Plum Island

CHAPTER 4

It was after eleven as I drove along the lane that led to the Gordons' house. The night was lit by a nice three-quarter moon, and a pleasant breeze brought the smell of the sea through the open windows of my new moss green Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited, a $40,000 indulgence that the nearly deceased John Corey thought he owed himself.

I stopped fifty yards from the house, put the vehicle into "park," and listened to a few more minutes of Giants-Dallas, then I shut off the engine. A voice said, "Your headlights are on."

"Shut up," I replied, "just shut up." I switched off the headlights.

There are many options in life, but one option you should never choose is the "Voice Warning and Advisory Option."

I opened the door. "Your key is in the ignition. Your emergency brake is not engaged." It was a female voice, and I swear to God it sounded like my ex-wife. "Thank you, dear." I took my keys, climbed down, and slammed the door.

The vehicles and crowds on the small street had thinned considerably, and I figured that the bodies had been removed, it being a fact of life that the arrival of the meat wagon usually satisfies most of the spectators and signals the end of Act One, Also, they all wanted to see themselves on the eleven o'clock news.

There was a new addition to the police presence since my earlier visit: a Suffolk County police mobile van was parked in front of the house near the forensic van. This new van was the command post that could accommodate investigators, radios, fax machines, cell phones, video equipment, and the other high-tech doodads that make up the arsenal in the never-ending battle against crime and all that.

I noticed a helicopter overhead, and I could see by the light of the moon that it was from one of the networks. Though I couldn't hear the reporter's voice, he or she was probably saying something like, "Tragedy struck this exclusive Long Island community earlier this evening." Then some stuff about Plum Island and so on.

I made my way through the last of the stragglers, avoiding anyone who looked like the working press. I stepped over the yellow tape, and this immediately attracted a Southold cop. I tinned the guy and got a half-assed salute.

The uniformed crime scene recorder approached me with a clipboard and time sheet, and again I gave him my name, my business, and so forth, as he requested. This is SOP and is done throughout the investigation of the crime, beginning with the first officer at the scene and continuing until the last officer leaves and the scene is returned to the owner of the property. In any case, they had me twice now and the hook was in deeper.

I asked the uniformed officer, "Do you have a guy from the Department of Agriculture logged in?"

He replied without even looking at the sheet, "No."

"But there is a man from the Department of Agriculture here. Correct?"

"You'll have to ask Chief Maxwell."

"I'm asking you why you haven't logged this guy in."

"You'll have to ask Chief Maxwell."

"I will." Actually, I already knew the answer. They don't call these guys spooks for nothing.

I walked around to the backyard and onto the deck. In the places where the Gordons had lain were now two chalk outlines, looking very ghostly in the moonlight. A big sheet of clear plastic covered the splatter behind them where their mortality had exited.

Regarding this, as I said, I was glad this was an open-air shooting, and there was no lingering smell of death. I hate it when I go back to the scene of an indoor murder and that smell is still there. Why is it that I can't get that smell out of my mind? Out of my nostrils? Out of the back of my throat? Why is that?

Two uniformed Southold guys sat at the round patio table drinking from steaming Styrofoam cups. I recognized one of them as Officer Johnson, whose kindness in driving me home I had repaid by getting a little rough with him. It's a tough world, you know, and I'm one of the people who make it that way. Officer Johnson gave me an unpleasant glance.

Down by the dock, I could make out the silhouette of another uniformed man, and I was glad someone had taken my advice to post a guard by the boat.

There was no one else around so I went into the house through the sliding screen door, which opened into a big living room and dining room combo. I'd been here before, of course, and recalled that Judy said most of the furnishings came with the rental, Scandinavian from Taiwan, as she described it.

A few forensic types were still messing around, and I asked one of them, a cute latent fingerprint lady, "Chief Maxwell?"

She jerked her thumb over her shoulder and said, "Kitchen. Don't touch anything on the way there."

