Vector

Chapter 4

Monday, October 18

12:30 p.m.

“Knock, knock,” a voice called.

Both Jack and Chet looked up from their desks to see Agnes Finn, the head of the microbiology lab, standing in the doorway.

“I feel like this is déjà vu,” Agnes said. “Unfortunately it’s a kind of vu I don’t like.” She had a tentative smile on her usually dour face. Her statement was the closest Jack had ever heard her come to humor. She was clutching a piece of paper in her hand.

Jack knew instantly what déjà vu she was referring to. Three years previously, when he’d made the shocking diagnosis of plague in a curious infectious case, she’d made it a point to bring the confirming results personally.

“Don’t tell me it was anthrax,” Jack said.

Agnes pushed her bottle-bottom glasses higher on her nose and handed the sheet of paper to Jack. It was the result of a direct fluorescent antibody test on one of the mediastinal Lymph nodes. In bold capital letters it said: POSITIVE FOR ANTHRAX.

“This is unbelievable,” Jack said. He handed the sheet to Chet, who read it with equal disbelief.

“I thought you’d like to know as soon as possible,” Agnes said.

“Absolutely,” Jack said vaguely. His eyes were glazed. His mind was churning.

“What’s the reliability of this test?” Chet asked.

“About a hundred percent,” Agnes said. “It’s very specific and the reagents aren’t old. After all the exotic diseases Jack diagnosed on that flurry of infectious diseases a couple of years ago, I’ve made sure we’ve kept up to speed for most anything. Of course, for final confirmation we’ve planted cultures.”

“This illness spreads by spores,” Jack said as if waking from a trance. “Are there any tests for the spores or do you just have to grow them out and then test for the bacteria?”

“There’s a polymerase chain reaction or PCR test for the spores,” Agnes said. “We don’t do that in micro, but I’m sure Ted Lynch in the DNA lab could help you. Do you have something you want to test for spores?”

“Not yet,” Jack said.

“Uh oh,” Chet moaned. “I don’t like the sound of that. You’re not planning on going out in the field, are you?”

“I don’t know,” Jack admitted. He was still in a daze. A case of inhalational anthrax in New York was as unexpected as plague.

“Have you forgotten what happened to you last time you got involved with infectious-disease field work?” Chet asked. “Let me remind you: you were almost killed.”

“Thanks, Agnes,” Jack said to the micro department head. He ignored Chet. He turned back to his desk and pushed away the files relating to the prisoner-in-custody death which Calvin wanted completed ASAP. Jack slipped the contents of Jason Papparis’s file from the folder and thumbed through the papers until he came across Janice Jaeger’s forensic investigator’s report.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Chet said. It always irked him the way Jack could tune him out.

“Here it is,” Jack said. He held out Janice’s report with his finger pointing to the sentence that said that Mr. Papparis was in the rug business. “Look!”

“I see it,” Chet said with annoyance. “But did you hear me?”

“The problem is we don’t know what kind of rugs,” Jack said. “I think that could be important.” Jack turned the report over. Just as Janice had said, there was the name and phone number of the house doctor who’d taken care of Mr. Papparis.

Jack spun around and picked up his phone. He dialed the number and got the central switchboard of the Bronx General Hospital.

“Fine,” Chet said with a wave of dismissal. “You don’t have to listen to me. Hell, I know that you’ll just do whatever you want no matter what anybody else says.” Disgusted, Chet turned back to his own work.

“Could you page Dr. Kevin Fowler for me?” Jack asked the hospital operator. While he waited he held the phone in the crook of his neck so he could lift down his copy of Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine. The pages of the chapter on infectious diseases were dog-eared.

Jack turned to the section on anthrax. There were only two pages devoted to it. He was almost through reading when Dr. Kevin Fowler came on the line.

Jack explained who he was and why he was calling. Dr. Fowler was dumbfounded at the diagnosis.

“I’ve never seen a case of anthrax,” Dr. Fowler admitted. “Of course, I’m only a resident, so I haven’t had much experience.”

“Now you’re a member of a select group,” Jack said. “I was just reading there’s only been a handful of cases over the last decade here in the U.S., and all of those were the more common cutaneous form. The inhalational variety like Mr. Papparis had used to be called woolsorters’ disease. The patients contracted it from contaminated animal hair and hides.”

