Scratchgravel Road (25 page)

They both nodded. Josie was certain they were looking at Juan Santiago’s arms in the picture. She also knew HIPPA laws would prevent Sheila from confirming Santiago’s identity.

Josie glanced at the photo and asked, “Can you tell me when this patient was seen?”

Sheila looked at the folder again. “The patient came in last Wednesday afternoon. I dressed his wounds and asked him to come back on Friday to let me reexamine him. I hoped to see him again, but you never know.”

“Why not?” Otto asked.

She laid the folder down and crossed her arms on the table in front of her. “We see some people on a weekly, almost daily basis. Some of them are old and don’t have any other contact with people. Some are lonely or social misfits. They just need to interact with people. Then there’s the other side of the spectrum. There’s a group of people who so mistrust us that they would choose death over receiving proper care. They associate us with the government, and they figure we’re out to get them.” She lifted both shoulders and turned her palms up. “What can you do?”

“Obviously the patient we’re referring to was in the second group,” Josie said.

“Hard to say. He was very nervous. I tried to reassure him. Tried to make him feel comfortable, but it didn’t work. It was as if he thought the police would bust in the doors at any minute to cart him off to jail.”

“Or back to Mexico,” Otto said.

“I hate to admit it, but I think the pictures I took—only of his arms—freaked him out.” She squinted at Josie as if feeling guilty. “But that’s standard for anything we fear might be communicable.”

“What was your diagnosis?” Josie asked.

Sheila grinned. “You know I can’t tell you that. Nice try though.”

Josie smiled in return. “Have you filed any reports to the CDC in the past month?”

She put a finger in the air. “That I can tell you.” She stood again and rifled through her filing cabinet, and then laid a paper in front of Josie. “That’s the CDC list of Nationally Notifiable Infectious Conditions for this year. We only report to them confirmed cases. Mystery diseases, like what we saw last week? There’s nothing to report.”

There was a quick knock, then the receptionist opened the door and stood back as Mitchell Cowan entered.

“Afternoon,” Cowan said. “My apologies for being late.”

Sheila stood and scooted a chair out for Cowan, who eased his considerable weight into the chair and sighed heavily as he hit the seat. Josie noticed Sheila smiling fondly at Cowan and wondered if there might be some interest outside of work.

“You look like you need a shot of caffeine. Can I get you coffee?” Sheila asked.

He looked up from the briefcase he was opening in front of him and smiled, although it was a sad, tired look. “That would be wonderful.”

Sheila bustled out of the room and Cowan said, “I assume you’ve got her up to speed.”

“We gave her the basics on Santiago. She showed us pictures of a man that was examined last Wednesday here at the clinic.” Josie slid the picture over to Cowan, who glanced at it and scowled. “She couldn’t provide much information, other than she didn’t have any idea what the sores were caused by.”

“And, she tried to convince him to come back for followup, but he didn’t come back,” Otto said. “She said that he seemed afraid, or at least mistrustful.”

Sheila came back in and placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of Cowan. Josie was glad to see the cream in the coffee. She had known how to fix the drink without asking.

Cowan thanked her and opened a small laptop in front of him. His expression turned grim. “This morning I talked to a contact at the CDC who is quite knowledgeable about radiation diagnosis and treatment. He’s sending us help tomorrow. We need to get a radiation assessment of the body, my lab, and each one of us. We’ll need to include Cassidy and Danny as well.”

Josie and Otto both looked at him in surprise. “What does that mean?” she asked.

Cowan pulled up notes on his computer and read from them. “Here’s the crux of it. From what I was able to provide the CDC this morning, the scientist I spoke with confirmed a strong possibility of acute radiation syndrome. Considering the speed with which Santiago died, there is a chance he was hit with a massive dose.”

Josie broke out in a cold sweat. “We stood right over the body and examined it. Are we in similar danger?”

“We won’t know until we get the proper equipment and get each of us tested. Meanwhile, Sheila, it is imperative that you call immediately if you see any additional cases. At this point, we’re approaching this as an isolated incident. If we find more people are affected, we could have a serious disaster looming.”

