Exposed

by Alex Kava

  The CDC representative, Roger Bix, had arrived at four in the morning, wearing an Atlanta Braves jacket and pointed-toe cowboy boots. He looked more like a sports agent than a CDC infectious-disease specialist. And he was young—too young, Claire thought. Young and cocky, giving orders before he even introduced himself. Not a good combination.

  She had taken a break and come to the NICU, not to be reminded that these precious babies may have been exposed to a deadly virus, but because she wanted to be reminded of goodness and innocence. Dr. Miles had asked her to think where Markus Schroder may have contracted the virus. The CDC wouldn’t confirm until Monday what exactly the virus was, but Miles had already told Claire they were almost certain it was Ebola.

  Days ago, when she was hunting for a clue, she had been over and over with Vera where Markus might have contracted something unusual. But the only trips the two made were to Terre Haute, Indiana, to check on a business that had been in Vera’s family for years. There was nothing remotely close to a safari in Africa or a tour of a research facility. Nothing that could have put Markus in contact with something like Ebola.

  Now Vera sat quietly by Markus’s bedside, Markus unconscious and Vera taking on his earlier expressionless mask. She barely responded to outside stimuli, let alone any more questions.

  But Vera, Claire was quick to note and to bring to Miles’s attention, didn’t seem to have the virus. Or at least she had no symptoms. They’d find out soon enough from her blood sample—the most difficult sample Claire had drawn all night. Vera had refused at first. Had told Claire that she didn’t want her touching her or her husband. Then she’d relinquished, sticking out her arm and whispering to Claire—fear momentarily cutting through her mask—that she didn’t want to go through what Markus was going through.

  “You okay?” Dr. Miles asked from behind her. She hadn’t heard him come up the hall. Hadn’t even noticed his reflection in the glass.

  “Tired. But not bad.” She rubbed her neck as she glanced back at him. “How about you?”

  “I’m good.”

  He gestured for her to walk with him. This ward was quiet, interrupted by the occasional baby cry, unlike the simmering chaos back in the surgery center and critical-care unit.

  “Anyone who’s followed procedure,” he began, “should be safe. If they’ve gloved up, disposed of Schroder’s body fluids properly, kept basic protocol, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Mr. Bix confirmed that the virus most likely is not spread through airborne particles, but only direct contact with body fluids.”

  “That should be a relief, but we both know there are a few who take shortcuts.”

  “I know, but there won’t be any denying it this time if they did take a shortcut. I’ve got the unit secretary calling every single person who was in and out of Schroder’s room since he’s checked in, even if it was to change a lightbulb.”

  Claire realized he was leading them in a circle around the NICU, a privacy buffer of sleeping babies.

  “Surgery’s a different story.” He glanced down at her but kept walking. “We’ve both seen what this virus can do. There was a helluva lot of blood. We all had our hands soaked in it. Hopefully no ruptures in our gloves, no leaks, no swipes at an itch.” At this he smiled. “What a way to test procedure, right?”

  “You said body fluids?” Claire tried to retrieve her other examinations of Markus. Did she wear gloves every single time? Then she remembered the black vomit. The alarm must have registered on her face and Dr. Miles noticed.

  “Look, Claire, the hospital is letting the CDC call the shots. That’s their business.” He lowered his voice. “Out of all of us, you spent the most time with Schroder. The emergency ward’s setting up an area for employees’ families to come get tested. Get your son in here as soon as you can.”

  CHAPTER

  56

  USAMRIID

  Tully thought Maggie looked thinner. She insisted it was his imagination.

  “It’s only been two days,” she told him.

  He held up a square white box for her to see through the viewing window.

  “Courtesy of Ganza.” Tully tucked the phone receiver so he could use both hands and lift the lid. “He assured me you would appreciate the humor.”

  “Doughnuts.” It worked enough for a smile. “Chocolate ones are your favorite.”

  “These are all yours.”

  “I can’t believe they let you in here with those.”