“I can tell you it was an extremely rapid downhill course,” Dr. Fowler said. “I won’t mind if I never have to take care of another case. I guess we get to see everything here in New York.”

“Did you do a history on the patient?” Jack asked.

“No, not at all,” Dr. Fowler said. “I was just called when the patient got into respiratory distress. All I knew about the history was what was in the chart.”

“So you don’t know what kind of rug business the patient was in?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Dr. Fowler said. “Why don’t you try the attending physician, Dr. Heitman.”

“Have you got a telephone number for him?” Jack asked.

“Sure,” Dr. Fowler said. “He’s one of our staff attendings.”

Jack placed a call to Dr. Heitman but learned that he had been merely covering for Dr. Bernard Goldstein and that Mr. Jason Papparis was actually Dr. Goldstein’s patient. Jack then called Dr. Goldstein. It took a few minutes to get the doctor on the line, and he was less than friendly and rather impatient. Jack wasted no time in asking his question.

“What do you mean what kind of rug business?” Dr. Goldstein asked irritably. He obviously didn’t like being interrupted in the middle of his day for what sounded to him like a frivolous inquiry. His secretary had been hesitant to bother the doctor even after Jack said that the call was an emergency.

“I want to know what kind of rugs he sold,” Jack said. “Did he sell broadloom or something else?”

“He never said and I never asked,” Dr. Goldstein said. Then he hung up.

“He’s in the wrong profession,” Jack said out loud. Jack found the identification sheet in Papparis’s folder and saw that the body had been identified by the decedent’s wife, Helen Papparis. There was a phone number on the sheet and Jack dialed it. He’d been hoping to avoid intruding on the family.

Helen Papparis turned out to be exquisitely polite and restrained. If she was in mourning, she hid it well, although Jack suspected her extreme politeness was her method of dealing with her loss. After Jack offered his sympathies and explained his official position as well as the nature of the exotic diagnosis, he asked his question about Mr. Papparis’s business.

“The Corinthian Rug Company dealt exclusively in handmade rugs,” Helen said.

“From where?” Jack asked.

“Mostly from Turkey,” Helen said. Jack detected a catch in her voice. “A few of the fur rugs came from Greece, but the vast majority came from Turkey.”

“So he dealt with furs and hides as well as woven rugs,” Jack said with academic satisfaction. The mystery was rapidly being resolved.

“That’s correct,” Helen said.

Jack’s eyes dropped to the open textbook in front of him. Right in the middle of the anthrax section it described how the animal form of anthrax was a problem in a number of countries, including Turkey, and that animal products, particularly goat’s hair, could be contaminated with the spores.

“Did he deal with goatskins?” Jack asked.

“Yes, of course,” Helen said. “Sheepskins and goatskins were a large part of his business.”

“Well, I think we’ve solved the mystery,” Jack said. He explained the association to Helen.

“That’s ironic,” Helen said without a hint of rancor. “Those rugs have provided us with a comfortable life, including sending our only daughter to an Ivy League college.”

“Did Mr. Papparis get any recent shipments?” Jack asked.

“About a month ago.”

“Are any of those rugs in your home?”

“No,” Helen said. “Jason felt it was enough to deal with them during the day. He refused to have any of them around the house.”

“Under the circumstances that was a smart decision,” Jack said. “Where are these rugs? Have many been sold?”

Helen explained that the rugs had gone into a warehouse in Queens, and she doubted many had been sold. She explained to Jack that Jason’s business was wholesale and that shipments came in months before they were needed. She also said there no employees at the warehouse or at the office.

“Sounds like a one-man operation,” Jack said.

“Very much so,” Helen said.

Jack thanked her profusely and reiterated his sympathies. Then he suggested that she contact her doctor about possible prophylactic antibiotics even though he explained that she was probably not at risk since person-to-person spread did not occur and she hadn’t been exposed to the hides. Finally he told her she’d probably be hearing from other Department of Health professionals. She thanked him for the call, and they disconnected.

Jack swung around to face Chet, who couldn’t have helped but overhear the conversation.

“Sounds like you solved that one pretty quickly,” Chet said. “At least now you don’t have to put your life at risk by going out there in the field.”

