A Sickening Storm, page 14
“He hitted Petey!” Buster announced.
Missy tried not to laugh, saw Dora trying to catch her eye with a confused expression, and hastily looked at Drew. “Why did you hit Petey?”
“He was pickin’ on me!” Buster pouted.
“Ohhh. Can Drew answer for himself?”
Buster nodded, but Drew shook his head. The elevator arrived on Vanessa’s floor and the women, children, and oversized dog tramped down the hallway to the apartment. Once inside, Dora lay the manila envelope at the head of the table. On it was written “Mrs. Burrell.” Dora then poured the boys their juice, and she and Missy prepared celery sticks with peanut butter, one of the boys’ go-to after school snacks.
“What’s up with you?” Dora muttered as they worked.
Missy didn’t answer.
They brought the snacks to the table and, as the boys munched happily, Missy opened her computer.
“I learned a few things about labs that handle the deadliest diseases.”
Dora pulled a chair next to Missy’s and they sat with their shoulder’s touching. At first, Missy edged away, but as they spoke, Dora leaned closer to her and Missy allowed their shoulders to touch.
She’s afraid of me, Dora told herself, and willed herself to show Missy that she needn’t be afraid—that, in fact, she had nothing but love for the librarian. That any violence Dora might exhibit that involved Missy would be on her behalf, to defend her—never, ever to hurt her.
“So,” Missy began, slapping the table as a start to the conversation. “Hazardous diseases are handled by biosafety labs, and they range in their level of containment and protections from BSL—Biosafety Lab—two through four. The most stringent of these are BSL-4 labs run by the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases. These have astronaut-level hazmat type protection, where the technicians use robotic-type arms or gloves that are part of the machine that they reach into to work with pathogens.”
“Where’s the nearest one of these labs?” Dora asked.
“Nowhere near here,” said Missy. “There are only four in the country, as far as I can tell, and the nearest one is in Maryland.” She began reading. “There’s one at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, another at the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases at Fort Detrick in Frederick, Maryland. There’s one at the Southwest Foundation for Biomedical Research in San Antonio, Texas, and another at the University of Texas at Galveston—not sure if that’s one or two. Also, Georgia State University in Atlanta has a small one they’re calling a BSL-3 and BSL-4 glove box facility. I guess it operates at two levels. Oh, and there’s one more at the National Institute of Health in Bethesda, Maryland, but that one operates as a BSL-3 facility, where they research new infectious diseases.”
“So, where does that leave us?” Dora sat back and looked at Missy, who closed the laptop.
“Good question. It’s still pretty hard to believe these cases are occurring naturally. From everything I’m reading, that just doesn’t happen. Not in clusters like we’re seeing here.”
Dora agreed. “You know, George Campbell struck me as kind of paranoid when we met him, but his theory that these are being spread on purpose is starting to sound reasonable—there just doesn’t seem to be any other explanation.”
Missy thought about this. “And yet, that doesn’t seem plausible either. Someone’s going to one of these labs, collecting diseases and bringing them back? I’m sure the security at these places is as tight as it gets.”
“No doubt.” Dora thought about this. “I don’t know where that leaves us. Couldn’t someone who, say, knows someone at one of these labs, just come in and steal pathogens and let them loose on people? Look at what happened last year with Jesse breaking into that drug store.”
Missy pursed her lips and shook her head. “Not the same thing.”
Dora lay her palm on Missy’s forearm. “By the way, I got a text from Charlie Bernelli. We’re invited to Thanksgiving at his and Christine’s apartment.”
Missy paused a beat before answering. “Oh. Okay.”
Dora gently squeezed Missy’s arm. “You okay, Miss?”
Missy pulled her arm away. “Why don’t you tell me what you learned about the social worker.”
Dora continued to look at her. “Miss—”
“I’m okay. Let’s focus on this, ’K?”
“What about Thanksgiving?”
