The Death Row Complex (12 page)

He paused for a breath and then puffed it out harshly. “Nonetheless, there’s one enemy that stands out in my mind as being maybe the one she might possibly have the biggest problem with. Lawrence Naden. Picked up in ’07 in Ensenada.
And sent to San Quentin
.”

Katrina polished off the last three swallows of her second pint of beer and turned the conversation back to her meeting with the FBI. “If any of you are uncomfortable with this work, I want you to speak up,” she said.

Todd and Josh exchanged a look that said they were both overwhelmed.

“I’m serious,” she continued. “I don’t want to go forward with this without your
full
support, nor do I want to force you into something you aren’t comfortable with just because I’m your boss.” She paused while the waitress collected their empty glasses. “That being said,” she said then, “I have to add… I think that if you choose not to participate in this, you will be blowing the chance of a lifetime. Very few people make a contribution of this magnitude in graduate school. So please consider that in making your decisions.

“As your advisor and friend, I highly recommend proceeding with this in the best interest of your careers. We can really make a major impact with this work, and your careers would be set for the rest of your lives.”

She paused and looked at each of them. “If you think you’re tired of working like donkeys and barely scraping by, you’d better believe that I’m even more so. And this could be our break.”

5:39 P.M.
PDT

Jason Fischer shifted his position on the hard plastic emergency room chair, trying to find a position comfortable enough for sleep. His efforts were useless. His head was throbbing, and the thin flannel shirt he had on over his T-shirt was not offering any protection from the violent chill currently seizing him. Jason pulled the shirt more tightly around his torso.

A few minutes later, wracked with fever, he removed the flannel shirt altogether and used it to wipe a fresh outpouring of perspiration from his face. Not really caring if anyone was looking, he reached down and readjusted his boxers through his blue jeans to allow his throbbing genitalia a bit more space.
Someone needs to teach that chick the “no teeth” rule
, he thought.

Paranoia was slowly forcing its way in, and Jason struggled to mentally relive every step of the safety procedures. He had done the decontamination thoroughly. He always did. The ethanol. The gloves. The booties. The biohazardous waste. He had touched nothing on the way out of BSL-3. He was clean when he entered the clean room.

But the fever was clouding his thoughts.

It only took one spore. And he had been in a terrible rush.

The news had been excellent—the inhibitor worked wonders. But for use against anthrax infection in humans, it was not even close.

After what seemed like hours longer, his name was finally called.

Jason stood, painfully and slowly, and shuffled through the doors behind the nurse.

“I see you’ve been here twice in the last year,” the emergency room doctor commented with a slight slur as he examined Jason’s chart.

Jason, in turn, examined the doctor, who looked about his own age. “Yeah, that was different,” he said. “Those other times were for broken bones and cuts and stuff that I got during gigs with my band. I’d be rich if I could get paid for time spent in your waiting room. This place is a colossal pain in the ass. I’ve been here for an hour and a half this time. ”

“Only an hour and a half?” the doctor remarked. “We must be having a slow night. Now, what are your symptoms?”

Jason finally placed the reason for the slur in the doctor’s speech. The young man’s tongue had recently been pierced.

“Fever, chills, muscle aches, and the worst fucking headache I’ve ever had. I’m exhausted, run-down, and my lymph nodes are swollen. And so is my dick, by the way, but I think that’s someone else’s fault.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow without looking up from his clipboard. He finished his notes and then placed the clipboard onto a tray next to the gurney Jason was sitting on. He reached forward with both hands and felt the glands beneath his patient’s jaw. “You’re right, they’re swollen pretty badly. Let’s see the other.” He motioned for Jason to drop his pants.

Jason stood up to oblige, gritting his teeth while the doctor performed the examination.

“Well,” the doctor said, “other than a few teeth marks that are probably causing the pain you’ve got there, everything looks pretty normal. I’d venture to suggest you probably have the flu. There is a nasty one going around this fall.”

“I’d have said so, too,” Jason said, “except that I work with live anthrax.”

