Pandemic

33

THURSDAY, 8:45 A.M.

Jack hit the button for the third floor in the back elevator of the Public Health Laboratory building. As he did so, he couldn’t help noticing how beat-up the cab was. He knew it was the service elevator, which had to carry a huge assortment of freight over many years, but how that resulted in all the damage, he had no idea. There was not a single surface that wasn’t scarified. As a civil servant himself, he wondered how it was that city property could look so worse for wear. Its battered state seemed fittingly emblematic of the disarray of his own life.

While he slowly ascended, he thought over the autopsy he’d just done on John Carver. It had been an unsettling experience, as there had been a moment at the very beginning that had made him pause. In all his twenty years as a forensic pathologist it had been the first time doing an autopsy that he’d had an emotional response, as it was also the first time he was called upon to eviscerate a person he’d so recently interacted with. He’d considered himself a professional hardened by repetition, but obviously it wasn’t entirely true. The situation had made him realize he was more of a softy than he’d thought.

After that initial psychological bump in the road, the autopsy had proceeded apace. Once again, both he and Vinnie had done the procedure in full moon suits, even though Jack thought that the protection they used against HIV would have been adequate. Most important, the autopsy findings were exactly the same as Carol’s and Helen’s. The man’s lungs were entirely filled with edema, exudate, and near liquefaction such that he had essentially drowned. It made Jack appreciate with striking clarity the human immune system’s power to do harm as well as good.

After the autopsy was over and with Vinnie involved in cleaning up, Jack had taken it upon himself to deliver the lung fluid samples to Aretha, which was why he was currently in the Public Health Laboratory building’s elevator. Yet playing delivery boy wasn’t his only motivation. He also had been eager to hear if she’d made any progress on her identification efforts and to discuss with her his retrovirus idea. Getting there had been easier than he’d anticipated; the horde of reporters and TV trucks had abandoned their stakeout of the old OCME building.

Similar to his first visit on Monday, Aretha was waiting for him when the elevator doors opened on the third floor, just outside the level 3 biosafety laboratory. She was her typical lively self and was happy to relieve Jack of the new samples. Her cornrow hairstyle looked as if it had been recently redone. Jack imagined it took time to achieve, but the end result was a work of art.

“Have you recovered from that weird episode last night?” Aretha said straight off. “That was one strange scene. Did someone really get shot? That’s so bizarre and scary.”

“With everything that has happened today, I haven’t even had time to think about it,” Jack said. “I assume you heard about the pandemic influenza panic this morning.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Aretha said. “We were all called at the crack of dawn to get in here to prepare for what we thought was going to be a surge of samples. I can’t tell you how relieved we were when it turned out to be a false alarm.”

“Did you see the Daily News that started it all?”

“I haven’t,” Aretha said.

“You should take a peek at it. It’s classic irresponsible journalism,” Jack said. “How about your work? Have you made any progress on identifying the virus?”

“Not yet,” Aretha told him. “But now that the influenza panic is over, I’m preparing to run my first BLAST search this morning with the nucleotide sequences the MPS machine has produced. So, fingers crossed. Let’s think positively. I might have something interesting this afternoon. It’s a little bit of a crapshoot. As I’ve said, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I’ve got my fingers crossed,” Jack said. He held his hand up to prove it. He knew that the virus needed to be identified before a test could be created and a possible treatment decided on.

“I also spoke with Connie Moran at the CDC just a few minutes ago,” Aretha said. “She’s at the same point as I am but more experienced. So maybe she’ll have something before I do. She’s promised to call the moment she does, and I’ll let you know.”

“Terrific,” Jack said. “There’s one other thing I wanted to mention to you. I had a kind of revelation this morning. I’m thinking we are dealing with a retrovirus somewhat like HIV, but one that affects the immune system in an opposite fashion.”

“Then we’re on the same page,” Aretha said. “I, too, have been thinking of a retrovirus. And so has Connie Moran, who I shared the clinical information with, including the autopsy findings this morning. I hope you don’t mind. I thought it could help. The moment I did, she shared something amazing with me. She had been in contact with the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control in Solna, Sweden. Are you familiar with that organization?”

“I’m not,” Jack admitted.

“It’s the European Union’s equivalent of the CDC,” Aretha explained. “She said she had been talking with them this morning and was told that they have had two cases of respiratory death that sounded just like yours. Sudden onset and death within hours. One in London and one in Rome. They have an official alert out for any more.”

“Really?” Jack questioned. “When did these deaths occur?”

“Both were yesterday,” Aretha said. “I thought you might find it interesting, so I asked for the details. Both were Americans. The one in Rome was a twenty-six-year-old woman who died on a nonstop flight from New York, which caused the entire flight to be quarantined. A ghastly situation for those unlucky enough to be on the flight. The London case was a twenty-eight-year-old male New Yorker who had been in London for a week.”

