Plum Island (20 page)

D
onna said, “Please have a seat. Dr. Zollner’s secretary, June, will be with us in a moment.”

We all sat, and Donna stood there waiting for June.

After a minute or so, a middle-aged woman with a tight expression came out of a side door. Donna said, “June, these are Dr.
Zollner’s guests.”

June barely acknowledged us and sat at her desk without a word.

Donna wished us a good day and departed. I noticed that we were never left alone for even a second. I’m a real fan of tight
security, except when it’s directed at me.

Anyway, I missed Donna already. She was really nice. There are a lot of nice women out there, but between my recent divorce
and more recent hospitalization and convalescence, I hadn’t really been in the game.

I regarded Beth Penrose. She looked at me, almost smiled, then turned away.

I next regarded George Foster. He always seemed the picture of composure. I assumed that behind those vacuous eyes was a fine
brain. I hoped so.

Sylvester Maxwell was tapping his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair. I think he was generally pleased that he’d
hired me, but he might be wondering how he could control a dollar-a-week independent consultant who was generally pissing
off everyone.

The waiting room was the same dove gray with dark gray trim and gray carpet as the rest of the structure. You could get sensory
deprivation in this place.

Regarding Room 250, what I knew for sure about Room 250 is that neither Paul Stevens nor his diploma was in there. There were
probably twenty rabid dogs in Room 250 waiting to eat my
cojones
. Regarding Room 225, I wasn’t sure…. Nothing on this island was quite what it seemed, and no one was entirely truthful.

I said to the secretary, “My aunt was named June.”

She looked up from her desk and stared at me.

I continued, “It’s a pretty name. Reminds me of late spring and early summer, for some reason. Summer solstice, you know?”

June kept staring at me and her eyes narrowed. Scary.

I said to June, “Call Dr. Zollner on the intercom and tell him he has ten seconds to receive us, or we’ll get an arrest warrant
for obstruction of justice. Nine seconds.”

She hit the intercom and said, “Dr. Zollner, please come here. Now.”

“Five seconds.”

The door to the right opened, and a big, beefy, bearded man in a white shirt and blue tie appeared. He said, “Yes? What is
the problem?”

June pointed directly to me and said, “Him.”

Beefy looked at me. “Yes?”

I stood. Everyone else stood. I recognized Dr. Zollner from the chain-of-command photos in the lobby, and I said, “We have
come across the sea and have traveled many miles, Doctor, and overcome many obstacles to find you, and you repay us by jerking
us off.”

“Excuse me?”

June butted in, “Shall I call security, Doctor?”

“No, no.” He looked at his guests and said, “Well, come in, come in.”

We went in, went in.

Dr. Zollner’s corner office was big, but the furniture, walls, and carpet were the same as all the others. There was an impressive
array of framed things hanging on the wall behind his desk. On the other walls were crappy abstracts, real junk like you see
in the best museums.

Still standing, we all introduced ourselves, using our titles and job descriptions this time. It appeared to me—and this had
to be a guess again—that Zollner had already met Nash and Foster.

We all pressed the flesh, and Zollner smiled brightly. He said, “So, welcome. I trust Mr. Stevens and Ms. Alba have been helpful?”

He had a slight accent, German probably, if the name was any indication. As I said, he was big—fat, actually—and he had white
hair and a white Van Dyke beard and thick glasses. In fact, he looked like Burl Ives, if you want the truth.

Dr. Zollner invited us to sit—“Sit, sit”—and we sat, sat. He began by saying, “I am still in shock over this tragedy. I couldn’t
sleep last night.”

Beth inquired, “Who called you last night with the news, Doctor?”

“Mr. Stevens. He said he’d been called by the police.” Zollner continued, “The Gordons were brilliant scientists and very
well respected among their colleagues.” He added, “I hope you solve this case very quickly.”

Beth replied, “So do we.”

Zollner continued, “Also, let me apologize for keeping you waiting. I have been on the phone all morning.”

Nash said, “I assume, Doctor, you’ve been advised not to give interviews.”