“I’m disappointed,” Jack said with a sigh.

“What can you possibly be disappointed about?” Chet asked with exasperated disbelief. “You’ve made a brilliant and rapid diagnosis and you’ve even solved what could have been a difficult epidemiological enigma.”

“That’s the problem,” Jack said dispiritedly. “It was too easy, too pat. With my last exotic disease it was a real mystery. I like challenges.”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Chet said. “I wish some of my cases would have such nice tidy endings.”

Jack grabbed his open textbook of medicine and stuck it under Chet’s nose. He pointed to a specific paragraph and told his officemate to read it. Chet did as he was told. When he was finished, he looked up.

“Now that was an epidemiological challenge,” Jack said. “Can you imagine? A slew of inhalation anthrax cases from spores leaking out of a bioweapons factory! What a disaster!”

“Where’s Sverdlovsk?” Chet asked.

“How should I know?” Jack commented. “Obviously someplace in the former Soviet Union.”

“I’d never heard about that 1979 incident,” Chet said. He reread the paragraph. “What a joke! The Russians tried to pass it off as exposure to contaminated meat.”

“From a forensic point of view, it would have been a fascinating case,” Jack said. “Certainly a lot more provocative than picking up a case in a rug salesman.”

Jack got to his feet. After appearing so animated earlier, he now looked depressed.

“Where are you going?” Chet asked.

“Down to see Calvin,” Jack said. “He told me that if my case turned out to be anthrax he wanted to know right away.”

“Cheer up!” Chet urged. “You look like death warmed over.”

Jack tried to smile. He walked down to the elevator and pushed the button. What he didn’t tell Chet was that his restless mood hadn’t resulted only from the anthrax case’s resolving itself so easily. It was also about the mystery with Laurie. Why had she called at 4:30 A.M. to make a dinner date? And why was Lou coming, too?

As the elevator descended, Jack tried to think how he could get back at her. The only idea that came to mind was to buy her a Christmas present over the next few days and then start giving her confusing hints. Laurie was always wildly curious about presents and the suspense ate at her. Two months of suspense would surely be adequate revenge.

Emerging on the first floor, Jack felt better. The Christmas present idea was sounding better and better, although now he’d have to think of something to buy.

Calvin was in his office working on the reams of paper that passed over his desk every day. His hand was so large that the way his fingers had to hold his pen looked comical. He glanced up when Jack approached the desk.

“Are you sure you don’t want to bet on that anthrax diagnosis?” Jack asked.

“Don’t tell me it was positive?” Calvin leaned back in his chair, and it protested loudly under his weight.

“According to Agnes it was anthrax,” Jack said. “Cultures are pending.

“Holy crap!” Calvin exclaimed. “This is going to raise some hackles in the Department of Health.”

“Actually I don’t think that’s the case,” Jack said.

“Oh?” Calvin replied. Jack never failed to surprise him. “Why the hell not?”

“Because the disease does not spread person to person, and because it was an occupational exposure limited to the decedent. The source is apparently safely locked up in a warehouse in Queens.”

“I’m all ears,” Calvin said. “Talk to me!”

Jack explained the Corinthian Rug Company connection, and the recent shipment of rugs and goatskins from Turkey. Calvin nodded as Jack spoke.

“Thank the Lord for small favors,” Calvin said. He tipped forward in his chair, and the workings again moaned in complaint. “I’ll have Bingham call Patricia Markham, the Commissioner of Health. Why don’t you phone the city epidemiologist: the one you worked with so closely concerning the plague case. What was his name?”

“Clint Abelard,” Jack said.

“Yeah, that’s the guy,” Calvin said. “Give him a call. It will foster that cooperative interagency agenda the mayor’s been harping on.”

“Clint Abelard and I hardly worked closely,” Jack said. “Back then when I tried to call him he wouldn’t even talk to me on the phone.”

“I’m sure he’ll feel differently in light of what eventually transpired,” Calvin said.

“Why not have someone else on our capable staff make the call?” Jack said. “Like one of the janitors.”

“Hold the sarcasm,” Calvin said. “Don’t cause problems! Call the man! Case closed! Now, what about that prisoner death?”

