Damaged

CHAPTER 67

JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA

Maggie stopped her rental car at the security booth. She handed over her badge and waited while the guard picked up the phone. She lifted her arm to adjust the rearview mirror and a pain shot through her elbow. Actually her entire body hurt. Who knew jumping from a helicopter could be so physically strenuous?

The guard passed back her badge.

"First building to your right. The others are waiting."

Maggie had gotten up early to catch footage of the storm damage. Charlie Wurth had told her earlier that Pensacola was lucky. At the last minute the storm had suddenly weakened and veered to the right. It made landfall as a category 4, but that was better than they expected. Watching the news reports, Maggie certainly didn't think Pensacola was lucky. The storm had still ripped apart roofs, blown out windows, and flooded homes. Electricity was out for more than a hundred thousand customers and not expected to be up and running for at least a week.

She had talked to Liz Bailey earlier, too, relieved to hear that Walter and Charlotte were okay. She was especially glad to hear that Walter would retain full use of his left hand, but it would take months of rehab. And despite sounding totally exhausted, Liz seemed to be handling the aftermath of the storm.

A military cargo plane flew low over Maggie's car, preparing to land. As she parked in front of the building she could feel the vibration. She eased out of the car and was grateful there was only a set of five steps. Ridiculous. She thought she was in good shape. She didn't like being reminded of dangling from that cable. Without effort she could conjure up the terror. She could hear the wind swirling around her and feel the rain pelting her face.

She needed some sleep, that's all. Last night she had dreamed of severed hands coming up out of the water and clinging to her. Okay, she needed dreamless sleep. Maybe another of Platt's massages. That brought a smile.

Inside the door, she had to show her badge again. A small woman in uniform led her down a hallway and into a conference room. Benjamin Platt was in uniform. She didn't recognize the other two men.

Platt did the introductions.

"Agent Maggie O'Dell, this is Captain Carl Ganz and Dr. Samuel McCleary."

Dr. McCleary decided to open defensively. "Joseph Norris has been a respected part of this program for almost ten years."

Maggie could see Platt bristle.

"Then you understand, Dr. McCleary," she began, "that means you may have contaminated tissue and bone from as long ago as ten years."

"All of our tissue is tested."

"But only for certain diseases," Platt said.

"No one could have predicted what happened at NAS in Pensacola," McCleary insisted, shaking his head. "That was one mistake. One out of thousands. And we've traced the grafts and bone paste Captain Ganz used. We think it all came from one donor." He pointed to a document already set among a pile on the table. "One donor who may have been dead longer than twelve hours."

"Actually, it was more like twenty-one hours," Platt said.

"We don't know that for certain."

"He was dead long enough for his bowels to burst and Clostridium sordellii to start spreading to his tissue."

"You have no proof of that," McCleary said.

"What about the donors Joe Black obtained without certification?" Maggie asked.

"Joseph Norris," McCleary corrected her, "followed procedure as far as I am able to judge."

"There's a funeral home in Pensacola," Maggie told him, "that has two bodies. The Escambia County sheriff says both are homeless men who disappeared just days before the hurricane. The funeral director insists Joe Black brought them there and cut one of them up to be sold and used for educational conferences."

This time McCleary was speechless.

"Joe Black was making a nice living on the side," she continued. "Diener by day, body broker during the weekends and on his days off. He admits to using soldiers' amputated parts when he came up short on an order. He already confessed that he used a few of your donors' bodies. The surgical conferences paid big bucks and he couldn't keep up with the demand."

"You'll need to check our entire supply," Ganz said to McCleary. "Norris also admits to making substitutions, replacing healthy tissue with damaged tissue."

Dr. McCleary nodded, an exaggerated bobbing of his head that told Maggie he would allow the possibility but didn't agree.

"Come," he said, and he led them out of the room and down a long hallway. "You want to do this, fine. I'll show you what you're in for."

He slid a key card and waited for the security pad to blink green. He waved the three of them into a huge room that reminded Maggie of a police evidence room, only the shelves were replaced with drawers, one on top of another. Refrigerated and freezer drawers. Rows and rows.

"Would you like to start with the feet?" McCleary said, pointing at one end. "Or perhaps the eyes?"

