Kyle’s shirt but it’s not his blood.”

  “One of the other kid’s?” Maggie asked thinking about Dawson and the bloody mess he had been when she stumbled over him.

  Lucy had started Kyle’s autopsy and was focused on cutting through his ribs.

  “Black dye plays havoc with DNA,” Lucy said without stopping work. “No one’s really sure why. But this time it won’t matter. It’s not any of the other teenagers’ blood.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because it’s not human.”

  “What the hell?” Donny went to look at the shirt.

  “It’s pig’s blood.”

  “You think it came with the kids or with whoever shot at them?”

  “Those are the details I leave up to you investigators.”

  “If these kids were experimenting with salvia they might have been doing some other weird crap,” Donny said.

  “Like mutilating cattle?” Maggie asked.

  “I said pig’s blood, not cow’s. We used pig’s blood to recreate crime scenes in forensic training. It’s close enough to human blood and easier to obtain.” Lucy smiled but still didn’t look up. “Donny mentioned that’s what he dragged you out here for. The cattle mutilations.”

  “Is it possible these kids had something to do with them? Some freaky ritualistic stuff?” Maggie asked. If a county sheriff could keep it secret that area teenagers were experimenting with new and different drugs, could he keep under wraps their other illegal activities as well?

  “The mutilations are too advanced and deliberate,” Donny said. “Especially for a bunch of teenagers tripping on drugs. How would they figure out how to drain the blood? And erase footprints? I’d sooner believe UFO guys like Stotter than think a bunch of kids were able to pull that off.”

  “I have to agree,” Lucy said. “About a year ago I was asked to do a necropsy on a mutilated steer. The incisions were precise as were the organs they chose to extract.”

  Suddenly her hands were still. She stood up straight and looked from Maggie to Donny and back. “Actually I remember thinking at the time that the incisions looked as though they had been cauterized. It would certainly explain why there’s no blood. Now that I think back, it reminded me of laser surgery.”

  The three of them stared at one another.

  “I think I need to go upstairs and talk to Dawson Hayes again,” Maggie said. “There’re too many strange questions left unanswered.”

  Donny walked her back to the rental car. He needed to retrieve his jacket and she wanted to grab hers before going back up to see Dawson, having learned that the col
d invaded as soon as the sun went down. They were discussing what trace evidence Donny would send with the State Patrol technicians headed back to Lincoln. Neither of them noticed the cracked windshield until they opened the Toyota’s doors.

  “What the hell?” Donny was the first to see the fist-size rock on the hood.

  Maggie couldn’t believe it. Instinctively her head swiveled and her eyes darted around the parking lot as if she would still be able to locate the culprit.

  “I thought the heartland was supposed to be a friendly place.”

  “People are edgy about this case.”

  “So why take it out on me? I’m trying to solve the crime.”

  “Maybe somebody doesn’t want it solved.”

  “Then why aren’t they threatening you?”

  “It’s against the law to threaten a State Patrol officer.”

  “It’s against the law to threaten a federal agent.” Maggie heard the frustration spilling out in her voice.

  “It’s easier to blame an outsider. They know I’m not going anywhere. They probably think they can convince you to pack up and go home. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Are you serious?” She grabbed the rock and held it up. “You don’t want me to take this personally?”

  “You get used to it after a while,” a man said from behind them.

  Maggie spun around again. She hadn’t noticed the stranger who must have come out of one of the buildings. He stood beside a Buick station wagon parked behind the Toyota. Maybe he had been waiting inside his vehicle for them.

  “Name’s Wesley Stotter.” He put out his hand to Maggie.

  “Stotter,” Donny said. “The UFO guy?”

  The man shrugged. “I guess some people call me that. I prefer the term ‘paranormal investigator.’ ”

  Immediately Donny winced. Maggie looked from one man to the other for an explanation.

  “You’re the one getting the ranchers all riled up about alien spaceships mutilating their cattle.”

  Stotter was about Maggie’s height, thick-chested, bald-headed with violet-colored eyes and a well-manicured silver beard that made him look more like a history professor than a UFO nut.

  “I saw something in the forest last night that I think you two might be interested in hearing about.”

  “You were there last night?” Maggie was interested now.

  “I tried to come up through the back entrance. A bright beam of light stopped me about halfway up.”

  “You mean you stopped to watch the lights?” Donny didn’t sound convinced.

  “No, I said it stopped me. Literally. Shut down my car’s entire electrical system.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Wesley Stotter knew they would be skeptical. Most law enforcement officials dismissed whatever he had to say, but what if something he saw could help their investigation? So he stuck to the facts as he told State Patrolman Fergussen and Agent O’Dell about his drive up into the forest last night.

  “What are you doing out here in the Sandhills?” Fergussen wanted to know. “I thought your radio show was based in Denver.”

  Stotter couldn’t help but be impressed that the man actually knew a little something about him.

  “Chasing lights in the sky.”

  He watched the two investigators exchange a glance.

  “I’ve been examining cattle mutilations for years now,” he explained. “You’ve had a string of them recently. Seven, to be exact, within twenty-three days.”

  Fergussen crossed his arms and shook his head, but now Agent O’Dell seemed interested.

  “You think the lights have something to do with it?” she asked.

  “When you’ve looked at dozens of cattle mutilations you can’t deny the similarities. Seeing lights in the night sky before or after is common.”