“What do you mean, What about the prisoner death’?” Jack asked. “You saw the blood in the neck muscles and the broken hyoid bone. They had him in a deadly choke hold.”

“What about his brain?” Calvin asked. “Did you find anything?”

“You mean like a temporal lobe tumor,” Jack said. “So we could suggest he’d had a psychomotor seizure that turned him into a raving madman. Sorry! The brain was normal.”

“Do me a favor and look at the histology carefully,” Calvin said. “Find something!”

“This case is in the hands of our happy toxicologist,” Jack said. “Maybe he’ll come up with cocaine or something like that.”

“I want the completed file including death certificate on my desk by Thursday,” Calvin said. “I’ve already got a call from the attorney general’s office.”

“In that case it would help if you gave John DeVries a call,” Jack said. “A request to the lab for a rapid result coming from the front office would have far more import than from a grunt like me.”

“I’ll call John,” Calvin said. “But irrespective of what John comes up with, it’s going to be your job to make sure there’s something in the file that leaves the door open, even if only by a crack.”

Jack rolled his eyes and headed for the door. He knew what Calvin was implying, namely that the police commissioner had impressed Bingham that the involved officers needed some justification for the deadly restraining force they’d used. Jack knew prisoners could be violent, Dealing with them was a job he did not envy. At the same time there had been episodes of abuse on the part of the police. Making judgments beyond the forensic facts was a slippery slope Jack refused to descend.

“Hold up!” Calvin called out before Jack was beyond earshot.

Jack leaned back in the deputy chief’s office.

“There’s someone else I want you to call about the anthrax case,” Calvin said. “Stan Thornton. Do you know him?”

“Sure,” Jack said.

Stan Thornton was the director of the Mayor’s Office of Emergency Management. He’d been the featured speaker at one of the Thursday afternoon medical examiner’s conferences organized in the spirit of interagency cooperation. The topic had been mortuary challenges in the event of a disaster associated with a weapon of mass destruction.

Jack had found the talk disturbing. Prior to the lecture he’d never seriously contemplated the logistics of dealing with a massive number of casualties. Just the problem of identification of thousands upon thousands of dead people was mind-numbing. On top of that was the dilemma of what to do with them.

“What would you like me to tell him?” Jack questioned.

“Tell him exactly what you told me,” Calvin said. “Considering the case is a limited occupational exposure, it’s more a courtesy call than anything else. But since anthrax came up in his discussion of bioterrorism, I’m sure he’d at least like to know about the incident.”

“Why me?” Jack complained. “I’m not good at this professional courtesy stuff.”

“You’ve got to learn,” Calvin said. “Besides, it’s your case. Now get out of here so I can get some work done.”

Jack left the administration area, stopped on the second floor to get a sandwich out of a vending machine, then headed up to the fifth floor. Although he intended to return directly to his office, he couldn’t resist sticking his head into Laurie’s. His idea was to press her once more about the nature of the “big secret.” Unfortunately she wasn’t there. Dr. Riva Mehta, her officemate, told Jack that Laurie was closeted with the law enforcement officers in Bingham’s office.

Grumbling under his breath about how his day was going, Jack plopped himself down in his desk chair.

“You look as bad as when you left,” Chet said. “I hope you didn’t provoke the deputy chief into some sort of argument.”

Jack and Calvin were frequently at odds. Calvin believed in strict rules and set protocols. Jack viewed all regulations as guidelines. He believed that intelligence and native instincts were far more practical than bureaucratic edicts.

“It’s a bad hair day,” Jack said evasively. He scratched the top of his head and then cracked his knuckles while deciding which one of the unpleasant tasks he’d been assigned he should attack first. As he opened up his phone directory to look for Clint Abelard’s number, an unpleasant idea occurred to him. Maybe Laurie had gotten a job offer someplace like Detroit, or worse yet, someplace on the West Coast. It made sense; if she were relocating, she’d certainly want to tell him and Lou, and since such a move would undoubtedly represent a promotion, she’d probably be excited about it. For a moment Jack stared into space while he tried to imagine what life in the Big Apple would be like without Laurie. It was difficult to contemplate; it was also depressing.

“Hey, I forgot to tell you about the show at the Met,” Chet said. “There’s a Claude Monet exhibition that Colleen is dying to see. We got tickets for Thursday night.”