“Sure. We can go. But let’s—”
“Okay. Okay.” Dora switched gears and told her about her meeting with Emmanuel Funte.
When she was finished, Missy grinned. “You really convinced him you’re this easy-going, sociable, neighborly—”
“’Scuse me?” Dora pretended to glare at her.
“Well…sorry. Of course you’re all those things.”
Dora nodded, her eyes wide, and said teasingly, “Yes, I am. And you’d best remember that, or else.”
“So, what do you think?”
“About Shirley Nelson? Well, like a lot of people, she’s pissed off at the hospital for messing up her mother’s surgery—maybe even blames them for her mother’s death. But murdering people over that? I don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t discount the possibility. We don’t know Shirley Nelson. You meet people and they seem normal, and then you learn they’re crazy, or they’re something other than what they seem. The fact that here she is, running this group, is kind of interesting.”
Missy continued to read about BSL-4 labs while she and Dora waited for Vanessa, who arrived home at 11:15 p.m.
Once Vanessa returned, Dora showed her the manila envelope and explained about the trouble Drew was in and the reason for it. At that moment, Drew appeared in the hallway leading to the bedroom.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
Vanessa looked up from reading the letter, saw the forlorn look on her son’s face, and held her arms open. Drew ran to his mother, buried his face in her breast and cried while Dora and Missy watched from the dining room table. After a few moments, Vanessa held her son at arm’s length. “You know you’re not allowed to hit anyone—”
Drew’s face fell.
“Except,” she continued, holding up a finger, “except to defend your brother.”
Drew’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yes, really. But not if anyone says bad things to Buster—only if you actually see someone hit him. Okay?”
“I saw Petey. I saw him hit Buster!”
“I know you did. You told me, and I believe you. Now, no TV for a week.”
Drew began to wail. “But you just said I didn’t do anything wrong. Mom!”
“That’s enough, Drew. You got into trouble at school, and Mrs. Hill had to send a note home.”
Drew frowned angrily.
“Now, you say goodnight to Dora and Missy, then go on to bed.”
Drew looked at Dora, then Missy, his expression brooding. “Good! Night!” He turned abruptly, and stomped from the room.
Missy had a hand to her mouth and was trying not to laugh.
Dora raised her eyebrows with a deadpan look at Vanessa. “I know just how he feels.”
Chapter 15
Marilyn Campbell lived alone in a garden apartment complex a block off the beach in the center of Beach City. She drove a 2016 Dodge Challenger, jogged about three miles every other day on the boardwalk, and did her food shopping directly north of her apartment at the ShopRite in the middle of town. She had no pets. As far as Dora could tell, Marilyn went to work each day, came home, jogged, did her food shopping, and little else. She probably did her laundry in her apartment, and occasionally went to one of the bars in the west end of town, and did not, during Dora’s period of surveillance, bring anyone home.
Unlike the surveillance Adam did for his divorce and workman’s comp clients, Dora did not have to record video or still photographs. She was simply keeping a record of the nurse’s activities in the hope that something related to the case, the rash of deadly diseases at BCMC, would jump out at her.
She found nothing of note for two and a half days. She kept track of Marilyn from 8:00 a.m. through 6:00 p.m., much of which time Marilyn was at the hospital. Dora wondered how she might track Marilyn’s activities within the hospital, but given the increased security and new bracelet system, she decided to let the idea go for the moment. Even without the new security protocols, she suspected that tracking a nurse’s movements and activities within the hospital setting would be all but impossible.
Dora was grateful that since the onset of COVID nearly two years earlier, people did less of their day-to-day business interactions in person. Time was when people transacted business, from purchasing insurance to touring an apartment or home, in person. Nowadays nearly everything was virtual—even doctors’ visits were scheduled and sometimes even attended online.
