Exposed (8 page)

U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases
Fort Detrick, Maryland

Colonel Benjamin Platt, M.D., didn’t question Commander Janklow’s order. He was used to taking orders whether they included jumping out of an aircraft into the Persian Gulf while wearing full scuba gear or organizing a biocontainment team and heading out to suburbia. Although back in his jumping days he was a bit younger and much more idealistic. Still, he wouldn’t question his orders. Instead, he hurried down the hallways, his stride confident, the heels of his spit-n-polish shoes clicking hard against the tiles, the only indication of nervous energy.

Platt wouldn’t question the commander’s orders, but he couldn’t help wondering if the man might be blowing this situation out of proportion. New to his post with less than three months under his belt, Commander Jeremy Janklow was an outsider, a political appointment that most everyone viewed as a favor rather than a competent leader of USAMRIID (pronounced You-SAM-Rid), one of the most respected research facilities in the world. Platt worried that Janklow had spent too much of the last decade behind a desk. Was it possible the commander was simply looking for a crisis? A fire to put out that might boost his reputation?

One of the lab doors opened before Platt got to the end of the hallway and the stocky, bearded man who emerged waved Platt to the office next door. Neither said a word, not even a greeting, until they were inside and the door closed.

Michael McCathy slipped off his lab coat and exchanged it for a navy cardigan, cashmere and not a speck of dust on it. McCathy was older and bigger than Platt. Any signs of his long-ago days as a linebacker had been replaced by pale skin, sagging jowls, a slight paunch and tired deep-set eyes, magnified by wireless eyeglasses. Platt, on the other hand, was lean from a daily workout that included running five miles and a half hour of lifting weights. His summer tan was only now beginning to fade, his brown hair still lightened by hours in the sun coaching Little League and now soccer. Platt had a frenetic energy about him, almost a complete opposite to McCathy who always moved with slow and deliberate motions.

Even now McCathy was arranging his crisply pressed lab coat on a hanger, placing it on the coat tree in the corner as though he had all the time in the world. Platt watched McCathy’s methodical gestures, each grating on his nerves. The man was obsessive-compulsive about everything. He was egotistical, and annoying as hell. Platt could only take him in small doses. But the new commander, Janklow, thought McCathy was a genius and insisted he be included in this mission.

A law enforcement dropout, somehow McCathy had ended up at USAMRIID as a civilian microbiologist, a biohazard expert, apparently content to spend his days with test tubes and microscopes, concocting and speculating terrorist scenarios that might include biological warfare.

Platt and McCathy had little in common except for a shared fascination of biological agents, particularly viruses and filoviruses. Platt had held Lassa, a Level 4 virus, in his gloved hands while inside a makeshift medevac tent outside of Sierra Leone. McCathy had been a bioweapons inspector in Iraq who claimed to have seen and handled canisters filled with biological soup. He insisted there were hundreds more just waiting for a weapons delivery system. He and his team were the last ones that Saddam Hussein threw out before the war and their testimonies were part of the argument used to go to war. Platt respected the work McCathy had done. It didn’t mean he liked the man.

“I thought you said your team would be in civilian clothes?” McCathy gave Platt’s uniform an up-down glance like a disapproving headmaster.

“Civilian clothes and civilian vehicles, except for the panel truck.” Platt tried to contain his impatience. He didn’t need to explain himself to McCathy. It’d take him five minutes in the locker to change into jeans, a T-shirt and his leather bomber jacket. “They’re almost ready at the loading dock. Do you have everything you need?”

McCathy nodded but now was taking off his rimless eyeglasses and cleaning them with absolutely no sense of urgency. “It’ll be tight if we have to change in the truck. And slow going. Probably only one at a time with a two-man support team. You sure there isn’t someplace onsite we could use for a staging area?”

Platt hated this, McCathy questioning him, second-guessing him. McCathy constantly reminded everyone that as a civilian he didn’t have to take orders from anyone except his boss, the commander.

“It’s residential,” Platt explained, even though he’d already told McCathy this on the phone.

“What about a house next door?” McCathy asked, pulling a small bottle of disinfectant from his trouser pocket and squirting some in his hand.

“Orders are to not evacuate. We don’t want a panic.”

“You’ve got to be pulling my leg,” McCathy said under his breath to emphasize his disgust. “What if it’s something?”

“Then we’ll be prepared to contain and isolate.”

