Just like that.
His heartbeat was back to normal by the time he reached Dr. Mann.
“Well?”
“You’re right: If I hadn’t done that myself, I never would have believed it.” He handed Mann the petri dish.
Mann studied the dish, spinning it in his hand.
“And once he has it?” Boldt asked, removing the uncomfortable lab coat, taking notes again.
“Not much to it. He probably has some microbiology under his belt-early college level. Some agar-a petri dish containing a protein base; some broth-the book would have a recipe; an incubator-but could build something-a light box might work. Doesn’t need much, I’m afraid. It’s all pretty easy. It looks real complex and the language is fairly complex, but the actual mechanics of growing a culture are relatively simple. It’s covered in both high school and college chemistry.”
“Anything else I should know?” Boldt tried. “Limited shelf life?”
“Not terribly. Cholera’s a pretty good choice. Salmonella would have been obvious to whoever opened the can because of gases-bacterial odor. But cholera? No odor or gases to speak of. And if it isn’t someone at the university, someone who knows specifically about cholera-395-and there couldn’t be more than a handful who do-then this guy probably didn’t know what a powerful punch it packed. Three ninety-five is a resistant strain. Probably didn’t know what he was getting. And unless and until you do put this in the press, he may not even be aware he may kill people with it.”
Boldt felt the wind knocked out of him. “Kill?”
“It’s a research strain, 395. It doesn’t react to the more common antibiotics. That’s why these kids became so ill. It’s in the material,” he said, indicating Boldt’s pile of literature. “Their youth may help them-we’re lucky there.”
“It’s lethal, and it’s just sitting in there in a refrigerator?”
“I know. I know. But it’s true of much of what’s in there: This is Infectious Diseases. We’re working to cure people here.”
“Am I the only one who sees irony in that?”
“The Lowry boy went critical a couple hours ago,” Mann informed him.
Again, Boldt couldn’t catch his breath. He could picture the boy as clear as day: the sunken eyes, the strange color to his skin. It made him sick to his stomach. He put down the tea.
“Sorry,” Mann said.
“I’ve got a two-year-old,” Boldt explained.
“Me, a boy five, a girl three,” Mann said, pointing to color photographs by the computer.
“We’re on the back side of the curve, I’m afraid, even with the research work on 395. I’d like to tell you that they will be okay, but I can’t because it isn’t necessarily true.”
Boldt said, “The girl is doing better.”
Mann said, “We get lucky now and then.” He hesitated, “There’s something else you should know-your lab people should be aware of this, but in case they are not: Vibrio cholerae degrades rather rapidly. At room temperature, it will die on the shelf inside these soup cans. With a high enough inoculum, there should be sufficient organisms to cause disease for the first five to seven days. After that, the organisms will die, which means they may go undetected by your lab. Just so you know.”
“You’re telling me these are time bombs with a shelf life. We won’t be able to prove they were contaminated?”
“Not after the first five to seven days. After that, the bug is dead and your tests will return negative.” The doctor added, “The bright side is that after a week on the shelf it won’t harm anyone.”
Boldt was devastated by this. Providing evidence of the contamination in a court of law might prove difficult if not impossible. He thanked the man for his time and they shook hands.
On his way out, Boldt leaned his head into the lab and looked down at the half-refrigerator, unlocked and available for the killer.
This triggered a thought, and he returned to Mann, who hung up the phone. He said, “Will you lock that refrigerator for me?”
“Just arranging that.” He pointed to the phone.
As Boldt passed the lab, a woman’s voice called out: “Did you get what you need?” It was the young Asian woman, her eyes stretched open by the clear safety goggles, a wire loop held in her hand and sparking in the flames of a Bunsen burner.
“Yes,” he said with a slightly raised voice, loud enough to carry above the whine of a centrifuge.
“Good,” she said brightly.
“Not really,” Boldt replied. He turned and left, negotiating his way through a labyrinth of hospital corridors so similar in appearance that someone had painted color bars on the floor to direct you-only Boldt didn’t know which colors led where. Like this case. He finally reached the main lobby, and then headed off at a run out into the parking lot, out into the unexpected rain, pouring rain, buckets of rain, out without an umbrella or even a newspaper to hold over his head. Sometimes he hated this city.
SEVEN
The meeting with Owen Adler was due to begin promptly at three. For the sake of security and privacy, it was to take place aboard Adler’s yacht. Earlier that Friday morning, Boldt had assigned Detective John LaMoia to obtain a list of Mann’s students and faculty who had regular access to the Infectious Diseases lab. He also asked for employee lists from Foodland, Shop-Alert Security, and Wagner Wholesale, the distributor that supplied Lee Hyundai’s Foodland store. In an attempt to link motive with opportunity, these lists would be cross-checked with that of Adler’s employees.
Shilshole Marina was a clutter of masts alive with the clanging slap of nylon line on hollow-core aluminum. Wind whistled across the steel stays. Stinging rain struck the launch’s Plexiglas shield and drummed on the blue canvas awning as the craft carried Boldt and Daphne through choppy water to the waiting motor cruiser. It was temporarily moored in the lee of the gray stone boulders that created the breakwater protecting the man-made inlet from the sound. The multidecked, fifty-five-foot cruiser could have made a landing at the dock, but Adler was taking no chances that he or any of his passengers might be seen meeting with the police.
“It looked so nice earlier,” she called across the noise of the twin engines. She was not herself. Nervous, perhaps to see Adler professionally and in the company of others.
“Is he crazy?” Boldt shouted.
Her eyebrows danced. She knew whom he meant. She hollered back, “He’s disturbed.” She reached up and took hold of her hair, keeping it from whipping her face. “We want to look for suicides when we get this employee list-a spouse, a relative. And bankruptcy. Those are his immediate demands.”
“It’s personal?” he asked.
“Love, money, and revenge,” she said, quoting the three most common reasons humans killed each other. “We may have a possible paranoid schizophrenic on our hands,” she warned. “And then again, he may be a cold-blooded psychopath.” The wind suddenly felt colder to Boldt.
“I’d like to bring in Dr. Richard Clements. He’s BSU.” She meant the Behavioral Sciences Unit of the FBI. Boldt knew she had used Clements in past investigations. He had never met the man.
The low charcoal clouds grew oppressively lower. Boldt loosened his collar and chewed down two Maalox.
“You all right?” She crossed unsteadily and flopped down onto the cushion beside him. Her hair whipped in the wind. “Are you okay?” she asked more intimately, pressed up against him.
“The boy is worse, I hear,” he said.
She reached out and laid her hand gently on the lower sleeve of his sport jacket and squeezed his forearm.
The launch engines slowed, and as the launch pulled alongside, a woman crew member tossed a line. Daphne climbed the ladder, followed by Boldt. The launch sped away, cutting into the angry green water, ripping open a crease of white foam.