"Yes, ma'am." I floated across the Berber carpet and alighted in the kitchen where a conference seemed to be in progress. Present were Max, representing the sovereign Township of Southold, Elizabeth Penrose, representing the free and independent County of Suffolk, a gentleman in a dark suit who didn't need a sign that said FBI, and another gentleman, more casually dressed in denim jacket and jeans, a blood-red shirt, and hiking boots, a sort of parody of what a Department of Agriculture bureaucrat might look like if he ever left the office and had to visit a farm.

Everyone was standing, like they were giving the impression of literally thinking on their feet. There was a cardboard box filled with Styrofoam coffee cups, and everyone had a cup in his or her hand. It was interesting and significant, I thought, that this group wasn't assembled in the mobile command post, but was sort of out of sight in the kitchen.

Max, incidentally, had spiffed himself up for the Feds and/or the press by putting on a tie, a silly one decorated with nautical flags. Elizabeth was still wearing her tan suit, but had removed her jacket, revealing one holstered.38 and two holstered 36 Ds.

A small black and white TV sat on the counter, tuned to one of the networks, the volume low. The lead story was about a presidential visit to some strange place where everyone was short.

Max said to the two guys, "This is Detective John Corey, homicide," and let it go at that without mentioning that my jurisdiction began and ended about a hundred miles west of here. Max indicated the dark suit and said, "John, this is George Foster, FBI…" He looked at Mr. Bluejeans and said, "… and this is Ted Nash, Department of Agriculture."

We shook hands all around. I informed Penrose, "Giants scored in the first minute of the third quarter."

She didn't reply.

Max motioned toward the box of cups and asked, "Coffee?"

"No, thanks."

Ms. Penrose, who was closest to the TV, heard something on the news and raised the volume. We all focused on the screen.

A female reporter was standing in front of the Gordon house. We missed her lead-in and caught, "The victims of the double murder have been identified as scientists who worked at the top secret government animal disease laboratory on Plum Island, a few miles from here."

An aerial shot now showed Plum Island from about two thousand feet. It was bright daylight, so it must have been stock footage. From the air, the island looked almost exactly like a pork chop, and I guess if you wanted to stretch an irony about swine fever… Anyway, Plum is about three miles at its longest, and about a mile at its widest. The reporter, in voice-over, was saying, "This is Plum Island as it appeared last summer when this station did a report about persistent rumors that the island is home to biological warfare research."

Aside from the hackneyed phrases, the lady was right about the rumors. I recalled a cartoon I'd once seen in The Wall Street Journal where a school guidance counselor says to two parents, "Your son is vicious, mean-spirited, dishonest, and likes to spread rumors. I suggest a career in journalism." Right. And rumors could lead to panic. It occurred to me that this case had to be wrapped up quickly.

The reporter was now back in front of the Gordons' house, and she informed us, "No one is saying if the Gordons' murders were related to their work on Plum Island, but police are investigating."

Back to the studio.

Ms. Penrose turned off the volume and asked Mr. Foster, "Does the FBI want to be publicly connected with this case?"

"Not at this time." Mr. Foster added, "It makes people think there's a real problem."

Mr. Nash said, "The Department of Agriculture has no official interest in this case since there is no connection between the Gordons' work and their deaths. The department will issue no public statements, except an expression of sorrow over the murders of two well-liked and dedicated employees."

Amen. I mentioned to Mr. Nash, "By the way, you forgot to sign in."

He looked at me, a little surprised and a lot annoyed, and replied, "I'll… thank you for reminding me."

"Anytime. Every time."

After a minute of public relations chitchat, Max said to Messrs. Foster and Nash, "Detective Corey knew the deceased."

Mr. FBI immediately got interested and asked me, "How did you know them?"

It's not a good idea to start answering questions — it gives people the idea that you're a cooperative fellow, which I'm not. I didn't reply.

Max answered for me, "Detective Corey knew the Gordons socially, only about three months. I've known John on and off about ten years."

Foster nodded. Clearly he had more questions and while he was hesitating about asking, Detective Penrose said, "Detective Corey is writing a full report on what he knew of the Gordons which I will share with all concerned agencies."

That was news to me.