On the third day of her surveillance, Marilyn exited the hospital at 12:30 p.m., walked purposefully to her car and drove to the eastern-most bridge that led off of the barrier island. From there, she headed north for six miles, then east for just over twelve miles, and pulled into the parking lot of a large office building several hundred yards off of the highway. Tailing someone without a second driver and without being seen was challenging, and Dora was prepared to lose track of Marilyn, but her quarry drove within the speed limit and took no evasive measures.
Dora was reasonably certain that Marilyn would not recognize her, so she followed her into the building while maintaining what she thought was a reasonable distance, and arrived at the elevator as its doors were closing with only Marilyn inside. The elevator stopped at the third floor, so Dora went to the building’s directory, which was just inside the outer door to the parking lot. She found what she was looking for under “T.” Suite 306 was listed as Traxle Laboratories.
• • •
Several hours later, Dora had just finished showering and was drying herself off when she heard Freedom barking.
“It’s okay, girl!” she called, but the dog continued to bark, so she slipped on her robe, and padded into the living room to the apartment door. “That you, Miss?” She paused, listening, but heard nothing. She had started back toward the bathroom when she heard the unmistakable whir and metallic click of the elevator door shutting, followed by footsteps echoing on the hallway tile. Her doorbell rang.
“Miss?”
“Yup.”
Dora unlocked her apartment door and let Missy in. Freedom let out a joyous yip and leaped forward into Missy’s arms. “How are you? You’re so good! Yes, you are!”
Freedom ran back into the hallway that led to Dora’s bedroom.
Missy had her laptop under one arm. She went to the dining room table, opened it and sat. Dora followed.
“I’ve started a case file in Google Drive. So far, I have the names that jumped out from the AIC meetings, including and especially the nurse, Marilyn Campbell, along with the facilitator, Shirley Nelson.”
Just then, Freedom bounded back into the room with a bit of bird’s egg blue cloth in her mouth. She whipped her head and the cloth along with it from side to side, then deposited her newfound wealth at Missy’s feet.
“Great,” Dora said, with a deadpan look at Missy. “My underwear.”
“Yeah, Comfort runs around with mine all the time—but only when they’re used.”
“Good.” Dora sounded relieved. “So it’s not just me, or her.”
“They smell like you. She loves you.”
“Uh huh.” Dora remained deadpan. “I think she’s psychic. I was in the shower and she started barking a good two minutes before you got off the elevator.”
“Probably hearing neighbors across the hall,” Missy observed.
“You’re too smart, and no fun.” Dora nodded toward the computer screen. “So, what do you think?”
Missy took a deep breath. “I think there’s nothing actionable, to quote Chief Stalwell. What we have is a chief hospital administrator who, on the face of it, might or might not be a bit paranoid and thinks someone is deliberately dosing patients in his hospital with rare deadly diseases.”
“While the possibility of this occurring is pretty much nil.”
“What does the girl think we should do next?” Missy asked.
Dora waggled her eyebrows.
Missy sighed. “I mean about the case.”
Dora pondered this. “I think we keep working the notes—talking about it. I’ll go to see Traxle and learn what I can about Marilyn’s involvement with her lab. Then we try to learn more about Shirley Nelson—either by gaining access to her computer, her office, or her home.”
Missy looked pained. “That will be difficult—at least the office and computer part—given the new levels of security caused by this case.”
“Right.”
“We could look at her social media.”
Dora slowly nodded. “So…do that. I’d sure like to get a look at her computer and her email.”
“I’ll think about it,” Missy suggested, “while you interview Traxle.”
• • •
Traxle Labs at NYSUNC was a study in white—white walls, floors and ceiling, white tables and chairs, white pipes sealed where they entered walls, and a plethora of white machinery and brightly lit, glassed off white workspaces. Dora saw all of this through a wide window in the spartan waiting area, just inside the entrance. Two women in lab coats were working at opposite ends of the lab, one at a machine that looked like a high-tech oven, the other at a station laden with a syringe-like implement, sans needle, held in her fist with her thumb on the plunger, as she worked with clear glass vials with yellow tops that rested in a blue plastic receptacle with spaces for multiple vials. Large red biohazard disposal bins sat along each of the room’s walls. The women wore green gloves and masks that appeared not so different from the N95 masks so many wore as protection against the COVID-19 virus.