McCathy smiled at him and shook his head. “We both know that won’t be enough if this ends up being anthrax or goddamn ricen.”

“Evac team is on standby.”

“Standby.” McCathy repeated with another smile. No, this was a smirk. And Platt recognized it and the tone. McCathy used it in meetings to show his disdain for authority and for rules in general. Platt wondered why McCathy would want to work at a military research lab. He carried himself like a man with some special entitlement, smug in his cashmere cardigan, as though he was the only one brilliant enough to see incompetence, and he seemed to see it running rampant all around him.

McCathy was older than Platt and had been at USAMRIID for much longer, reasons enough in the scientist’s mind to dismiss Platt. Also, as a civilian, McCathy didn’t have to adhere to a rank-and-file hierarchy. It didn’t make a difference to him if Platt was a sergeant or a colonel. He still wasn’t going to take orders from him. To top things off, McCathy had managed to draw the attention and favor of Commander Janklow.

None of that mattered to Platt. McCathy didn’t intimidate him in the least. Platt had seen things and done things that would shock the fluorescent-skinned McCathy who, outside of his stint as a weapons inspector, was used to living in his sterilized, controlled lablike world. No, men like McCathy didn’t intimidate Platt. They simply annoyed him. He was in charge of this mission and he wasn’t going to be lured into a pissing contest, especially with someone like McCathy.

“I’ll meet you on the dock in ten,” he told McCathy and he didn’t wait for a response.

U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases
Fort Detrick, Maryland

Colonel Benjamin Platt, M.D., didn’t question Commander Janklow’s order. He was used to taking orders whether they included jumping out of an aircraft into the Persian Gulf while wearing full scuba gear or organizing a biocontainment team and heading out to suburbia. Although back in his jumping days he was a bit younger and much more idealistic. Still, he wouldn’t question his orders. Instead, he hurried down the hallways, his stride confident, the heels of his spit-n-polish shoes clicking hard against the tiles, the only indication of nervous energy.

Platt wouldn’t question the commander’s orders, but he couldn’t help wondering if the man might be blowing this situation out of proportion. New to his post with less than three months under his belt, Commander Jeremy Janklow was an outsider, a political appointment that most everyone viewed as a favor rather than a competent leader of USAMRIID (pronounced You-SAM-Rid), one of the most respected research facilities in the world. Platt worried that Janklow had spent too much of the last decade behind a desk. Was it possible the commander was simply looking for a crisis? A fire to put out that might boost his reputation?

One of the lab doors opened before Platt got to the end of the hallway and the stocky, bearded man who emerged waved Platt to the office next door. Neither said a word, not even a greeting, until they were inside and the door closed.

Michael McCathy slipped off his lab coat and exchanged it for a navy cardigan, cashmere and not a speck of dust on it. McCathy was older and bigger than Platt. Any signs of his long-ago days as a linebacker had been replaced by pale skin, sagging jowls, a slight paunch and tired deep-set eyes, magnified by wireless eyeglasses. Platt, on the other hand, was lean from a daily workout that included running five miles and a half hour of lifting weights. His summer tan was only now beginning to fade, his brown hair still lightened by hours in the sun coaching Little League and now soccer. Platt had a frenetic energy about him, almost a complete opposite to McCathy who always moved with slow and deliberate motions.

Even now McCathy was arranging his crisply pressed lab coat on a hanger, placing it on the coat tree in the corner as though he had all the time in the world. Platt watched McCathy’s methodical gestures, each grating on his nerves. The man was obsessive-compulsive about everything. He was egotistical, and annoying as hell. Platt could only take him in small doses. But the new commander, Janklow, thought McCathy was a genius and insisted he be included in this mission.

A law enforcement dropout, somehow McCathy had ended up at USAMRIID as a civilian microbiologist, a biohazard expert, apparently content to spend his days with test tubes and microscopes, concocting and speculating terrorist scenarios that might include biological warfare.

Platt and McCathy had little in common except for a shared fascination of biological agents, particularly viruses and filoviruses. Platt had held Lassa, a Level 4 virus, in his gloved hands while inside a makeshift medevac tent outside of Sierra Leone. McCathy had been a bioweapons inspector in Iraq who claimed to have seen and handled canisters filled with biological soup. He insisted there were hundreds more just waiting for a weapons delivery system. He and his team were the last ones that Saddam Hussein threw out before the war and their testimonies were part of the argument used to go to war. Platt respected the work McCathy had done. It didn’t mean he liked the man.