The doctor took a step backward. “I see.” He flipped through Jason’s medical record. “I assume you’ve been vaccinated… oh, yes, there it is. When was the last time you were working with the live bug?”

“Last night, about nine forty-five.”

“And before that?”

“Before that it had been a few weeks.”

To Jason’s surprise, the doctor now laughed heartily. “Well then, of course you have the flu! As an anthrax researcher, you should know there is no way you’d be this symptomatic in twenty-four hours, and if you were exposed weeks ago you would certainly have already known it before now! You can’t have anthrax. The incubation period doesn’t match.”

5:45 P.M.
PDT

Roger Gilman looked as if he had been slapped. He sank miserably into one of the chairs of Sean McMullan’s hotel room. “Life?” he groaned. “Naden got life? Not death? How can that be?”

An annoyed McMullan pointed to a page of the Homeland Security file in his hand. “It’s right here, dumb shit. You were so excited about bustin’ Katrina Stone that you didn’t read far enough.

“Lawrence Naden had to be extradited from Mexico, and the Mexican government wouldn’t release him if the death penalty was on the table. He’s serving life without the possibility of parole. He never would have been in any of the death row wings at San Quentin. On top of that, he was transferred to a prison in Texas in 2010.

“So instead of going off half-cocked again, maybe you oughta double check that he’s still there. You can also make yourself happy by confirming that he’s
not
on the list of dead inmates at San Quentin. My guess is he’s alive and well and singing
Deep in the Heart of
Texas.”

“I saw the sparks between you and her.”

McMullan looked up from his paperwork. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing between me and her.”

His partner wordlessly pursed his lips. He paused for a second, but then prodded, “You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!” McMullan laughed. “You think I wouldn’t know? Come on, you must not know me very well. I wouldn’t jeopardize an assignment like that. Period. I’ve met the woman once, and you were there.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that there’s something there, whether
you
realize it yet or not. I hope it doesn’t interfere with your ability to do a thorough investigation.”

McMullan changed the subject. “What exactly is
your
problem with her? I mean, you’re obviously a bit old school when it comes to science, but you also seem like a reasonable guy for the most part. So I don’t get it… It’s like you’re hoping she’s the bad guy.”

After a long pause, Gilman said, “Frankly? I think for an attractive, allegedly brilliant, thirty-four-year-old doctor, she seemed a little bit interested in my scabby old battle-scarred partner—no offense. And I wonder if there’s a motive behind it.

“And I trust James Johnson for the same reason that I trust God and tradition, because both are tried and true. And I think Guofu Wong is way too eager about the technology and way too trusting of his fellow researchers to be objective.

“And, most of all, I can’t get past the coincidence of Stone’s preliminary data being so closely aligned with the Death Row strain of anthrax. I can’t believe it
is
really a coincidence.”

O
CTOBER 17, 2015
2:34 P.M.
EDT

USPIS Assistant Forensic Director Teresa Wood sat in front of an ultraviolet light box in the physical sciences unit of the National Forensic Laboratory in Dulles, Virginia. In gloved hands, she tenderly cradled a one-inch-thick gelatinous square. Sliding one hand out from under the gel, she allowed the corner, and then the side, to contact the light box. Gently holding it in place, she removed her other hand, and the gel sat freely upon the glass.

Teresa closed the door to the small room and then switched off the overhead light. In the near-complete darkness, she found a face shield and pulled it over her face. Then she switched on the light box before her.

Bright purple ultraviolet light flooded the room from the small box. Where nothing had been visible in the overhead light, she could now clearly make out patterns of solid pink lines in the gel. Each represented a unique piece of DNA from her PCR analysis.

Teresa only had to glance at the patterns to see that the DNA fragments retrieved from the White House greeting card and its envelope were different from any of the biological toxins she had incorporated into her assay.

Along with other toxins, DNA samples from both normal anthrax and the Death Row strain had been included in her experiment. Neither strain was present on the greeting card. Nor were any of the other toxin controls. There was absolutely no infectious material on the card.

Goose egg
, Teresa thought.