Chet had been dating Colleen Anderson on and off for three years. She was an art director for Willow and Heath, a Madison Avenue advertising firm. Jack was acquainted with both Colleen and Willow and Heath, having come into contact with them through the course of tracking the infectious disease case that spawned his reputation.

“How about you and Laurie coming along to see the show?” Chet continued. “Then we could all go out to dinner afterward.”

Jack cringed at the thought of not having Laurie around to join him for trips to the museum. And that would be nothing compared to how much he would miss seeing her every day. Not that Chet could have known the feelings that his invitation had provoked.

“I’ll ask her,” Jack said. He picked up the phone and dialed Clint Abelard’s number.

“Let me know what she says,” Chet added. “If it’s a go, I’ll have Colleen get extra tickets. As a member of the museum, she won’t have any trouble.”

“I’ll be seeing Laurie tonight,” Jack said as his call went through. “I have a number of things to talk to her about. I’ll ask her then.”

“Did you see that skinhead case she was doing this morning?” Chet questioned. “Talk about gruesome; that one deserves a prize. It’s sickening what one human can do to another.”

Jack asked for the city epidemiologist and was put on hold.

“Unfortunately I did see it,” Jack said. He covered the phone’s mouthpiece with his hand. “The FBI agent thought that the perpetrators were fellow skinheads.”

“Those kids are nuts,” Chet said.

“Do you know if Laurie found anything that was helpful for the police?” Jack asked.

“I’ve no idea,” Chet said.

When Dr. Clint Abelard finally came on the line, Jack made an effort to be friendly and upbeat. Unfortunately, his overture was not reciprocated.

“Of course I remember you,” Clint said dryly. “How could I forget?” Thank God it’s not every day a coroner makes my job harder.”

Jack bit his tongue. In the past, when Jack had first met Clint, Jack had carefully explained the difference between a coroner and a medical examiner. As a medical examiner, Jack was a physician with training in pathology and training in a subspecialty, forensics. In contrast, a coroner could be merely a bureaucratic appointee with no medical training whatsoever.

“We medical examiners always aim to please,” Jack said.

“Why are you calling me?” Clint asked.

“We had a case of inhalational anthrax this morning,” Jack said. “We thought you’d like to know. The patient was brought in from the Bronx General Hospital.”

“Just one case?”

“That’s right,” Jack said.

“Thank you,” Clint said.

“Aren’t you going to ask anything about its origins?” Jack asked.

“Finding out its origins is our job,” Clint said flatly.

“That might be so,” Jack said. “But just for the record, let me tell you what we’ve learned.”

Jack went on to explain about the Corinthian Rug Company, about how a recent shipment of Turkish rugs and hides was locked up in the warehouse in Queens, that Jason Papparis was the only employee, and that he’d never taken any of the rugs home.

“Thank you,” Clint said without emotion. “You’re so very astute. If I have any epidemiological mysteries, I’ll be sure to give you a call for your assistance.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Jack said, ignoring Clint’s sarcasm, “I’d like to know what you plan to do about this current anthrax episode?”

“I’ll have one of my assistants go out to Queens and seal the warehouse,” Clint said.

“Is that all?” Jack questioned.

“We’ve got a major cyclospora outbreak that’s-taxing our manpower at the moment,” Clint said. “One case of a containable occupational illness doesn’t comprise an epidemiological emergency. We’ll get to it when we can, provided, of course, there are no more cases.”

“I suppose you know your business,” Jack said, “but it’s my feeling...”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” Clint interrupted. Then, without warning, he hung up.

Jack replaced the receiver. “Hell’s bells,” he said to Chet, who’d twisted around in his chair as the conversation progressed. “So much for intra-agency cooperation. That guy’s more sarcastic than I am.”

“You must have mortally wounded his ego when you dealt with him during that plague episode,” Chet said.

“Well, let’s see if I have any better luck with the director of the Mayor’s office of Emergency Management,” Jack said.

“Why on earth are you calling him?” Chet asked.

“It’s a courtesy call,” Jack said. “Strict orders from our deputy chief.”

A secretary answered, and Jack asked for Stan Thornton.

“Is that the guy who lectured to us on weapons of mass destruction?” Chet asked.