“With you in a minute,” came a voice over an intercom, and Dora saw that one of the women—a fair-skinned technician with thin features, high cheekbones, and dirty blonde hair which, to Dora’s surprise, was not tied back—was waving at her through the window from where she stood at the oven-like machine. Dora waved back. The woman held up one finger on a gloved hand, signaling that she would be just a minute or so.
About five minutes later, Dr. Yvonne Traxle emerged through a set of heavy, sealed doors, lowered her mask and fist bumped Dora, who introduced herself.
“How can I help you?” Dr. Traxle asked.
“I work for Geller Investigations. We’re private detectives who specialize in divorces and workman’s comp cases.”
“Okay.”
Dora nodded toward the window into the lab. “That’s some state-of-the-art setup you’ve got here. Is it BSL-4?”
Traxle laughed. “No, no. We’re what’s known as BSL-2 plus—meaning we’re BSL-2, and handle lab work for many local physicians and some of BCMC’s work, but we also have some of the containment features of BSL-3 labs. Hybrid labs like this one are on the rise, as society’s needs change vis-à-vis infectious diseases. If this were BSL-4, I’d be wearing full body protective gear and I’d have had to change and shower before meeting with you. What’s your interest in biosafety? Is that what this is about?” Traxle gave Dora a piercing look that was more than curious, as though she had a specific question beyond what she’d asked that she was not stating directly.
Dora kept her expression vacant. “None, really. I happened to have been reading something on the subject not long ago, and I thought it was interesting. Actually, I’m here asking about a person. Marilyn Campbell. Do you know her?”
Traxle nodded. “She’s a friend. She used to work here.”
“When was that?”
Traxle squinted into the distance. “Maybe two, two and a half years ago. She’s at the hospital now. Nursing is what she really wanted to do, but there was a bit of a log jam in the area at that time.”
“One her father helped to clear?” Dora asked.
Traxle gave Dora a searching look. “What is this about?”
Dora was prepared for the question. “Well, I can’t discuss the specifics of the case, but as I said, we specialize in divorces and workman’s comp. We also handle some tax-related cases. Pretty boring stuff compared to what you do.”
This drew a smile, then a confused look. “She’s not married and wasn’t injured on the job, as far as I know.” She shrugged. “So, what are your questions?”
“I’m at the fact-finding stage, gathering general information. Probably nothing there. If you could tell me a little about her, I’d appreciate that.”
Traxle took a breath and again looked into the distance, thinking. “She’s a lovely woman. When she worked here, she cared about her work, her patients.”
“Does she get along with her father?”
Traxle looked up sharply. “Her father’s a prick. If you’d ever dealt with him, you’d know that. He doesn’t get along with anyone. So whatever her relationship is with him, any negative aspects have nothing to do with her, I assure you.”
Dora sounded surprised. “Really? He’s a man with so much public-facing responsibility. How does he get away with…being a prick?”
Traxle smoothed back her shoulder-length hair and let it fall over her shoulder. “Good question. Power is the answer. The man is accustomed to being the most powerful guy in any room, no matter what it does to the people around him.”
“Really?” Dora sounded fascinated. “What’s it done to the people around him?”
Traxle leaned toward her. “Well, for one thing, his wife died by suicide four years ago, and I don’t think he missed a day of work. And his only son, George Jr., also died by suicide, fifteen years to the day before the wife.”
“You don’t think it was mental illness?”
“If it was, I’m betting it was his, not theirs.” The scientist seemed to realize what she was saying. “Look, I don’t know. I only know what I hear.”
“From Marilyn, I assume.”
“Yes, and…around.”