Mr. Nash was leaning against a kitchen counter looking at me. We stared at each other, the two dominant males in the room, if you will, and we decided without a word that we didn't like each other, and that one of us had to go. I mean, the air was so thick with testosterone that the wallpaper was getting soggy.

I turned my attention to Max and Penrose and asked, "Have we determined that this is more than a homicide? Is that why the federal government is here?"

No one replied.

I continued, "Or are we just assuming that it is more? Did I miss a meeting or something?"

Mr. Ted Nash finally replied coolly, "We are being cautious, Detective. We have no concrete evidence that this homicide is connected to matters of… well, to be blunt, matters of national security."

I remarked, "I never realized the Department of Agriculture was involved in national security. Do you have, like, undercover cows?"

Mr. Nash gave me a nice fuck-you smile and said, "We have wolves in sheep's clothing."

"Touché." Prick.

Mr. Foster butted in before it got nasty and said, "We're here as a precautionary measure, Detective. We'd be very remiss if we didn't check it out. We all hope it was just a murder with no Plum Island connection."

I regarded George Foster a moment. He was thirtyish, typical clean-cut, bright-eyed FBI type, wearing the FBI dark suit, white shirt, muted tie, black sturdy shoes, and halo.

I shifted my attention to Ted Nash wearing the aforementioned denims; he was closer to my age, tanned, curly salt-and-pepper hair, blue-gray eyes, impressive build, and all in all what the ladies would call a hunk, which is one of the reasons I didn't like him, I guess. I mean, how many hunks do you need in one room?

I might have been more pleasant to him except that he was throwing glances at Elizabeth Penrose, who was catching them and pitching them back. I don't mean they were leering and drooling; just real quick eye-to-eye flashes and neutral expressions, but you'd have to be blind not to figure out what was going through their dirty minds. Jeez, the whole friggin' planet was about to get anthrax and die or something, and these two are like dogs in heat, eye-fucking each other when we had important business at hand. Really disgusting.

Max interrupted my thoughts and said to me, "John, we have still not recovered the two bullets fired through their heads, but we can assume they went into the bay, and we'll be dredging and diving early tomorrow." He added, "There were no shell casings found."

I nodded. An automatic pistol would spit out shell casings whereas a revolver would not. If the weapon was an automatic, then the murderer was cool enough to bend down and gather the two shell casings.

So far, we had basically nothing. Two head shots, no bullets, no casings, no noise heard next door.

I regarded Mr. Nash again. He looked like a worried man, and I was happy to see that between thoughts of popping Ms. Penrose, he was thinking about saving the planet. In fact, everyone in the kitchen seemed to be thinking about things, probably germs, and they were probably wondering if they were going to wake up with red blotches or something.

Ted Nash reached into the cardboard box and asked Detective Penrose, "Another coffee, Beth?"

Beth What the hell…?

She smiled, "No, thank you."

My stomach had settled down so I went to the refrigerator for a beer. The shelves were nearly empty and I asked, "Max, did you take things out of here?"

"The lab took everything that was not factory sealed."

"Do you want a beer?" No one answered, so I took a Coors Light, popped the top, and took a swig.

I noticed eight eyes on me, like they were waiting for something to happen. People get weird when they think they're in an infected environment. I had a crazy urge to clutch my throat, fall on the floor, and go into convulsions. But I wasn't with my buds in Manhattan North, chicks and dicks who would get a kick out of sick humor, so I passed on the opportunity to add some comic relief to the grimness. I said to Max, "Please continue."

He said, "We've searched the entire house and turned up nothing unusual or significant, except that half the drawers were intact, some closets didn't even look like they'd been searched, the books on the bookshelves weren't pulled out. A very amateur job of pretending it was a burglary."

I said, "It still could have been a junkie, strung out and not real focused." I added, "Or maybe the perp was interrupted, or the perp was looking for one thing and found it."

"Maybe," Max agreed.

Everyone looked pensive, which is good cover-up for clueless.

