Plum Island

  “That’s in biocontainment. You can probably see that later.”

  “Okay. How about Tom and Judy’s office here in the admin area?”

  She hesitated, then said, “You can ask Dr. Zollner. He didn’t tell me to take you to the Gordons’ office.”

  I didn’t want to get rough with Donna, so I glanced at Max in a way cops understand—Max, you’re now the bad cop.

  Max said to Ms. Alba, “As the chief of police of Southold Township, of which this island is a part, I require you now to take us to the office of Tom and Judy Gordon, whose murders I am investigating.”

  Not bad, Max, despite the shaky syntax and grammar.

  Poor Donna Alba looked like she was going to faint.

  Beth said to her, “It’s all right. Do what Chief Maxwell asks.”

  Now it was the turn of Messrs. Foster and Nash, and I already knew what they were going to say. George Foster turned out to be the designated dickhead. He said, “Because of the nature of the Gordons’ work and the probability that their office contains papers or documents—”

  “Relating to national security,” I interjected helpfully, “and so forth, and blah, blah, blah.”

  Teddy Boy thought he should go on record and said, “The Gordons had a secret clearance, and therefore their papers are classified secret.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Excuse me, Detective Corey—I’m speaking.” He fixed me with a really nasty glare, then said, “However, in the interests of harmony and to avoid jurisdictional disputes, I will make a phone call, which I’m confident will get us access to the Gordons’ office.” He looked at me, Max, and Beth and asked, “All right?”

  They nodded.

  Of course the Gordons’ office had already been completely searched and sanitized last night or early this morning. As Beth had said, we were only going to see what they wanted us to see. But I gave George and Ted credit for thinking to make a big stink over this, as though we were going to find some really interesting stuff in the Gordons’ office.

  Donna Alba seemed relieved and said to Nash, “I’ll call Dr. Zollner.” She picked up a telephone and hit the intercom button. Meanwhile, Ted Nash whipped out a flip phone and walked some distance away with his back to us and talked, or made believe he was talking, to the gods of National Security in the Great Capital of the Confused Empire.

  Charade over, he returned to us mortals at the same time Donna finished with Dr. Zollner. Donna nodded that it was okay, and Nash also nodded.

  Donna said, “Please follow me.”

  We followed her into the corridor and headed for the east wing of the building, past the open staircase we’d come up. We came to Room 265, and Donna opened the door with a master key.

  The office had two desks, each with its own PC, a modem, shelves, and a long worktable covered with books and papers. There was no lab equipment or anything of that nature—just office stuff, including a fax machine.

  We poked around the Gordons’ desks awhile, opening drawers, looking at papers, but as I said, this office had been picked clean earlier. In any case, people who are involved in a conspiracy don’t calendar it in or leave incriminating memos around.

  Still, you never know what you might find. I rolled through their Rolodex cards, noting that they knew people from all over the world, mostly scientific types, it seemed. I looked under “Gordon” and saw a card for Tom’s parents, and names of people who must have been his sister, his brother, and other family members. All in Indiana. I didn’t know Judy’s maiden name.

  I looked for “Corey, John” and found my name, though I don’t recall them ever calling me from work. I looked for “Maxwell, Sylvester” and found his office and home numbers. I looked for “Wiley, Margaret,” but she wasn’t there, and I wasn’t surprised. Then I looked for “Murphy,” the Gordons’ next-door neighbors, and they were there, Edgar and Agnes, which made sense. I found “Tobin, Fredric” and I recalled the time I’d gone with the Gordons to the winery of Fredric Tobin for a wine tasting. I looked for and found the number of the Peconic Historical Society, and the home number of its president, one Emma Whitestone.

  I looked under “D” for Drug Runner, Pedro, and “C” for Colombian Drug Cartel, but no luck. I tried “T” for Terrorists and “A” for Arab Terrorists, but I came up empty. I didn’t see “Stevens” or “Zollner,” but I imagined there must be a separate directory of every employee on the island, and I intended to get a copy of it.

  Nash was playing with Tom’s PC and Foster was playing with Judy’s. This is probably the one thing they hadn’t had time to fully check out this morning.

  I noted that there were virtually no personal items in the office, not a photograph, not a piece of art, not even a desk item that wasn’t government issue. I asked Donna about this, and she replied, “There’s no rule against personal items in Zone One areas. But people tend not to bring much on the ferry to put in their office, except maybe cosmetics, medicines, and stuff like that. I don’t know why. Actually, we can requisition almost anything we want, within reason. We’re a little spoiled that way.”