“What about the Feed Plant? Couldn’t they get us equipment?” Otto asked.

“The CDC is sending a certified hazardous materials technician. She’ll help us with the equipment, help us assess the situation and come up with a plan. My contact at the CDC suggested as this point that we wait and use CDC equipment, as well as their staff. Beacon Pathways may be very well trained, but then again, they may not be. I’m not willing to take the gamble.”

Josie was struggling not to look down at the picture of the sores lying in front of her on the table. “What do we do in the meantime?”

Cowan sighed heavily. “I know this goes against your grain. This is very unsettling. It is for me too. But I think we wait another half a day.”

“You don’t think a quarantine is in order?” she asked.

“Radiation is its own special kind of beast. Some radiation can be wiped on your skin and nothing will happen. You ingest the same thing and it will eat your insides up like battery acid. Some spreads through the air, others via surfaces. Some particles are radioactive for miles from the source and can be detected by a Geiger counter if a trace amount is on the shoe of a pedestrian that walks by. Other forms are only radioactive within centimeters of the source.”

Josie listened to Cowan, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “I think we call Diego Paiva and get a list of anyone who had contact with the area of the plant Santiago worked in during his last three days there. We recommend they stay at home until we find some answers. I don’t know what it could hurt.”

Otto gave her a skeptical look. “Gossip travels at the speed of light in Artemis. The Hot Tamale would have it broadcast by nightfall. The trauma unit would be full. And what would we tell people?”

Josie looked at Sheila, who nodded in agreement with Otto. Josie finally shrugged. “Okay. We wait.”

*   *   *

Josie left the meeting feeling numb. It had always been the unseen things in life that caused her the most fear: diseases, plague, nuclear radiation, bacteria, and parasites. She liked police work because the dangers were tangible. She could formulate a plan and attack it. A gun was a comfort. When she rested the palm of her hand on the butt of the gun in her holster she typically felt calm and in control. With this investigation she felt none of that.

She drove to Brent Thyme’s at 4:15. After talking with Sarah that afternoon, Josie opted not to call Brent to tell him she was stopping by. Josie was curious why Santiago’s death was troubling him so much, given that they weren’t close friends. She realized the fact that Santiago had been murdered could be reason enough to upset Brent, but it was worth exploring.

The couple lived in a small beige stucco adobe behind the police station. Brent and his wife Sarah were sitting in lawn chairs just inside the open doors of a two-car garage, staying out of the downpour. Josie pulled her jeep up and noticed a small boy pedaling a tricycle in circles inside the garage. Josie got out of her jeep and ran for shelter. Brent stood and shook her hand.

“Sorry to barge in on you like this. I’m hoping I can ask you a few questions about the Santiago investigation.”

Sarah offered drinks and when Josie declined Sarah took the little boy off the tricycle and said she needed to lay him down for a nap. She disappeared inside the house and Brent and Josie settled into the two lawn chairs facing the rain.

“Sarah said you’re pretty upset about Santiago. Anything in particular?”

He looked surprised at her comment. “Well, no, other than my coworker is dead. That’s pretty troubling.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

Again, he looked surprised at the question. “What do you want to know?”

“No one knows anything about Santiago other than he loved his family and wanted to return to Mexico. There has to be something more.”

Brent lifted his hands in a futile gesture. “I don’t know what else I can add to that. I wish there was more we could help you with.”

“Yet, this man with no connections to the community, no money, no friends, no family here in the U.S.—he ends up left for dead in the middle of the desert.” Josie almost added, “wearing his work boots,” but few people knew that information and she hoped to keep it that way.

Brent looked out into the rain. “I feel lousy about it now. I wish I’d made more of an effort with him. Tried to connect with him somehow.”

“What about the work he did at the plant? Can you tell me what part of the plant Santiago was working in?”

“I can’t provide you with that information.”

She sighed. She should have anticipated his reaction, but opted to play the game out. “Why not?”