  “Guess they trust that an FBI guy certainly isn’t gonna bring in tainted doughnuts. Dr. Drummond even said she’d bring them in for you. She did have to test one.”

  “Really? Under a microscope?”

  “In the mouth. So you’re one shy of a dozen.”

  Despite the awkward setup they went into their regular briefings. Tully knew Maggie was itching to dive into work and avoid the personal stuff. Something they had shared since day one.

  Maggie told him about the envelope inside the Kellermans’ house and how she was able to connect the Kellermans’ name, along with the return address, to a cold case—the Tylenol multiple murders in Chicago in 1982. Then she explained how she had discovered that phrases from the doughnut-box note had been lifted from the Beltway Snipers case.

  “Funny, George Sloane just mentioned the Beltway Snipers and how we feebies screwed that one up.”

  “Sloane’s in on this?”

  “Cunningham requested he take a look at the note.”

  “He should have recognized the phrases if he worked the Beltway Snipers case.”

  “Didn’t sound like he was on it. He just wanted to get his digs in. He did work the anthrax case and recognized the similar pharmaceutical fold. That would make three cases this guy used—the Tylenol poisonings, the anthrax murders and the Beltway Snipers. Is he just being clever? Showing off? Or is he telling us who he is and where he’ll strike next?”

  “I think a little of both. It certainly makes him sound like a textbook profile of the clinical narcissist.”

  “He wants recognition, needs validation for his brilliance.”

  “He’s obviously planned all this for some time,” Maggie added. “He’s probably rehearsed it over and over in his mind. Calculating, deliberating every move like a chess player. Now he’s shuffling out pieces of his puzzle for us to put together.”

  “Finding the Kellermans in Elk Grove just so he could duplicate one of the victims’ names in the Tylenol murder…” Tully shook his head. “The guy has too much time on his hands. Is it possible he’s unemployed?”

  She shook her head.

  “Maybe he has access to inside information?” Perhaps even a database, but this Tully kept to himself. He wasn’t ready to share with Maggie his theory about the Ebola coming from USAMRIID. He didn’t have any evidence. It seemed cruel to suggest the idea, especially when she was locked up here. She looked exhausted, shadows under swollen eyes. Dressed in the hospital gown and white socks made her seem smaller, even more vulnerable.

  He’d wait.

  But what if he was right? What if the guy was someone right here? Getting his jollies, watching his victims slowly crash and bleed in front of him. That, too, might fit the profile. Tully hoped he was wrong.

  “Has he sent other envelopes?” Maggie asked, startling Tully back to attention.

  “Others? Like the one you found? You think that’s the way he sent the virus? No doughnut box? No pizza box? A mailing envelope?”

  “Colonel Platt will be able to tell us for sure, but yes, there was a plastic Ziploc bag inside.”

  “He could do that? Mail Ebola? Anthrax I understand. It’s like a powder. But Ebola? What would you need for that? Do you have any idea how that’s possible?”

  She hesitated but Tully knew she did know. He had noticed the laptop computer. The swollen eyes weren’t because she couldn’t sleep, she wouldn’t sleep. She’d already been using work and research as her sanity safety net.

  “It would have to be actual cells
, infected cells from blood or tissue. But it could be a small amount, even microscopic. It wouldn’t take much. The virus can’t survive without a host for more than several days. But it can if it’s been preserved, frozen or sealed like in an airtight plastic bag.”

  “So anyone who opened up the bag would take one whiff—”

  “No, I don’t think so. From what I understand, it’s not airborne. Not like anthrax. The Ebola virus needs a point of entry.”

  “It has to enter into the bloodstream?”

  “Yes, or enter the body through other body fluids, mucus, semen, saliva.”

  “Or vomit sprayed in your face, your eyes, nose.”

  Maggie blinked and Tully wished he hadn’t said it. Before he could respond, she added quickly, “Or through a cut. Just a break in the skin, a cuticle or a razor nick.”

  “That’s all it would take?”

  She nodded.