  “My tax money at work.”

  She smiled. “We have to be kept happy on this crazy island.”

  I walked over to a big bulletin board where Beth and Max were reading the few scraps of paper pinned to the cork. Out of earshot of the Feds, I said, “This place has been picked clean already.”

  Max asked, “By who?”

  Beth said, “John and I saw our two friends getting off the Plum Island ferry this morning. They’ve already been here, already met Stevens, already saw this office.”

  Max seemed surprised, then annoyed. He said, “Damn … that’s against the law.”

  I said, “I’d let it go if I were you. But you can see why I’m not in the best of moods.”

  “I haven’t noticed any difference, but now I’m pissed.”

  Donna, in her most accommodating voice, interrupted our discussion and said, “We’re a little behind schedule now. Maybe you can come back here later.”

  Beth said to her, “What I would like you to do is to see that this room is padlocked. I am going to send people here from the county police force, and they will look around.”

  Nash said, “I assume what you mean by look around is that you’re going to take items into custody.”

  “You can assume that.”

  Foster said, “I believe a federal law has been broken, and I intend to take whatever evidence I need from federal property, Beth. But I’ll make all of it available to the Suffolk County police.”

  Beth said, “No, George, I’ll take this whole office into custody and make it available to you.”

  Donna, sensing an argument, said quickly, “Let’s go see the duty office. Then we’ll see Dr. Zollner.”

  We went back into the corridor and followed her to a door marked “237.” She punched in a code on a keypad and opened the door, revealing a large, windowless room. She said, “This is the duty office, the command, control, and communication center of all of Plum Island.”

  We all entered, and I looked around. Countertops ran along all the walls, and a young man sat with his back to us, talking on a telephone.

  Donna said, “That’s Kenneth Gibbs, Paul Stevens’ assistant. Kenneth is duty officer today.”

  Kenneth Gibbs turned in his chair and waved at us.

  I looked around the room. On the tables were three different types of radio transmitters and receivers, a computer terminal, a TV set, two fax machines, telephones, cell phones, a teletype, and a few other electronic gizmos. Two ceiling-mounted TV cameras scanned the room.

  On the wall were all sorts of maps, radio frequencies, memos, a duty roster, and so forth. This was Paul Stevens’ operation—command, control, and communication, known as CCC or C-Three. But I didn’t see a door that could have led into Stevens’ private office.

  Donna said, “From here, we are in direct contact with Washington and with other research facilities all over the U.S., Ca
nada, Mexico, and the world. We’re also in contact with the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. In addition, we have a direct line to our fire department and to other key places on the island, plus the National Weather Service, and many other agencies and organizations who support Plum Island.”

  “Such as the military?” I asked.

  “Yes. Especially the Coast Guard.”

  Gibbs put the phone down and joined us. We did the intro thing.

  Gibbs was a tall guy of about thirty-something, blue eyes and short blond hair like his boss, neatly pressed trousers and shirt, with a blue tie. A blue blazer hung over one of the chairs. Gibbs, I was sure, was a product of the laboratory here, cloned from Stevens’ pecker or something. Gibbs said, “I can answer any questions you may have about this office.”

  Beth said to Donna, “Would you mind leaving us with Mr. Gibbs for a few minutes?”

  She looked at Gibbs, who nodded.

  Donna went out into the corridor.

  Max, being the only Plum Island neighbor in our group, had his own agenda and asked Gibbs, “What do you do if there’s a major nor’easter or hurricane on the way?”

  Gibbs replied, “During working hours, we evacuate.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Some people have to stay behind to look after the store. I would stay behind, for instance. So would Mr. Stevens, a few other security people, some firemen, a maintenance man or two to be sure the generators and air filters keep working, and maybe one or two scientists to monitor the bugs. I guess Dr. Zollner would want to go down with his ship.” He laughed.

  Maybe it was just me, but I couldn’t get into the funny part of fatal diseases blowing all over the place.

  Gibbs added, “During nonworking hours, when the island is nearly deserted, we would have to get key people on the island. Then, we would have to get our ferries and other watercraft to the submarine pens at New London where they’ll be safe. The subs go out to the ocean and dive deep where they’re safe.” He added, “We know what we’re doing here. We’re prepared for emergencies.”

  Max said, “If there were ever a biocontainment leak, would you be kind enough to call me?”

  “You’d be almost the first to know,” Mr. Gibbs assured the chief.

  Max replied, “I know that. But I’d like to know by telephone or radio—not by coughing up blood or something.”