“Holy crap,” Jack said. He was stunned.

“What the hell does holy crap mean?” Aretha teased. “You generation X’s are too hung up on language. I think having two cases already showing up in Europe justifies at least a holy shit.”

“You’re right,” Jack said, and laughed. He knew he was old-fashioned when it came to strong language, which good old Carlos had challenged on Monday. “This problem is already threatening to turn into a pandemic before it’s even an epidemic. When you talk to Connie Moran again, see if she can get us the names and other details. The epidemic intelligence team that’s on its way from the CDC will need to know, if they don’t already.”

“Do you want to see the electron photomicrographs from the CDC that I mentioned?” Aretha asked.

“I think I’ll pass for now,” Jack said. “I should be getting back to find out how my wife is doing handling the fallout from this morning’s debacle.”

“I could email them to you,” Aretha said.

“Perfect,” Jack said. “Good luck with BLAST!” He now held up both of his hands with his fingers crossed.

When Jack got to the corner of 26th Street and First Avenue, he glanced over toward the entrance of 421 that was set back behind a small patch of greenery. Milling about were a good portion of the horde of reporters who had earlier been camped out in front of 520. Their presence outside meant Laurie had yet to start the news briefing she had promised and was most likely still in her office. Accordingly, Jack headed north up First Avenue.

As he had noticed en route to the Public Health Laboratory, the traffic was still far lighter than normal. And only because he was looking at the traffic did he see a black Suburban moving slowly along the curb several blocks behind him. Could it have been the same vehicle he’d seen that morning? Jack had no idea, but it made him feel uneasy.

Since the reporters outside of the OCME had dispersed, the front door was unlocked and Marlene, the long-term receptionist, was sitting behind her raised countertop desk. It was always a pleasure for Jack to see her, and she greeted him with her signature warmth. There were a few other people in the lobby. Jack didn’t know if they were reporters or grieving family members. He ignored them.

After being buzzed into the interior of the OCME by Marlene, Jack walked into the front office. Now both secretaries were at their respective desks. Laurie’s private office door was closed, which Jack did not interpret as a positive sign. He stopped in front of Cheryl’s desk. She was on the phone but quickly finished her call and hung up.

“What’s the story?” Jack asked, gesturing toward Laurie’s closed door.

“You’re to go right in,” Cheryl said.

“Fair enough,” Jack said. He didn’t know how to interpret such an order. What it suggested was that Laurie had anticipated his return. He didn’t know if that was good news or bad. He opened the door, stepped in, and pulled the door closed behind him. Things hadn’t changed since he’d left in a bit of a huff. Paul Plodget was still there, and he and Laurie were still sitting in the same positions as they had been earlier. There was obvious tension in the air.

“You people don’t look very happy,” Jack said.

“There’s not a lot to be happy about,” Laurie said.

“Is the city getting itself back to a semblance of normal?” Jack asked. Although Laurie was looking directly at him, Paul wasn’t. Jack wondered why.

“Hardly,” Laurie said. “Not with subways shut down and schools closed. But be that as it may, there is something I need to ask you.”

“Well, here I am,” Jack said, smiling in a cocky fashion while spreading his hands with his palms up. He knew it was a mildly provocative gesture that probably should have been avoided, but he couldn’t help himself. Laurie’s tone and Paul’s avoidant behavior were suggestive that something unpleasant was coming along the lines of whether he had contacted the Daily News. Jack wasn’t one to face adversity sitting down.

“What do you know of Carlos Sanchez?” Laurie demanded.

“Nice boy,” Jack said. It was a quote from David Ben-Gurion, the founder of Israel, when asked about Ariel Sharon after Sharon had annihilated a Jordanian village as a reprisal. The quote had stayed in Jack’s mind for the perfect situation. He thought this was it.

“Jack!” Laurie snapped. “Please be serious for a moment.”

“I assume you are referring to one of our mortuary techs in training,” Jack responded. “Am I getting close?”

“Yes,” Laurie said with exasperation. “The police have learned that he was the source of the information that led to the Daily News headline and article. He made no attempt to deny it, nor the fact that he had been paid. He claims that you were the direct source of all the information. Is that true?”

“I had a sneaking suspicion that Mr. Sanchez had to be the one who’d spoken to the tabloid. Actually, I had forgotten his last name, so thank you for reminding me.”

“You are avoiding my question,” Laurie snapped. “Were you the one who gave this erroneous information to Mr. Sanchez, so he would call the Daily News?”