The striking thing about this double homicide, I thought, was still the outdoor shooting, the bang, bang, right on the deck without much preamble. There was nothing the killer needed or wanted from the Gordons, except that they be dead. So, yes, the killer either had what he wanted from inside the house, and/or the Gordons were carrying what the killer wanted, in plain view, i.e., the ice chest. It came back to the missing ice chest.

And the killer knew the Gordons and they knew him. I was convinced of that. Hi Tom, Hi Judy. Bang, bang. They fall, the ice chest falls… no, it's got vials of deadly virus in it. Hi Tom, Hi Judy. Put that chest down. Bang, bang. They fall. The bullets sail through their skulls into the bay.

Also, he had to have a silencer. No pro would pop off two big boomers outdoors. And it was probably an automatic, because revolvers don't adapt well to a silencer.

I asked Max, "Do the Murphys own a dog?"

"Nope."

"Okay… Did you find any money, wallets, or anything on the victims?"

"Yes. They each had matching sports wallets; each had their Plum Island ID, driver's license, credit cards, and such. Tom had thirty-seven dollars in cash, Judy had fourteen." He added, "Each had a photo of the other."

It's little things, sometimes, that bring it all home, that make it personal. Then you have to remember Rule One: don't get emotionally involved — it doesn't matter, Corey, if it's a little kid who got greased, or a nice old lady, or pretty Judy who winked at you once, and Tom who wanted you to love the wines he loved and who cooked your steak just so. For the homicide dick, it does not matter who the victim is, it only matters who the killer is.

Max said, "I guess you figured out that we never found that ice chest. You're sure about the chest?"

I nodded.

Mr. Foster gave me his considered opinion. "We think the Gordons were carrying the chest, and the killer or killers wanted what was inside, and what was inside was you-know-what." He added, "I think the Gordons were selling the stuff and the deal went bad."

I looked around at the meeting of the kitchen cabinet. It's hard to read the faces of people whose job it is to read other people's faces. Still, I had the feeling that George Foster's statement represented the consensus.

So, if these people were right, that would presuppose two things — one, the Gordons were really stupid, never considering that anyone who would want enough virus and bacteria to kill a zilhon people might not hesitate to kill them, and two, it presupposed the Gordons were totally indifferent to the consequences of their selling death for gold. What I knew for sure about Tom and Judy was that they were neither stupid, nor heartless.

I would also assume that the killer was not stupid, and I wondered if he knew or could tell if what was in the chest was the real thing. How could he possibly know? Hi Tom, Hi Judy. Got the virus? Good. Bang, bang.

Yes? No? I tried different scenarios with and without the ice chest, with and without the person or persons whom the Gordons must have known, and so forth. Also, how did this person or these people get to the Gordons' house? Boat? Car? I asked Max, "Strange vehicles?"

Max replied, "There were no strange vehicles seen by anyone we've questioned. The Gordons' two cars are both in their garage." He added, "Forensics will take them to the lab tomorrow along with the boat."

Ms. Penrose spoke to me directly for the first time and said, "It's possible the killer or killers arrived by boat. That's my theory."

I said to her, "It's also possible, Elizabeth, that the killer or killers arrived in one of the Gordons' cars which the killer may have borrowed. I really think they knew each other."

She stared at me, then said a bit curtly, "I think it was a boat, Detective Corey."

"Maybe the killer walked here, or bicycled, or motorcycled." I continued, "Maybe he swam here, or was dropped off. Maybe he windsurfed in or paraglided. Maybe the killers are Edgar Murphy and his wife."

She stared hard at me, and I could tell she was pissed. I know that look. I was married.

Max interrupted our discussion and said, "And here's something interesting, John — according to the security people on Plum, the Gordons signed out at noon, got into their boat, and headed out."

You could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the silence.

Mr. Foster said to us, "One possibility that comes to mind is that the Gordons had secreted whatever it was they were selling somewhere in a cove or inlet on Plum, and they took their boat there and recovered the stuff. Or maybe they just walked out of the lab with that ice chest, put it aboard, and took off. In either case, they then met their customers out in the bay and transferred the chestful of vials at sea, so when they returned here, they didn't have the chest, but they had the money. They ran into their killer here, and after he shot them, he took the money back."