“When I was hired I signed a nondisclosure agreement. I’m prohibited from giving you any information about the inner workings of the plant.”

Josie gave him a quizzical look. She was asking the questions to gauge his attitude toward the plant, more than his actual answers. If his answers were hesitant, unsure, she was fairly certain he would crack with enough pressure. “It’s not as if you’re giving out company secrets. The plant is closing down.”

“They’re still making new materials,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows.

Brent groaned in frustration. Josie could tell he realized he’d already said too much.

“Look. I could get fired for talking to you. I was told it doesn’t matter who comes asking for information, whether you’re with the police or not. We’re supposed to refer you to Paiva.”

“I’ll be talking with him later.”

“I’m not allowed to discuss the plant.”

Josie nodded. “I’m not here to cause you problems. I’m here because a man was murdered. Not only do I want to find the man’s killer, but I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Brent turned in his chair and glanced back at the door leading into the house. “Are you able to keep my name out of this if I tell you something?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

“I mean, this remains completely anonymous.”

“Yes, that’s my intent,” Josie said.

Brent sat for a moment and wiped the sweat off the back of his neck, then onto his shorts. His face was beet red and he looked miserable. “Santiago had been working in the pilot unit before he died. I know because I was working with him.”

“I thought you worked in Unit Seven?”

“That’s our assigned area. We spend most of our time there, but we have side projects in other areas. We’ll occasionally do work out of the pilot unit. Santiago and I were assigned to the pilot for two days to sanitize equipment we’d been using in Unit Seven.”

“What kind of work takes place there?” she asked.

“New projects. Pilots. Basic lab work. It’s stuff Beacon tries out before the systems go live.”

Josie narrowed her eyes in confusion. “Once again, I thought you were supposed to be closing the plant down. Why test new stuff?” She wondered if Brent’s answer would match what others had told her.

He shrugged once. “Supposedly, it’s new technology for radiation cleanup.”

“You try new technology in the pilot unit, then try it out in the plant. If it works, I’m guessing Beacon sells it to others in the industry?”

He shrugged again. “Or the government.”

“So, our government is paying them to clean up the plant, and they are using part of that money to develop new technology?” she asked.

He nodded.

“And then they turn around and sell it back to the government?”

“And the private sector,” he said.

“So they’re double-dipping.”

“I guess you could call it that,” he said.

“Can you give me an example of the kinds of projects that take place in the pilot unit?”

His face twisted in frustration, and he rolled his head as if stretching tight neck muscles. After a long moment he said, “After you left the other day? Paiva called all the plant supervisors in for an emergency meeting. Supervisors were told to personally meet with every one of their employees within twenty-four hours, even if it required home visits. Afterwards, Skip gave us copies of the nondisclosure agreement we signed. Someone had taken an orange highlighter and underlined the information on grounds for dismissal.” He pointed his finger at Josie, then at his own chest. “This right here? I’ll be fired if they find out. And I have a two-year-old, and a wife that makes little more than minimum wage.”

Josie felt a stab of guilt for pushing him. If he chose not to share information she could call the company attorney and ask for assistance, but legally there wasn’t much in her favor. A person could not be forced to talk.

She finally said, “Disregard the last question. I’ll be talking with Mr. Paiva. I plan to ask him the same questions I’ve asked you. Your name will not be mentioned, nor will the information you shared with me. At least now I have a point of reference.”

“I understand.”

Josie opened the manila folder on her lap and pulled out several five-by-seven color photographs that Lou had developed for her earlier in the day. She handed the stack to Brent, who grimaced immediately.

“I’m sorry to have you look at these. They’re pictures of Juan Santiago’s arms the day we found his body. The sores are a big concern for us. They may be tied to his death. We have no medical records, so we’re not sure if the situation was medical or possibly job-related. We’re also concerned there may be a public health hazard that we don’t know about.” Josie paused and Brent nodded once. He flipped through the photographs, holding the edges as if he didn’t want to touch the gruesome images.