“I thought you said your team would be in civilian clothes?” McCathy gave Platt’s uniform an up-down glance like a disapproving headmaster.

“Civilian clothes and civilian vehicles, except for the panel truck.” Platt tried to contain his impatience. He didn’t need to explain himself to McCathy. It’d take him five minutes in the locker to change into jeans, a T-shirt and his leather bomber jacket. “They’re almost ready at the loading dock. Do you have everything you need?”

McCathy nodded but now was taking off his rimless eyeglasses and cleaning them with absolutely no sense of urgency. “It’ll be tight if we have to change in the truck. And slow going. Probably only one at a time with a two-man support team. You sure there isn’t someplace onsite we could use for a staging area?”

Platt hated this, McCathy questioning him, second-guessing him. McCathy constantly reminded everyone that as a civilian he didn’t have to take orders from anyone except his boss, the commander.

“It’s residential,” Platt explained, even though he’d already told McCathy this on the phone.

“What about a house next door?” McCathy asked, pulling a small bottle of disinfectant from his trouser pocket and squirting some in his hand.

“Orders are to not evacuate. We don’t want a panic.”

“You’ve got to be pulling my leg,” McCathy said under his breath to emphasize his disgust. “What if it’s something?”

“Then we’ll be prepared to contain and isolate.”

McCathy smiled at him and shook his head. “We both know that won’t be enough if this ends up being anthrax or goddamn ricen.”

“Evac team is on standby.”

“Standby.” McCathy repeated with another smile. No, this was a smirk. And Platt recognized it and the tone. McCathy used it in meetings to show his disdain for authority and for rules in general. Platt wondered why McCathy would want to work at a military research lab. He carried himself like a man with some special entitlement, smug in his cashmere cardigan, as though he was the only one brilliant enough to see incompetence, and he seemed to see it running rampant all around him.

McCathy was older than Platt and had been at USAMRIID for much longer, reasons enough in the scientist’s mind to dismiss Platt. Also, as a civilian, McCathy didn’t have to adhere to a rank-and-file hierarchy. It didn’t make a difference to him if Platt was a sergeant or a colonel. He still wasn’t going to take orders from him. To top things off, McCathy had managed to draw the attention and favor of Commander Janklow.

None of that mattered to Platt. McCathy didn’t intimidate him in the least. Platt had seen things and done things that would shock the fluorescent-skinned McCathy who, outside of his stint as a weapons inspector, was used to living in his sterilized, controlled lablike world. No, men like McCathy didn’t intimidate Platt. They simply annoyed him. He was in charge of this mission and he wasn’t going to be lured into a pissing contest, especially with someone like McCathy.

“I’ll meet you on the dock in ten,” he told McCathy and he didn’t wait for a response.

Elk Grove, Virginia

Maggie had a premed background only because once upon a time her father had encouraged her to become a medical doctor. However, after a sideswiped childhood that drop-kicked her into the role of caretaker for her alcoholic suicidal mother, Maggie discovered she was more interested in what made the mind tick rather than the heart.

Still, she studied premed out of a sense of obligation to her dead father. Eventually she ended up in psychology and then forensics. Her premed training allowed her to assist at autopsies and sometimes came in handy at crime scenes. This time it helped her recognize that Mary Louise and her mother had not been poisoned. Instead, they’d been exposed.

If the threat in the note proved true, that there was going to be a “crash,” then Mary Louise and her mother had not only been exposed to some biological agent but it was now trying to live inside them. Maggie recognized the term, often used as “crash and bleed out” when military and medical personnel spoke about biological agents. The crash would come when the biological organism ended up destroying its host, and it usually did so from the inside out.

The SWAT team had recognized the term, as well. It had taken little to convince them to leave, even though they all wore gas masks and would have, most likely, been safe. At first Cunningham had ordered Maggie to leave with them. It didn’t take long for her to see the realization in his eyes. There was a combination of regret and guilt, maybe a bit of fear when it finally hit him. He couldn’t let her leave. He couldn’t let either of them just walk out.