Zollner nodded. “Yes, yes. Of course. No, I didn’t give any information, but I read the prepared statement. The one that came
from Washington.”

Foster requested, “Can you read it to us?”

“Yes, of course, of course.” He rummaged around his desk, found a sheet of paper, adjusted his specs, and read, “ ‘The Secretary
of Agriculture regrets the tragic deaths of Drs. Thomas and Judith Gordon, employees of the Department of Agriculture. We
will not engage in speculation regarding the circumstances of these deaths. Questions regarding the investigation of the deaths
should be directed to the local police, who can better answer those questions.”’

Dr. Zollner finished reading what amounted to nothing.

Max said to Zollner, “Please fax that to the Southold police so we can read it to the press after substituting the FBI for
the local police.”

Mr. Foster said, “The FBI is not involved in this case, Chief.”

“Right. I forgot. Neither is the CIA.” He looked at Beth. “How about the county police? You guys involved?”

Beth replied, “Involved and in charge.” She said to Dr. Zollner, “Can you describe to us the duties of the Gordons?”

“Yes…. They were involved mostly with … genetic research. Genetic alteration of viruses to make them unable to cause disease,
but able to stimulate the body’s immune system.”

“A vaccine?” Beth asked.

“Yes, a new type of vaccine. Much safer than using a weakened virus.”

“And in their work, they had access to all types of virus and bacteria?”

“Yes, of course. Mostly virus.”

Beth went on, shifting to the more traditional homicide investigation questions regarding friends, enemies, debts, threats,
relationships with co-workers, recalled conversations with the deceased, how the deceased appeared to act in the last week
or so, and on and on. Good homicide stuff, but probably not totally relevant. Yet, it all had to be asked, and it would be
asked again and again of almost everyone the Gordons knew, then asked again of those already interviewed to see if there were
any inconsistencies in their statements. What we needed in this case, if you assumed the theft of deadly bugs, was a big break,
the “Advance to Go” card, something to bypass the procedural crap before the world ended.

I looked at the abstracts on the walls and realized that these weren’t paintings, but color photographs…. I had a feeling
these were diseases—bacteria and stuff, infecting blood and cells and all that, photographed with a microscope. Weird. But
actually, they weren’t all that bad.

Zollner noticed my gaze and interrupted his reply to some question, saying, “Even disease-causing organisms can be beautiful.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “I have a suit with that pattern. The green and red squiggly ones there.”

“Yes? That’s a filovirus—Ebola, actually. Dyed, of course. Those little things could kill you in forty-eight hours. No cure.”

“And they’re here in this building?”

“Perhaps.”

“Cops don’t like that word, Doctor. Yes or no?”

“Yes. But safely stored—frozen and under lock and key.” He added, “And we only play with simian Ebola here. Monkey Ebola,
not human Ebola.”

“And you’ve done an inventory of your bugs?”

“Yes. But to be honest, there is no way we could account for every specimen. And then you have the problem of someone propagating
certain organisms in an unauthorized place. Yes, yes, I know what you’re getting at. You believe the Gordons took some very
exotic and deadly organisms, and perhaps sold them to … well, let’s say a foreign power. But I assure you, they would not
do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s too terrible to contemplate.”

“That’s very reassuring,” I said. “Hey, we can go home now.”

Dr. Zollner looked at me, not used to my humor, I suppose. He really
did
look like Burl Ives, and I was going to ask him for a photo and autograph.

Finally, Dr. Zollner leaned across his desk toward me and said in his slight accent, “Detective Corey, if you had the key
to the gates of hell, would you open them? If you did, you should be a very fast runner.”

I contemplated this a moment, then replied, “If opening the gates of hell is so unthinkable, then why do you need a lock and
key?”

He nodded and replied, “I suppose to protect us from madmen.” He added, “Of course, the Gordons were not mad.”

No one replied. We’d all been through this before, verbally and mentally, a dozen times since last night.