We all considered that scenario. Of course you have to wonder, if the transfer had taken place at sea, why wasn't the murder also done at sea? When homicide guys talk about the perfect murder, they talk about murder on the high seas — little or no forensic evidence, usually no noise, no witnesses, and most times no body. And if it's done right, it looks like an accident.

It stands to reason that pros who just copped a lethal bug are not going to draw attention to it by killing two Plum Island people on their back deck. Still, it was supposed to look like the Gordons surprised a burglar. But whoever staged that wasn't very convincing. This whole thing looked amateurish, or maybe it was done by foreigners who didn't watch enough American cop shows on TV. Or, something else.

And what about those five and a half hours between the time the Gordons left Plum Island at noon, and the time Mr. Murphy said he heard the Gordons' boat at 5:30? Where were they?

Max said, "That's about all we have at the moment, John. We'll have the lab reports tomorrow, and there are people we have to speak to tomorrow. Can you suggest anyone we ought to see? Friends of the Gordons?"

"I don't know who the Gordons were friends with, and to the best of my knowledge, they had no enemies." I said to Mr. Nash, "Meanwhile, I want to speak to the people on Plum Island."

Mr. Nash replied, "It may be possible for you to speak to some people who work on Plum Island." He added, "But in the interest of national security, I must be present at all interviews."

I replied in my best New York obnoxious tone, "This is a murder investigation, remember? Don't pull that crap on me."

It got a little frosty in the kitchen. I mean, I work with FBI and Drug Enforcement types now and then, and they're okay people — they're cops. However, these spooks, like Nash, are real pains in the ass. The guy wasn't even saying if he was CIA, Defense Intelligence, Military Intelligence, or some other weird outfit. What I knew for sure was that he wasn't from the Department of Agriculture.

Max, feeling I suppose like the host at this gathering of egos, said, "I don't have any problem with Ted Nash being present at any interviews or interrogations." He looked at Penrose.

My buddy Beth gave me a curt glance and said to Nash, the eye-fucker, "I have no problem with that either."

George Foster pointed out, "Any meeting, interview, interrogation, or working session at which Ted is present, the FBI will also be present."

I was really getting the crap kicked out of me, and I was wondering if Max was going to pull the plug on me.

The reasonable Mr. Foster went on, "My area of concern is domestic terrorism. Ted Nash is concerned with international espionage." He looked at me, Max, and Penrose, and said, "You are investigating a homicide under New York State law. If we all keep out of one another's way, we'll be fine. I won't play homicide detective if you won't play defenders of the free world. Fair? Logical? Workable? Absolutely."

I looked at Nash and asked him bluntly, "Who do you work for?"

"I'm not at liberty to say at this time." He added, "Not the Department of Agriculture."

"Fooled me," I said sarcastically. "You guys are sharp."

Penrose suggested, "Detective Corey, can we have a word outside?"

I ignored her and pressed on with Mr. Nash. I needed to get seven points on the board, and I knew how to do it. I said to Nash, "We'd like to go to Plum Island tonight."

He looked surprised. "Tonight? There aren't any ferries running — "

"I don't need a government ferry. We'll take Max's police boat."

"Out of the question," said Nash.

"Why?"

"The island is off-limits," he said.

"This is a murder investigation," I reminded him. "Didn't we just agree that Chief Maxwell, Detective Penrose, and I are investigating a murder?"

"Not on Plum Island you're not."

"We sure are." I love this stuff. I really do. I hoped Penrose was seeing what a putz this guy was.

Mr. Nash said, "There is no one on Plum now."

I replied, "There are security people on Plum now, and I want to speak to them. Now."

"In the morning and not on the island."

"Now, and on the island, or I'll get a judge out of bed and get a search warrant."

Mr. Nash stared at me and said, "It is unlikely that a local judge would issue a search warrant for U.S. government property: You would need to involve an assistant United States attorney and a federal judge. I assume you know that if you're a homicide detective, and what you may also know is that neither a U.S. attorney nor a federal judge will be enthusiastic about issuing such a warrant if it involves national security." He added, "So don't bluff and bluster."