Jack nodded. To his surprise the director himself came on the line immediately. Jack explained who he was and why he was calling.

“Anthrax!” Stan exclaimed. It was obvious the man was impressed. In sharp contrast to Clint Abelard, he bombarded Jack with questions. Only after he learned that the probable cause was contained and that there was only one case did his voice lose its urgency.

“Just to be on the safe side,” Stan said, “I’ll use my contacts with the Department of Health to make sure there are no other inpatients in the city with suspicious symptoms.”

“Good idea,” Jack said.

“And I’ll have that warehouse quarantined,” Stan added.

“That’s already in the works,” Jack said. He related to Stan his conversation with Clint Abelard.

“Perfect!” Stan said. “Clint Abelard would have been high on my list to contact. I’ll coordinate with him.”

Good luck! Jack thought to himself.

“Thanks for your quick response,” Stan continued. “As I mentioned in my lecture, you medical people might be the first to see the effects of a bioterrorism event. The faster the response, the higher the possibility the event could be contained.”

“We’ll certainly keep that in mind,” Jack said before winding up the conversation and hanging up.

“Congratulations,” Chet said. “That was a very civilized conversation.”

“My intra-agency diplomatic skills must be improving,” Jack quipped. “I didn’t irritate the guy in the slightest.”

Jack gathered up the papers from Jason Papparis’s file and stuffed them into the folder. He pushed it aside and redirected his attention to the prisoner-in-custody case.

For a few minutes, peace reigned in the cluttered office. The two medical examiners bent over their respective desks and went back to work. Chet glued his eyes to his microscope while he diligently scanned a section of liver from a case of fatal hepatitis. Jack began to outline the significant pathology on the prisoner case.

Unfortunately, the tranquillity didn’t last long. A sound similar to a gunshot reverberated around the tiny room. Chet sat bolt upright. Jack uttered a string of expletives, making Chet even more anxious. But, then Chet realized that they weren’t in jeopardy of becoming their office’s next two cases. The sudden noise had come from Jack’s slamming his ballpoint pen down onto the desk’s metal surface.

“Damn! You scared the hell out of me,” Chet complained.

“I can’t concentrate,” Jack said.

“What’s the matter now?”

“A lot of things,” Jack said vaguely. He didn’t want to get into a discussion about Laurie.

“That’s not being very specific,” Chet said.

Jack reached over and retrieved Jason Papparis’s folder. “This case, for one.”

“What could bother you now?” Chet questioned irritably. “You made the diagnosis, reported it to the deputy chief, called the city epidemiologist, and even the Director of Emergency Management. What the hell else can you do?”

Jack sighed. “Like I said before, it’s too pat. It’s like it was designed to go into a textbook, and it’s bothering me.”

“Bull!” Chet said. “Sounds to me like you’re using it as an excuse. What else is on your mind?”

Jack blinked and eyed his officemate. Jack was impressed with Chet’s clairvoyance. For a fleeting moment Jack considered telling Chet about Laurie’s early-morning phone call, but then decided against it. Such a conversation might lead to questions about Jack’s true feelings about Laurie, an issue Jack wasn’t ready to probe, even on his own.

“There is something else,” Jack said. His face fell into an exaggerated expression of emotional anguish. “I’m upset that Seinfeld is off the air.”

“Oh, for crissake,” Chet said disgustedly. “It’s impossible to have a discussion with you. Fine! Stew by yourself, but at least do me the favor of doing it quietly or, if that’s impossible, go someplace else!

Chet swung around once again and replaced the slide on his microscope stage with another. He leaned over the eyepieces while mumbling under his breath how trying Jack could be.

“Clint Abelard said he’d see that the Corinthian Rug Company’s warehouse was quarantined,” Jack said. He poked Chet’s shoulder with the corner of Jason Papparis’s folder to make sure Chet was listening. “What about the office here in Manhattan? What if the rug merchant brought some of the hides to the office? And what about the advisability of going through the company’s records to see if any of the recent shipment had been sold and shipped elsewhere?”

Chet swung back around. He examined his officemate’s broad face and saw that he was being serious.

“What do you want me to say?” Chet asked.

“I want you to confirm my concerns,” Jack said.