“Let’s put it this way,” Jack said. “I didn’t say a word about the Black Death.”

Laurie closed her eyes for a moment. Jack had the sense she was probably counting to ten, and he tried to convince himself to restrain the sarcasm. The problem was that accusing him of being the source via Carlos Sanchez wasn’t that different from being accused of being the source who called the Daily News. He couldn’t believe that Laurie could think he was capable.

“What in heaven’s name did you say to this man?” Laurie demanded.

“All right,” Jack said, now holding up his hands, palms out, as a calming gesture. “Let’s put this all into context. Carlos Sanchez had been hired as a mortuary tech by our chief of staff. He was under Vinnie Ammendola’s wing for training. Unfortunately, Vinnie quickly learned Carlos was not up to the job, something I sensed when we three worked together Monday on the first subway death, which, by the way, Carlos found very distasteful. As Vinnie said, the man was squeamish and a germaphobe. Anyway, Vinnie went to the chief of staff to get the man fired for being unsuitable as a mortuary tech, but Twyla wouldn’t take Vinnie’s word. Twyla ordered Vinnie to give the guy another chance.”

“Please!” Laurie said, interrupting. “Please get to the point! What did you say to Mr. Sanchez?”

“To understand what I said, you have to understand the situation,” Jack snapped back. “Do you want to hear or not?”

“I want to hear,” Laurie said, struggling to control her impatience.

“When I called Vinnie to set up for the second subway death, he asked me if I could help dissuade Carlos from becoming a mortuary tech. Since we both knew his response to the first subway death autopsy, we thought we could emphasize what the second one suggested — namely, that the problem was contagious on some level. So that’s what we did, and he decided being a mortuary tech was not in his future and stormed out.”

“Did you use the term subway pandemic?” Laurie asked, losing patience.

“Yes,” Jack finally admitted. “I said something like, ‘Now we know we could be facing a real subway pandemic.’ It was a little like those signs you see on Forty-seventh Street for ‘genuine artificial diamonds.’”

“What about the 1918 flu pandemic?” Laurie asked. “Did you mention anything about that in relation to this possible ‘subway pandemic’?”

“Yes, but again in a hypothetical context,” Jack admitted.

Laurie looked at Paul. They both nodded as if in conspiratorial agreement. She then refocused on Jack. “Well, all this puts me in an unfortunate position. Paul and I have been on the phone with both the Commissioner of Health and the mayor practically since you walked out of here. And I have to tell you, the mayor is livid for fear this costly debacle will be blamed on him and his administration. Everyone knows what a big champion he’s been of the Pandemic Influenza Preparedness and Response Plan to the extent of ordering almost yearly exercises and drills.” Laurie cleared her throat before continuing. “I have been instructed by the Commissioner of Health and the mayor to put you on unpaid administrative leave while this entire episode is under official investigation and review. That means you have to surrender your official medical examiner badge. The mayor needs a scapegoat, and unfortunately you have been selected.”

For a few moments, absolute silence reigned in the room. “I don’t believe this,” Jack finally snapped. “This is absurd. Especially since there very well might be a pandemic brewing that I need to continue investigating. I just autopsied a third case that was clinically the same as the first two. We’re thinking it’s some new retrovirus that spreads by body fluids.”

“Has Virology identified an actual agent?” Laurie asked.

“No, but there’s reason to believe they are close, not only here at the Public Health Laboratory but also at the Unknown Pathogens section of the CDC.”

“Then it is appropriate for a CDC epidemiological team to be on its way,” Laurie said. “I’m sorry, Jack. But these are my orders.”

“I’ve just heard there have been two cases of the same illness in Europe involving two people from New York,” Jack said, almost pleading.

“I’m certain the CDC people will be interested to hear,” Laurie said. “May I have your badge?”

“Laurie, you can’t do this!” Jack could hear the agitation rising in his voice. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Go home,” Laurie said. “I’ll try to expedite the investigation as much as I can and get you reinstated. Let me have your badge.”

“I can’t go home with your parents encamped in our guest room,” Jack snapped. “I’ll go crazy.”

“I can’t do anything about that now,” Laurie said. “Maybe tonight. Right now, this problem that you must admit you are responsible for to some degree will be taking all my energy.”

With sudden anger at himself and the world in general, including Laurie, Jack pulled out his NYC medical examiner badge in its leather holder and thumped it down on Laurie’s desk. He found it hard to believe that Laurie couldn’t have talked the mayor out of such a draconian consequence. To him it seemed unreasonably cruel to rob him of a large part of his identity, not to mention his defense mechanism against Emma’s putative diagnosis and against the mental demons stemming from the demise of his first family. He needed to work. For Jack it was like being forced out of the house on a cold night with no clothes.