"How about if I threaten?"

Finally, Max had had enough of Mr. Nash, whose sheep's clothing was slipping. Max said to Nash, " Plum Island may be federal land, but it's part of the Township of Southold, the County of Suffolk, and the State of New York. I want you to get us authorization to go to the island tomorrow, or we'll get a court order."

Mr. Nash now tried to sound pleasant. "There's really no need to go to the island, Chief."

Detective Penrose found herself on my side, of course, and said to her new friend, "We have to insist, Ted."

Ted? Wow, I really missed some stuff in the lousy hour I was late.

Ted and Beth looked at each other, tortured souls, torn between rivalry and ribaldry. Finally, Mr. Ted Nash, of the Bug Security Agency or whatever, said, "Well… I'll make a call about that."

"Tomorrow, a.m.," I said. "No later."

Mr. Foster didn't let the opportunity pass to tweak Mr. Nash and said, "I think we're all in agreement that we're going out there tomorrow morning, Ted."

Mr. Nash nodded. By now he'd stopped batting his eyelids at Beth Penrose and was concentrating his passions on me. He looked at me and said, "At some point, Detective Corey, if we determine that a federal crime has taken place, we probably won't need your services any longer."

I had reduced Teddy-boy to pettiness, and I knew when to leave well enough alone. I'd come back from a verbal drubbing, slain the slick Ted, and reclaimed the love of Lady Penrose. I'm terrific. I was really feeling better, feeling like my old unpleasant self again. Also, these characters needed a little fire under their asses. Rivalry is good. Competition is American. What if Dallas and New York were pals?

The other four characters were now making small talk, rummaging around the cardboard box and doing coffee stuff, trying to re-establish the amity and equilibrium that they'd established before Corey showed up. I got another beer from the fridge, then addressed Mr. Nash in a professional tone. I asked him, "What kind of bugs do they play around with on Plum? I mean, why would anyone, any foreign power, want bugs that cause hoof-and-mouth disease or Mad Cow Disease? Tell me, Mr. Nash, what I'm supposed to worry about so when I can't get to sleep tonight, I have a name for it."

Mr. Nash didn't reply for a good while, then cleared his throat and said, "I suppose you should know how high the stakes are here…" He looked at me, Max, and Penrose, then said, "Regardless of your security clearance, or lack of, you are sworn police officers, so — "

I said amiably, "Nothing you say will leave this room." Unless it suits me to blab it to someone else.

Nash and Foster looked at each other, and Foster nodded. Nash said to us, "You all know, or may have read, that the United States no longer engages in biological warfare research or development. We've signed a treaty to that effect."

"That's why I love this country, Mr. Nash. No bug bombs here."

"Right. However… there are certain diseases that make the transition between legitimate biological study and potential biological weapons. Anthrax is one such disease. As you know" — he looked at Max, Penrose, and me — "there have always been rumors that Plum Island is not only an animal disease research facility, but something else."

No one responded to that.

He continued, "In fact, it is not a biological warfare center. There is no such thing in the United States. However, I'd be less than truthful if I didn't say that biological warfare specialists sometimes visit the island to be briefed and to read reports on some of these experiments. In other words, there is a crossover between animal and human disease, between offensive biological warfare and defensive biological warfare."

Convenient crossovers, I thought.

Mr. Nash sipped his Java, considered, then continued, "African swine fever, for instance, has been associated with HIV. We study African swine fever on Plum, and the news media makes up this junk about… whatever. Same with Rift Valley fever, the Hanta virus, and other retroviruses, and the filoviruses such as Ebola Zaire and Ebola Marburg… "

The kitchen was really quiet, like everyone knew this was the scariest topic in the universe. I mean, when it was nuclear weapons, people were either fatalistic or never believed it was going to happen. With biological warfare or biological terrorism, it was imaginable. And if the right plague got loose, it was lights out world, and not in a quick incandescent flash, but slowly, as it spread from the sick to the healthy, and the dead lay rotting where they fell, a Grade B movie coming to your neighborhood soon.