  “Cunningham thinks this is personal,” Tully said. He wasn’t, however, convinced that it was some personal vendetta. “Is it possible he worked on the Tylenol case?”

  Maggie shrugged.

  “They wouldn’t let me see him. He gave me a phone number. There’s no answer.”

  Quiet. They stared at each other, neither willing to voice their suspicions.

  “Maybe I should start taking a look at guys Cunningham helped put away.”

  “Or the ones who never got caught.”

  Tully remembered the impression left on the surface of the envelope. “He may have made one mistake. Does ‘call Nathan R. 7:00 p.m.’ mean anything to you?”

  “What was the context?”

  “He wrote a note to himself on top of the envelope he used. It pressed into the surface. No block printing. Regular handwriting. Sloane says the guy probably didn’t even know he left an impression.”

  Tully thought Maggie recognized the phrase. There was something, but then she shook her head.

  “Should I start looking for someone named Nathan?”

  “I don’t know,” Maggie said. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Tully thought her voice sounded exhausted. But then she sat up to the edge of her chair as if pushing for another surge of adrenaline.

  “I do know this guy may crave attention, but he doesn’t want to get caught,” she said. “It’s not like the BTK killer, coming to the surface twenty years later just because he misses the attention. This guy has been simmering for years, possibly stewing over grievances real or imagined. He’s been planning, strategizing every step. Somewhere in his life he feels he’s been wronged or not given credit that was due to him.

  “Maybe he holds a grudge against law enforcement and that’s why he wanted to render us powerless. He’s disciplined. He’s smart. He takes risks but he’s not reckless. I think he holds a full-time job but he’s a good liar. He looks and acts cool and calm, is able to function on a normal day-to-day basis, but the whole time there’s a rage simmering inside him. You have to remember though he’s not like a serial killer who enjoys the kill. This guy’s satisfaction is retribution. He wants to even a score. He wants his victims to get sick, to linger, to know they’re dying. In his mind it’s his own perverted sense of justice. His own way of dealing out a death sentence.”

  Tully sat back and let out a breath. She still amazed him when she did this, spouted out a profile that nine out of ten times was dead on. This wasn’t like George Sloane. Tully wasn’t quite sure what the difference was. Sloane seemed ruled by statistics and ego. Maggie followed her gut instincts. He’d trust Maggie’s gut over Sloane’s ego any day of the week.

  Tully mock gestured a wipe at his forehead, along with a sarcastic “whew,” garnering another smile from Maggie.

  “I asked George Sloane if we should be searching cabins in the woods,” he told her.

  “This guy’s hiding in plain sight, Tully. And I know he’s sent other envelopes.”

  CHAPTER

  57

  Platt watched from the viewing room, leaning against the wall so that he was close enough for Mary Louise to see him through the glass. She was coloring, sitting cross-legged on the rug with crayons scattered around her. Her eyes had lit up at the box of ninety-six. When he gave them to her she said she’d never seen so many.

  “I won’t break any of them,” she promised.

  Now every once in a while she’d glance over her shoulder at him and hold up the coloring book to show her progress. He’d smile and nod his approval. And she’d go back to work, her lower lip sticking out in concentration, trying to color within the lines, choosing her crayons with too much thought.

  He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to stay inside the lines. But someone had already told her otherwise. Earlier he had watched her playing one of the board games he had left. She had two tokens set to play and moved them separately; taking turns with an imaginary friend. This was a little girl who had learned how to play alone long before she came to the Slammer. Platt should have been pleased that she was so content. Instead, it bothered him, plucked at heartstrings he didn’t know were still there.

  Janklow had ordered that no family members be notified before Monday. Platt glanced at his wristwatch. As far as he was concerned Monday would begin at a minute past midnight. He kept the phone number for Mary Louise’s grandmother tucked inside his pocket.

  The little girl still had only mild symptoms. Her blood showed what could be bricks of virus. No worms. No progression of anything that looked like worms. And unlike her mother, Mary Louise’s blood didn’t light up when tested with actual Ebola.