AUTHOR'S NOTE I've spent most of my life in tornado country, so I have a healthy respect for the forces of nature. In 2004 I bought what I believed would be a writing retreat just outside of Pensacola, Florida. Six months later, Hurricane Ivan roared ashore. It's difficult to describe the damage, and even more difficult to explain how deep the damage cuts beyond that done to physical property. There's a transformation that takes place within the community. You spend long, hot days without running water and electricity. Gasoline and groceries are limited to what you've stocked before the storm. The clean-up is physically and emotionally draining, but you find yourself grateful to be working alongside neighbors--in my case, people I had only recently met. They taught me what true strength and perseverance looks like. Nine months after Ivan, Hurricane Dennis made a direct hit. And the Pensacola community simply rolled up their collective sleeves and started cleaning up all over again. To the community of Pensacola: please know that it was out of respect and admiration that I decided to use your piece of paradise as the backdrop of Damaged. As in all my novels, I have blended fact with fiction. For the record, here are some of the facts and some of the fiction. The premise of infecting an entire tissue bank is based solely on my speculation. There have been, however, fatalities caused by infected donor tissue. One such case occurred in 2001 when it was determined that a twenty-three-year-old man who died after routine knee surgery was killed by a rare bacterium--Clostridium sordellii--and that he had contracted the infection from cadaver cartilage that was used to repair his knee. Unlike those of organ donor banks, the standards for tissue, bone, and other donated body parts are more loosely regulated. Even though the FDA established the HTTF (Human Tissue Task Force) in 2006, they continue, by their own admission, to lack the resources to inspect and regulate this vast and growing industry. The Uniform Anatomical Gift Act does prohibit the buying and selling of dead bodies, but the law allows for companies to recover their costs for expenses such as labor, transportation, processing, and storage. Demand is high, supply low, which sometimes opens the way to fraudulent brokers, as in the case of a New York funeral home where PVC pipe was swapped out for bones. Yet, because of this industry, amazing technological advances have resulted. BIOMedics is fictitious, but similar companies have been creating and manufacturing innovative products like bone screws and bone paste, which have helped save the limbs of many soldiers returning from Afghanistan and Iraq. It's true that the Naval Tissue Bank at the Naval Medical Center in Maryland was the first to use frozen bone transplants and to set up the first body donation program. However, to my knowledge you will not find a similar tissue bank in Jacksonville, Florida. Nor will you find Captain Ganz's surgical program at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola. Likewise, I must offer my apologies to the Coast Guard's Air Station Mobile and Naval Air Station Pensacola. I've taken a few liberties with takeoffs and landings, many of which would not include Pensacola Beach. While it is true that before Hurricane Dennis there were homemade signs asking The Weather Channel's Jim Cantore to "stay away" or "go home," I'm sure Mr. Cantore has witnessed many similar signs in other communities. Hopefully he views these with the same good-natured spirit in which they're intended, and as a tribute to his expertise. And last, Charlie Wurth would have found the Coffee Cup closed on Sundays, but if you're in Pensacola any other day of the week, be sure to stop and try their award-winning Nassau grits.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT Thank you to the men and women of the United States armed forces, especially the Coast Guard for what you do every single day to keep us safe. And special thanks to those few women rescue swimmers for quietly and bravely shattering glass ceilings that most of us wouldn't dare attempt. Thanks also to: The incredible team at Doubleday--Jackeline Montalvo, Judy Jacoby, Alison Rich, Suzanne Herz, Lauren Lavelle, and John Pitts--for your warm welcome, your enthusiasm, dedication, and expertise. Same goes to David Shelley and his crew at Little Brown UK. Amy Moore-Benson, my agent, for refusing to use the words "never" or "impossible." Lee Child, Steve Berry, and Tess Gerritsen, three of the most generous authors in the business. Ray Kunze, for lending his name to Maggie's boss. Just for the record, the real Ray Kunze is a gentleman and all-around nice guy who would never send Maggie into the eye of a hurricane. Lee Dixon, for giving me the idea of identifying a torso by its defibrillator implant. Darcy Lindner, funeral director, for sharing your expertise. My friends--Sharon Car, Marlene Haney, Sandy Rockwood, Leigh Ann Retelsdorf, Patti and Martin Bremmer, and Patricia Sierra--for keeping me sane and grounded. My family: Patricia Kava, Bob and Tracy Kava, Nancy and Jim Tworek, Kenny and Connie Kava, and Patti Carlin. My Florida neighbors: Lee and Betty Dixon, Terry and Bea Hummel, Sharon and Steve Kator, Elaine and Kelly McDaniels, Lee and Carol McKinstry, Mike and Jana Nicholson, Steve and Anna Ratliff, Bill and Barb Schroeder, and Larry and Diane Wilbanks. The booksellers, book buyers, and librarians across the country, for mentioning and recommending my novels. All you faithful readers--I know there's plenty of competition for your time, your entertainment, and your dollars. I thank you for continuing to choose my novels. And, as always, a special thanks to Deb Carlin, for everything. You are my Rock of Gibraltar. Last, to Walter and Emilie Carlin. Walter passed away in September of 2008, and Emilie in November of 2005, but their enduring personalities, life stories, and spirit continue to inspire. Walter would have loved seeing his bright red, white, and blue Coney Island canteen come back to life, even if briefly and only in the pages of a novel.