Mr. Nash continued in that sort of half-reluctant, half-hey-look-what-I-know-that-you-don't kind "of voice. He said, "So… these diseases can and do infect animals, and therefore their legitimate study would fall under the jurisdiction of the Department of Agriculture… The department is trying to find a cure for these diseases, to protect American livestock and by extension to protect the American public, because even though there is usually a species barrier in regard to animal diseases infecting humans, we're discovering that some of these diseases can jump species… With the recent Mad Cow Disease in Britain, for instance, there is some evidence that people were infected by this disease… "

Maybe my ex-wife was right about meat. I tried to picture a life of soybean cheeseburgers, chile no carne, and hot dogs made out of seaweed. I'd rather die. All of a sudden I felt love and warmth for the Department of Agriculture.

I realized, too, that what Mr. Nash was putting out was the official crap — stuff about animal diseases crossing species barriers and all that. In fact, if the rumors were correct, Plum Island was also a place where human infectious diseases were specifically and purposely studied as part of a biological warfare program that no longer officially existed. On the other hand, maybe it was rumor, and maybe, too, what they were doing on Plum Island was defensive and not offensive.

It struck me that there was a very thin line between all of this stuff. Bugs are bugs. They don't know cows from pigs from people. They don't know defensive research from offensive research. They don't know preventive vaccines from air-burst bombs. Hell, they don't even know if they're good or bad. And if I listened to Nash's crap long enough, I would start to believe that Plum Island was developing exciting new yogurt cultures.

Mr. Nash was staring into his Styrofoam coffee cup as if realizing that the coffee and the water could have already been infected with Mad Cow Disease. Mr. Nash continued, "The problem is, of course, that these bacteria and virus cultures can be… I mean, if someone got his hands on these micro-organisms, and has the knowledge to propagate more from the samples, then, well, you'd have a great deal of it reproducing, and if it got into the population somehow… then you may have a potential public health problem."

I asked, "You mean like an end-of-the-world plague with the dead piling up in the streets?"

"Yes, that kind of public health problem."

Silence.

"So," Mr. Nash said in a grave tone, "while we are all anxious to discover the identity of the murderer or murderers of Mr. and Mrs. Gordon, we're more anxious to discover if the Gordons took something off that island and transferred it to an unauthorized person or persons."

No one spoke for a time, then Beth asked, "Can you… can anyone on the island determine if anything is actually missing from the laboratories?"

Ted Nash looked at Beth Penrose the way a professor looks at a favorite student who has asked a brilliant question. Actually, it wasn't that good a question — but anything to get those panties off, right, Ted?

Mr. Cool replied to his new protégée, "As you probably suspect, Beth, it may not be possible to discover if anything is missing. The problem is, the micro-organisms can be propagated secretly in some part of the Plum Island laboratory or in other places on the island, then taken off the island, and no one would ever know. It's not like chemical or nuclear agents, where every gram is accounted for. Bacteria and virus like to reproduce."

Scary, if you think about it…microbugs are low-tech compared to nuclear fission or manufacturing nerve gas. This is home lab stuff, cheap to produce, and it replicates itself in — what did we use in bio lab? Beef bouillon? No more cheeseburgers for me.

Ms. Penrose, proud of her last question, asked Mr.-Know-It-All, "Can we assume the organisms studied on Plum Island are particularly deadly? What I mean is, do they genetically engineer these organisms to make them more lethal than they are in their natural state?"

Mr. Nash did not like that question and replied, "No." Then added, "Well, the laboratory at Plum Island does have genetic engineering capabilities, but what they do is take viruses and genetically alter them so they can't cause disease, but can stimulate the immune system to produce antibodies in the event the real virus ever infects the organism. This is sort of a vaccine, made not by weakening the infectious organism and injecting it, which can be dangerous, but by genetically changing the organism. To answer your question in short, any genetic engineering done on Plum Island is to weaken a virus or bacteria, not to increase its power to cause disease."

I said, "Of course not. But that's also possible with genetic engineering."

"Possible. But not on Plum Island."