“Fine,” Chet said. “You’re right! So do something about it! Call back the epidemiologist and make sure he’s thought of these issues! Get it off your chest. Then you and I can get some work done.”

Jack eyed his phone, then looked back at Chet. “You really think so?” He’s not a fan of mine and he’s not what you’d call receptive to suggestions, especially my suggestions.”

“So what if the guy is a nerd?” Chet said. “At least you’ll have the satisfaction of having done everything you could possibly do. What do you care what he thinks of you?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Jack said as he reached for the phone. “I can’t expect everybody to love me like I do.”

Jack called back the city epidemiologist. The secretary asked for Jack’s name, then put him on hold. Jack waited for several minutes. He looked up at Chet.

“So the guy’s being a little passive-aggressive,” Chet said. “Hang in there.”

Jack nodded. He drew interlocking circles on his scratch pad, then drummed his fingers on the desktop. Finally the secretary came back on the line.

“I’m sorry but the doctor is busy,” she said. “You’ll have to call back.”

Jack hung up. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I just love this intra-agency cooperation crap.”

“Send him a fax,” Chet suggested. “It will accomplish the same thing without the aggravation of having to talk with him.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Jack said. He got out the identification sheet and retrieved Helen Papparis’s phone number. He then put in a second call to the rug dealer’s bereaved wife.

“I’m sorry to bother you again,” Jack said after identifying himself.

“It’s no bother,” Helen said. She was as gracious as she’d been on the first call.

“I wanted to ask if you’d heard from any of the city public health people,” Jack said.

“Yes, I have,” Helen answered. “A Dr. Abelard called soon after I spoke with you.”

“I’m glad,” Jack said. “Could I ask what he said?”

“He was very businesslike,” Helen said. “He wanted the address and the keys for the warehouse. Then he made arrangements for the local police to come by and get them.”

“Excellent,” Jack said. “What about the office in Manhattan? Did Dr. Abelard ask you about that?”

“Nothing was said about the office.”

“I see,” Jack said. He glanced at Chet, who shrugged. Jack thought for a moment and then added: “I’d like to take a look inside the office myself. Would you have a problem with that?”

Chet started waving his hands and silently but emphatically mouthing the word “no” over and over again. Jack ignored him.

“If you think it would help in any way,” Helen said. “It’s certainly all right by me.”

Jack explained to the woman what he’d said to Chet, particularly about checking to see if any of the recent shipment had been sold and sent out. Helen understood immediately.

“Perhaps I can come up and get the keys,” Jack suggested.

“That won’t be necessary,” Helen said. “The address is Twenty-seven Walker Street, and there is a stamp collecting firm right next door. The proprietor’s name is Hyman Feingold. He was a friend of my husband. They had keys for each other’s shops in case of an emergency. I can give him a call so that he is expecting you.”

“That’s perfect,” Jack said. “Meanwhile, have you spoken with your physician?”

“I did,” Helen said. “He’s sending over some antibiotics. He’s also recommended I get vaccinated.”

“I think that is a good idea,” Jack said.

After disconnecting, Jack stood up and got his bomber jacket from behind the door.

“Aren’t you going to ask my opinion about this proposed field trip?” Chet asked.

“Nope,” Jack said. “I already know your opinion. But I’m going just the same. I can’t concentrate, so I might as well do something useful. Besides, now you’ll be able to get some work done. Hold the fort, sport!”

Chet waved with an expression of irritated resignation. He thought it was crazy for Jack to go running out on a site visit, but from past experience he knew better than to try to change Jack’s mind once it had been made up.

Whistling a merry tune, Jack took the stairs down to the third floor and ducked into the microbiology lab. Anticipating his bike ride downtown, he began to feel better than he had all day.

Agnes Finn wasn’t available, so Jack spoke with the shift supervisor. She was more than happy to supply him with a bag of culture tubes, latex gloves, micropore masks, an isolation gown, and a hood. Jack knew that a biological isolation suit would have been safer, but he felt it wasn’t necessary. It also wouldn’t be immediately available, and Jack didn’t want to wait. And besides, he was still convinced that in all likelihood Mr. Jason Papparis had gotten his illness at his warehouse, not at his office.