They agreed they had to stay out of the bedroom but only after a brief argument. Maggie knew Cunningham was right. They had no idea what they had walked into. Yet Maggie’s medical training and her instinct clashed with common sense. What if there was something she could do for Mary Louise’s mother? The woman’s raspy breathing mixed with a rhythmic hiss and spray. It sounded like she was choking on her own blood and mucus. Maggie knew how to perform a field tracheotomy that would clear the woman’s airway.

Cunningham’s response was to order Maggie out of the room. When she started to challenge him, he stood between her and the sick woman and pointed toward the bedroom door. She had no choice but to turn around and leave. Cunningham wouldn’t allow Maggie to help. Instead, he took Mary Louise to the bathroom to clean her up and clean himself, as well. He stopped Maggie from even following them. She knew he was trying to protect her, a valiant but useless gesture. Maggie knew that it was probably too late. Mary Louise’s vomit had sprayed her, too.

For some reason memories of her first crime scene came back to her. Perhaps because Cunningham had tried to protect her then, as well. She had just finished her training as an agent after a year as a forensic fellow at Quantico. It was in the middle of the summer, hot and humid, and the inside of the double-wide trailer must have been ten to fifteen degrees hotter. She had never seen so much blood sprayed everywhere: the walls of the trailer, the furniture, the plates left out on the kitchen counter. But it was the sour smell of rotting flesh and the buzzing of flies that stayed firmly implanted in her memory.

She had thrown up, contaminating the crime scene, a newbie losing it on her first case. But Assistant Director Cunningham, who had been so tough on her throughout her entire training—pushing her, questioning her, nagging her—kept one hand on her shoulder while she retched and choked and spit. He never once reprimanded or chastised her. Instead, in a low, quiet, steady and reassuring voice he said to her, “It happens to all of us at least once.”

Now here in this little house in a quiet suburb that day seemed so long ago. Maggie looked around the living room, zoning out the laugh track and sound effects of TV cartoons.

How did he do it?

She let her eyes take in everything again, only this time she tried to imagine a similar delivery system like the doughnut container. There were no pizza boxes, no take-out containers, no pastry boxes. He would have wanted it to be something ordinary, something disposable and most importantly, something unnoticeable.

There was much to learn about a killer from the victims he chose. So why did he choose Mary Louise and her mother? Maggie took in the contents of the room. The furniture was an eclectic combination: a particleboard bookcase, a flowered threadbare sofa and mismatched recliner, a braided rug and a brand-new flat-screen TV. The wooden coffee table with scuffed corners appeared to be the centerpiece of the family, holding the TV remote, a pair of reading glasses, dirty plates and mugs sitting in milk rings, crumpled potato chips, spilled bags of M&Ms, a coloring book and box of sixty-four crayons, some scattered and broken on the rug.

In the corner two stacks of magazines teetered next to a desk. A pile of mail—catalogs, envelopes and packages in various stages of opening—covered a writing desk; some of the pile had fallen onto the chair.

There were several pictures on the bookcase: Mary Louise at different ages, sometimes with her mother. One with an older couple, perhaps the child’s grandparents. But there were none with a father and none with pictures that looked like a father had been cut out.

Mary Louise and her mother appeared ordinary and happy and harmless. And maybe that alone had been the sole reason for the killer to choose them.

Then something caught Maggie’s eye. On the desk, sticking out of the lopsided pile of mail, was a six-by-nine manila envelope. She could see only the return address but it was enough to draw her attention. It was handwritten in block lettering, all caps, and it looked an awful lot like the lettering on the note she had just seen about an hour ago.

Maggie looked around the room again. Cunningham had already told her they would need to call in the nearest disease control and containment center. That meant Fort Detrick and that meant the Army would be taking over. Most likely they’d seal off the rooms—probably the entire house. Their first priority would be biocontainment and treatment of the occupants. Processing evidence would come later. Would they even know what to look for?

She found a box of large plastic bags with Ziploc seals in a kitchen cabinet. Back in the living room she lifted off the top pile of mail so she wouldn’t have to tug the manila envelope out and risk smearing anything. Then carefully using only her fingertips she picked up the envelope by a corner and dropped it into plastic bags. She sealed it and dropped it into another plastic bag just to be safe.

She told herself she was saving the Army a bit of work. Of course they’d be grateful, but still, she tucked the double-bagged envelope into the back of her trouser’s waistband, letting it lie smoothly against the small of her back. She pulled her shirt and jacket down over it, just in case they weren’t so grateful.