  “And that leads you to believe alien spacecrafts are involved?”

  He studied her for a moment, not sure if she was playing with him or genuinely interested. Up until this point Fergussen had asked all the questions while O’Dell busied herself with a salad she had piled high from the hospital’s cafeteria.

  They had found a table in the corner where no one could hear them. Fergussen had picked up a sandwich. Stotter grabbed a doughnut and coffee. O’Dell was the only one devouring her food. Stotter was a bit surprised at her appetite. He knew they had just come from viewing the autopsies of the dead boys.

  “Not necessarily alien,” he finally admitted.

  “That’s right,” Fergussen said. “You’ve got the ranchers all up in arms believing some conspiracy with black ops helicopters is responsible for killing their cattle.”

  “The government’s been secretly testing bovine parts for years, although I doubt they’d ever admit it. Back in the ’80s they snatched up thyroid glands, paying meat-processing plants and butchers top dollar. Nobody knew what the hell they were doing with them nor did anyone care.

  “Then all of a sudden Uncle Sam was done and the processing plants were flooded with bovine thyroid glands. So what did they do with them? They ground them up with hamburger until tens of thousands got sick with something called thyrotoxicosis.”

  O’Dell stopped with her fork in midair and asked Fergussen, “Is that true?”

  Fergussen stared at him without answering.

  Stotter realized he needed to be careful. He couldn’t go off on tangents like he did on his radio show. Most people didn’t want to hear this stuff. It was one of the reasons the government got away with what it did.

  “Consider the parts that are consistently taken in almost every single cattle mutilation,” Stotter tried again. “Jaws are stripped to the bone. Reproductive organs, tongues, digestive tracks, all removed. The blood completely drained. Think about it. The jaw has saliva glands. The digestive track absorbs and collects traces of chemicals or toxins. Even the ears act as a filter. If you were doing tests on animals and didn’t want anyone to know, you’d remove all the bodily fluids and all the pieces that might hold clues that could give you away.”

  “So they use a helicopter to snatch a cow up out of a herd,” Fergussen said, arms still crossed and Stotter could see he didn’t believe him. “Where exactly do they perform all these tests? In the air?”

  “Have you ever heard of a mobile slaughter unit?” He could see Fergussen had. O’Dell shook her head. “The USDA provides these state-of-the-art butcher shops on wheels. They’re part of a farm initiative, an outreach program for rural areas.”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “I’ve seen the mobile slaughter units in the same areas that have had cattle mutilations.”

  “Coincidence,” Fergussen said, only now he grew impatient, sitting up, ready to cut this short. “So which is it, Stotter? Government conspiracy or alien spaceship?”

  “What makes you think it has to be one or the other?”

  “I’ve had enough,” Fergussen said but looked over at O’Dell.

  “What does any of this have to do with two dead teenagers?” she asked.

  “Maybe they saw something they weren’t supposed to see.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Platt hadn’t seen his ex-wife in more than five years. She looked good but that was no surprise. Outer appearances had always been of utmost importance to her.

  “You took back your maiden name?” The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  “And my new husband agreed I should keep it.”

  Her smile was tight, framed with tiny new crinkles, but Platt was struck by how familiar her gestures still were to him. And how much she reminded him of Ali. It was hard to believe five years had passed.

  “You’re married?” He had purposely lost track of her after their divorce. Anger overrode his curiosity.

  “Yes.” The answer was curt and meant to bring the discussion to an immediate end. She didn’t ask about him. Instead she pointed to the chairs around the long table. “Make yourselves comfortable. Unders
ecretary Baldwin—”

  “I’m Irene Baldwin,” her boss said, coming into the room. “Thanks for joining us.”

  The older woman shook hands with the ease and charm of a successful CEO. Or, Platt couldn’t help thinking, a slick politician. Baldwin wore her hair swept up. Her suit was probably an expensive designer model, simple and charcoal. She didn’t bother with heels and was much shorter than Mary Ellen but no one would immediately notice. The woman carried herself with grace and authority. Her presence filled the room and she automatically took command. In minutes she had Roger Bix giving a long, drawn-out account of both school contaminations as well as sharing his personal insights.

  However, Bix was good, too. And Platt was impressed. The account Bix gave—although sounding complete and including what Platt began to realize halfway through the telling was insignificant nonsense—left out pertinent information and vital details. In other words, Bix was only pretending to share.

  “We’ll help in any way possible,” Baldwin told them.

  “I’m glad to hear that. A notification to all schools in the surrounding districts would be a good start.”

  “That’s not possible,” Mary Ellen said, garnering a scowl from her boss. But she didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps she didn’t care. “How can we notify schools when we don’t even know what’s making these children sick?”

  “We’ll know by tomorrow morning,” Platt said in such a convincing tone that even Bix stared at him. They had to figure it out. Come Monday afternoon more kids would be getting sick somewhere.

  “Still so sure of yourself.” His ex-wife gave him another one of those tight smiles that seemed to say, I know you better than that.

  “If we can tell you what made them sick, can you track down the supplier?” Bix asked Irene Baldwin, wisely ignoring the sideshow taking place across the table.

  “Of course,” Baldwin told him.

  But Platt saw on Mary Ellen’s face that Baldwin’s promise might not be possible.

  “You’ll give us full access to the records? No proprietary stuff blackened out?”