First Victim

CHAPTER 53

oldt caught Dixon in the middle of an autopsy. An eighty-fiveyear-old widow had fallen off a ladder while changing a light bulb and had broken her neck. The law required Dixon to cut her up and take his samples, and though typically an assistant would have handled such a case, the late summer vacation schedule put the burden on the boss. He went about it with all the enthusiasm of a parking lot cashier.

The room smelled foul despite the ventilation system. Boldt hated the taste it left in his mouth.

‘‘Flu shots?’’ Dixon asked.

Boldt said, ‘‘What if the illegals aren’t the only ones sick? These Hilltop women were raped—that’s close contact. What if the skin irritation on Jane Doe was from industrial detergent, as in a car wash?’’

Clearly impressed, Dixon said, ‘‘Not so far-fetched.’’

‘‘Close physical contact,’’ Boldt repeated. ‘‘You said yourself it was highly contagious. What if it spread? What if a couple guys are real sick? What if the evening news happened to report that a flu shot and an antibiotic had just come available? That both were specific to what authorities were calling the ‘container flu’?’’

‘‘The antibiotic wouldn’t be specific to the flu,’’ Dixon advised.

‘‘So they issue a retraction? The point being that we could use it as bait. We’ve seen guards on the videos. People have been around these women. Close contact. Someone has buried them. Handled them.’’

The doctor’s gloved hands made sucking noises inside the cadaver. He said, ‘‘This is no Ebola, or something—it’s a very bad flu. It’s treatable.’’

‘‘But if the news plays it up, if there’s a treatment available at a clinic, if our people are at that clinic, and if it requires them to fill out a form that includes an exposure date—’’

‘‘That’s completely unnecessary!’’

‘‘But they don’t know that! The average guy doesn’t know that! I wouldn’t know that. Jill Doe was in the ground weeks ahead of Jane Doe. Jane Doe was dead before the container. The point being that if we can trick someone into naming a date ahead of the container’s arrival, then that person will have to explain his exposure.’’

‘‘No one would ever run such a story. It’s medically unsound. They fact check, you know? Your only hope is with the tabloids, believe me.’’

‘‘My hope is that this office will issue a press release,’’ Boldt stated bluntly.

Dixon’s hands stopped, submerged in the corpse. ‘‘Well then, you just lost all hope.’’ He said firmly, ‘‘I understand what you’re going for, Lou. In a warped kind of way, it even makes sense. It’s a pretty good idea. But I cannot put this department in the position you’re asking me to. If we lose integrity and trust, if the public believes we’re willing to manipulate the truth for the good of SPD . . . It just doesn’t work. We’re a team of medical professionals. Believe me, we have image problems enough without this kind of thing: ‘second-rate doctors’; ‘surgeons whose only patients are dead.’ Can’t do it, Lou.’’

‘‘But it might work,’’ Boldt suggested, looking for encouragement.

‘‘I’d give it a qualified yes—a highly qualified yes.’’ He repeated, ‘‘But it doesn’t matter. You’ll never get anyone to run the story.’’

Boldt said, ‘‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’’