With his supplies in hand Jack went down to the basement area and unlocked his bike. But instead of heading directly downtown, he rode over to the University Hospital. As a firm believer in the old adage “an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,” he’d decided it would be wise to take some prophylactic antibiotics.

The ride downtown was exhilarating and transpired almost without incident. Jack went south on Second Avenue, then cut west on Houston. He then used Broadway to get to Walker. On Broadway he had a minor run-in with the driver of a delivery van. But only a few heated words were exchanged before the van sped off.

Jack locked his bike to a “No Parking” sign just west of the Corinthian Rug Company office. He walked to the store’s front window and gazed at the rugs and hides on display. There were only a handful, and all were bleached from sunlight and covered with a fine layer of dust, suggesting they’d not been moved in years. Jack was certain they’d not come from the new shipment.

Cupping his hands around his face, Jack peered into the office. It was sparsely furnished. There were two desks. One was functional as a desk with the usual accoutrements; the other supported a copy machine and a fax. There were several upright file cabinets. In the rear were two interior doors. Both were closed.

Jack walked to the door. The gold stenciling glittered against the darkened interior. Jack tried the door. It was locked, as he expected.

The stamp shop was just west of the rug shop, and Jack went there directly. The bells on the entrance door surprised him with their harsh jangle and made him realize he was tense. A customer was seated, poring over a collection of stamps in glassine envelopes.

A man whom Jack took to be the proprietor stood behind the counter. As soon as he looked up, Jack introduced himself.

“Ah, Dr. Stapleton,” Hyman said softly, as if the spoken word were somehow irreverent in the philatelic peacefulness. He motioned for Jack to step to the side.

“It’s a terrible tragedy what happened to Mr. Papparis,” Hyman whispered. He handed Jack a set of keys on a ring. “Do you think there is any reason for me to be alarmed?”

“No,” Jack whispered. “Unless Mr. Papparis made it a habit to show you his merchandise.” Hyman shook his head.

“Did Mr. Papparis ever bring any of his rugs and hides to his office? I mean, other than the ones in his window.”

“Not lately,” Hyman said. “He used to bring in samples years ago when he’d go out on the road. But he didn’t have to do that anymore.”

Jack held up the keys. “Thanks for your help. I’ll have these back to you in short order.”

“Take your time,” Hyman said. “I’m glad you’re checking things out.”

Jack went back out to his bike and got his supplies out of his basket.

He then went to the door of the rug office and unlocked it. Before he opened it he put on the gown, the hood, the gloves, and the mask. A few of the passersby altered their pace ever so slightly when they caught a glimpse of Jack’s preparations. Jack considered their indifference a tribute to the equanimity of New Yorkers.

Jack pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold. He felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise. There was something unnervingly sinister about the possibility that some of the motes dancing in the ray of light spilling in from the street could be lethal. For a second he considered backing out and leaving the job to others. Then he chided himself for what he called medieval superstition. He was, after all, reasonably protected.

The office was as spartan as it had appeared through the window. The only decoration was a series of travel posters of the Greek Islands put out by Olympic Airlines. A large wall calendar also had scenes of Greece. Although the hides and rugs in the window were dusty, the rest of the office was spotless and smelled slightly of cleanser. At Jack’s feet were a few letters and magazines that had evidently been shoved through the mail slot. Jack picked them up and moved over to the desk.

The surface of the desk had a blotter, a metal in-and-out basket, and several small imitation ancient Greek vases. The office was neat and devoid of clutter. Jack dutifully put the mail in the “in” basket.

Jack turned on the overhead lights. He took out his collection of culture tubes and swabbed various surfaces. As he swabbed the desk he noticed something glittering in the center of the blotter. Bending down he could see that it was a tiny, cerulean blue, iridescent star. It seemed strangely out of place in the austere environment.

Jack peered into the wastebasket. It was empty. He walked back to the closed doors. One led to a lavatory, where he swabbed the sink and the back of the toilet. The other door led to a corridor that communicated with the central stairhall of the building. Except for the few in the window, there were no other rugs or hides.

When Jack finished with the culture tubes, he took them into the bathroom and washed their exteriors before putting them back into the bag he’d brought them in. Finally, he approached the file cabinets. Now he wanted to find out all he could about the last incoming shipment of rugs and hides and whether any had been sent out.