Finally, Dr. Zollner said, “I have another theory which I will share with you and which I believe will prove true within this
day. Here is my theory—my belief. The Gordons, who were wonderful people, but somewhat carefree and terrible with money, stole
one of the new vaccines they were working on. I believe they were further advanced on the research of a vaccine than they
led us to believe. Unfortunately, this sometimes happens in science. They may have made separate notes and even separate sequencing
gels— these are transparent plates where genetically engineered mutations, which are inserted into a disease-causing virus,
show up as … something resembling a bar code,” he explained.

No one said a word, and he continued, “So, consider that the Gordons could have discovered a wonderful new vaccine for a terrible
disease-causing virus—animal, human, or both—and kept this discovery secret, and over the months assembled all their notes,
genetic gels, and the vaccine itself in some hidden area of the laboratory, or in a deserted building on the island. Their
purpose, of course, would be to sell this to perhaps a foreign pharmaceutical firm. Perhaps they intended to resign from here,
take a job with a private firm, and pretend to make the discovery there. Then, they would get a very handsome bonus amounting
to millions of dollars. And the royalties could be tens of millions of dollars, depending on the vaccine.”

No one spoke. I glanced at Beth. She had actually predicted this when we were standing on the bluff.

Dr. Zollner continued, “This makes sense. No? People who work with life and death would rather sell life. If for no other
reason than it’s safer, and it’s more profitable. Death is cheap. I could kill you with a whiff of anthrax. Life is more difficult
to protect and preserve. So, if the death of the Gordons was in any way connected to their work here, then it was connected
as I said. Why would you think of disease-causing virus and bacteria? Why do your minds work that way? As we say, if your
only tool is a hammer, then every problem looks like a nail. Yes? Well, but I don’t blame you. We always think the worst.
And this is your job.”

Again, no one spoke.

Dr. Zollner looked at each of us and continued. “If the Gordons did this, it was unethical and also illegal. And whoever was
their agent—their middleman—was also unethical and greedy, and it would appear he was also murderous.”

It appeared that the good Dr. Zollner had thought this through.

He went on. “This would not be the first time that government scientists or corporate scientists have conspired to steal their
own discovery and become millionaires. It is very frustrating for geniuses to see others make millions from their work. And
the stakes are very high. If this vaccine, for instance, could be used in a widespread disease, such as AIDS, then we are
talking about hundreds of millions of dollars. Even billions for the discoverers.”

We all glanced at one another.
Billions.

“So, there you are. The Gordons wanted to be rich, but more, I think, they wanted to be famous. They wanted to be recognized,
they wanted the vaccine named after them, like the Salk vaccine. That would not have happened here. What we do here is kept
very quiet except within the scientific community. The Gordons were somewhat flamboyant for scientists. They were young, they
wanted material things. They wanted the American Dream, and they were sure they had earned it. And, you know, they really
had. They were brilliant, overworked, and underpaid. So they sought to remedy that. I only wonder what it was they discovered,
and I worry that we will not recover it. I wonder, too, who killed them, though I’m sure I know why. So, what do you think?
Yes? No?”

Ted Nash spoke first and said, “I think that’s it, Doctor. I think you’re right.”

George Foster nodded. “We had the right idea, but the wrong bug. Vaccine. Of course.”

Max, too, nodded and said, “Makes perfect sense. I’m relieved. Yeah.”

Beth spoke. “I still have to find the murderer. But I think we can stop looking for terrorists and start looking for another
type of person or persons.”

I looked at Dr. Zollner awhile, and he looked back at me. His glasses were thick, but you could see the blue twinkling eyes.
Maybe not Burl Ives. Maybe Colonel Sanders. That was it. How appropriate. The head of the world’s largest animal disease research
lab looks like Colonel Sanders.

He said to me, “Detective Corey? You have a contrary thought, perhaps?”

“Oh, no. I’m with the majority on this one. I knew the Gordons, and apparently you did too, Doctor. You’re right on the mark.”
I looked at my colleagues and said, “I can’t believe we never thought of that. Not death. Life. Not disease, but a cure.”

“Vaccine,” said Dr. Zollner. “A preventive. Not a cure. There’s better money in vaccines. If it’s a flu vaccine, for instance,
then a hundred million doses are dispensed each year in America alone. The Gordons were doing brilliant work with viral vaccines.”