  Not yet anyway.

  Platt knew the statistics by heart. Ten to fifteen percent infected with Ebola Zaire recovered. No one understood why or how. It was a small percentage, but Platt hoped Mary Louise would be included in that small percentage. The vaccine would improve those odds.

  With her mother incapacitated and without her grandmother here, there was no one to sign the waivers. So Platt had given Mary Louise the first injection himself. It would all fall on his shoulders anyway. He was willing to take the heat for this, too.

  He had told Mary Louise that the needle would sting, but just for a second or two like a “big ole mosquito.” She crinkled her nose at that and laughed, then asked, “Will it itch?”

  In his mind he kept calculating the hours and minutes. By now he couldn’t shut it off if he tried. Time ticking away and yet he couldn’t remember what day of the week it was.

  Sunday. It was Sunday.

  Mary Louise searched for a different crayon. She seemed perfectly content. Totally unaware of the firestorm brewing all around her.

  Sunday. It meant nothing to Mary Louise. Families attended church services. Read the Sunday paper. Read the comic strips out loud, Daddy. Frisbee in the backyard. A movie at the theater. That’s what families did on Sunday. They spent the day together. Didn’t they? How would he know? It’d been too long ago.

  His Sunday routine—when he took a Sunday off—was quiet, with him and Digger on the screened-in back porch overlooking the woods. His parents took care of Digger when Platt worked long hours, never once suggesting he find a different home for the dog, knowing the two were inseparable, dog and man bonded by the absence of a little girl they both adored.

  Dr. Drummond came into Mary Louise’s suite and the little girl stood to greet her. Platt waved goodbye and she waved back. He hated to leave. It was silly but he wished that if he could just keep watch over her maybe nothing more would happen.

  He left the Slammer and took the stairs.

  Down in the Level 4 suites he changed once again into scrubs and prepared to get into a space suit for the third time in as many days. He had decided to keep his circle of staff small, pulling in those who had worked on some of his toughest assignments. Earlier he had handed off to Sergeant Hernandez the mailing envelope that Agent O’Dell had taken from the Kellerman home. He knew it was a tall order for the budding scientist even before he saw the surprise in her eyes. She had assisted him plent
y of times in the lab and he knew she was more than capable. He also knew that she would test and retest her results before she presented them to him and that would be a bonus.

  She was still working when he came in, her gloved hands too busy to wave an acknowledgment. He stood quietly beside her, making sure she noticed his presence despite the hiss of her space suit. He didn’t crowd her or rush her.

  Hernandez must have pinned back or tied up her unruly curls but he could still see them swirling around inside her helmet. A few now stuck to her damp forehead. She glanced up and Platt caught a glimpse of her green eyes through the plastic. Her eyes were intense, a little wild. She’d found something.

  “WHAT IS IT?” he asked, no longer able to wait.

  “THE PLASTIC BAG INSIDE THE MAILING ENVELOPE…” She sounded breathless. “I FOUND SOMETHING. TISSUE, BLOOD CELLS.”

  “ENOUGH TO TEST?”

  “YES.”

  “EBOLA?”

  “YES, DEFINITELY. THE CELLS ARE BLOWN UP WITH WORMS.” She stopped her hands. “THERE’S SOMETHING ELSE, SIR.” She looked up at him and met his eyes. “THEY’RE NOT HUMAN CELLS.”

  “MONKEY?”

  “AS FAR AS I CAN TELL IT’S MACAQUE. I’M TESTING AGAINST OUR OWN MACAQUE SAMPLES. THEY’RE VERY CLOSE.”

  Suddenly Platt got a sick feeling in the bottom of his gut. He’d asked McCathy about a possible contamination. Could they have contaminated Ms. Kellerman’s tissue sample from inside their own labs? McCathy had shrugged off the idea. Too many walls of biocontainment. No way one of their recorded tissue samples got mixed up with Ms. Kellerman’s or any of the other three patients’. They ran a tight ship, no doubt about it.