It occurred to me that Nash was genetically altering information — taking the germ of the truth, if you will, and weakening it so we got a mild dose of the bad news. Clever fellow.

I was tired of the scientific crap, and I addressed my next question to Mr. Foster. "Are you people doing anything to keep this bottled? Airports, highways, and all that?"

Mr. Foster replied, "We've got everyone out there looking for… whatever. We have all area airports, seaports, and train stations being watched by our people, local police, and Customs people, and we have the Coast Guard stopping and searching vessels, and we've even got the Drug Enforcement Agency using their boats and planes. The problem is, the perpetrators would have had about a three-hour head start because quite frankly we weren't notified in a timely fashion…"

Mr. Foster looked at Chief Maxwell, who had his arms crossed and was making a face.

A word here on Sylvester Maxwell. He's an honest cop, not the brightest bulb in the room, but not stupid either. He can be stubborn at times, though that seems to be a North Fork trait and not peculiar to the chief. Being in charge of a small rural police force that has to work with the much larger county police force and on occasion the state police, he's learned when to protect his turf and when to retreat.

Another point: the geographical realities of a maritime jurisdiction in the era of drug running has put Max in close proximity to the DEA and the Coast Guard. The DEA always assumes the local gendarmes may be in on the drug trade; the locals, like Max, are positive the DEA is in on it. The Coast Guard and FBI are considered clean, but they suspect the DEA and the local police. The Customs Service is mostly clean, but there have to be some bad guys who take bucks to look the other way. In short, drugs are the worst thing that has happened to American law enforcement since Prohibition.

And this led me from thinking about Max to thinking about drugs, about the Gordons' thirty-foot Formula with big, powerful engines. Since the facts didn't seem to fit the Gordons selling end-of-the-world plague for money, maybe the facts did fit drug running. Maybe I was on to something. Maybe I'd share this with everyone as soon as I worked it out in my mind. Maybe I wouldn't.

Mr. Foster threw a few more zingers at Chief Maxwell for his tardiness in contacting the FBI, making sure he was on the record about that. Sort of like, "Oh, Max, if only you'd come to me sooner. Now, all is lost, and it's your fault."

Max pointed out to Foster, "I called county homicide within ten minutes of learning of the murder. It was out of my hands at that point. My ass is covered."

Ms. Penrose felt eight eyes on her ass and said, "I had no idea the victims were Plum Island people."

Max said, gently but firmly, "I reported that to the guy who answered the phone, Beth. Sergeant… something. Check the tape.'

"I will," replied Detective Penrose. She added, "You may be right, Max, but let's not get into this now." She said to Foster, "Let's stick to solving the crime."

Mr. Foster replied, "Good advice." He looked around the room and offered, "Another possibility is that whoever took this stuff is not trying to take it out of the country. They could have a lab set up locally, an inconspicuous kind of operation that wouldn't attract attention, wouldn't require unusual materials or chemicals that could be traced. Worst-case scenario is that the organisms, whatever they are, are cultured, then introduced or delivered to the population in various ways. Some of these organisms are easy to deliver in the water supply, some can be airborne, some can be spread by people and animals. I'm no expert, but I phoned some people in Washington earlier, and I understand that the potential for infection and contagion is very high." He added, "A TV documentary once suggested that a coffee can full of anthrax, vaporized into the air by a single terrorist riding around Manhattan in a boat, would kill a minimum of two hundred thousand people."

The room got silent again.

Mr. Foster, enjoying the attention it seemed, continued, "It could be worse. It's hard to gauge. Anthrax is bacterial. Viruses could be worse."

I asked, "Do I understand that we're not talking about the possible theft of a single type of virus or bacteria?"

George Foster replied, "If you're going to steal anthrax, you might as well steal Ebola, too, and anything else you can get. This would pose a multifaceted threat, the type of threat that would never be found in nature, and would be impossible to contain or control."

The mantel clock in the living room struck twelve chimes, and Mr. Ted Nash, with a sense for the dramatic and wanting to impress us with his education, undoubtedly Ivy League, quoted the Bard, thus: " 'Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world."