  Gibbs seemed a little put off and said, “My SOP manual instructs me who to call and in what order. You are among the first.”

  “I’ve asked that a warning siren be installed here that can be heard on the mainland.”

  “If we call you, you can sound a siren for the civilian population if you want.” Gibbs added, “I’m not anticipating any biocontainment leaks, so the point is moot.”

  “No, the point is this place scares the shit out of me, and I’m not feeling any better now that I see it.”

  “You have nothing to worry about.”

  I was glad to hear that. I asked Mr. Gibbs, “What if there were armed intruders on the island?”

  Gibbs looked at me and asked, “You mean like terrorists?”

  “Yeah, I mean like terrorists. Or worse, disgruntled postal workers.”

  He was not amused and replied, “Well, if our security people couldn’t handle it, we would call the Coast Guard. Right from here.” He jerked his thumb toward a radio.

  “What if this room was knocked out first thing?”

  “There’s a second CCC in the building.”

  “In the basement?”

  “Maybe. I thought you were investigating a murder?” I love rent-a-cops giving me lip. I said, “That’s correct. Where were you at 5:30 last night?”

  “Me?”

  “You.”

  “Oh … let me think—”

  “Where’s your .45 automatic?”

  “Uh … in the drawer over there.”

  “Has it been fired recently?”

  “No … well, I sometimes take it to the pistol range—”

  “When was the last time you saw the Gordons?”

  “Let me think—”

  “How well did you know the Gordons?”

  “Not well.”

  “Did you ever have a drink with them?”

  “No.”

  “Lunch? Dinner?”

  “No. I said—”

  “Did you ever have occasion to speak to them officially?”

  “No … well …”

  “Well?”

  “A few times. About their boat. They liked to use the Plum Island beaches. The Gordons would come here by boat sometimes on Sundays and holidays, and they’d anchor their boat off one of the deserted beaches on the south side of the island, then swim to shore, trailing a rubber raft. On the raft they had their picnic stuff. We have no problem with that. In fact, we used to have a July Fourth picnic for all the employees and their families. It was the one time when we allowed nonworkers on the island, but we had to stop that because of liability concerns….”

  I tried to picture such a holiday outing, sort of like beach blanket biocontainment.

  Gibbs went on, “The Gordons never brought anyone with them, which would have been against the rules. But their boat presented a problem.”

  “What sort of problem?”

  “Well, for one thing, during the day, it attracted other pleasure boaters who thought they could also come ashore and use the island. And after dark, it presented our patrol boats with a navigation hazard. So I spoke to them about both problems and we tried to work it out.”

  “How did you try to work it out?”

  “The easiest solution would have been for them to come into the cove and take one of our vehicles to the remote end of the island. Mr. Stevens had no problem with that even though it bent the rules about official vehicle use and all that. It was better than what they were doing. But they didn’t want to come into the cove or use a vehicle. They wanted to do it their way—take their speedboat to one of the beaches, rubber-raft, and swim. More fun, they said. More spontaneous and adventurous.”

  “Who runs this island? Stevens, Zollner, or the Gordons?”

  “We have to pamper the scientists here or they get upset. The joke among the nonscientists is that if you annoy or argue with a scientist about anything, you wind up getting mysteriously sick with a three-day virus.”

  Everyone got a chuckle out of that.

  Kenneth Gibbs went on, “Anyway, we got them to agree to leave their navigation lights on, and I made sure the Coast Guard helicopters and boats knew their boat. We also made them promise to anchor only where we had one of our big ‘No Trespassing’ signs on the beach. That usually keeps the fainthearted away.”

  “What were the Gordons doing on the island?”

  Gibbs shrugged. “Picnicking, I guess. Hiking.” He added, “They had the run of almost nine hundred deserted acres on holidays and after working hours.”

  “I understand they were amateur archaeologists.”

  “Oh, right. They ran around the ruins a lot. They were collecting things for a Plum Island museum.”

  “Museum?”

  “Well, just a display. It was supposed to go in the lobby, I think. The stuff’s stored in the basement.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Mostly musket balls and arrowheads. One cow bell … a brass button from a Continental Army uniform, some odds and ends from around the time of the Spanish-American War … a whiskey bottle … whatever. Mostly junk. It’s all catalogued and stored in the basement. You can see it if you want.”

  Beth said, “Maybe later.” She asked, “I understand that the Gordons were organizing an official dig. Do you know about that?”

  “Yeah. We don’t need a bunch of people from Stony Brook or the Peconic Historical Society rooting around the island. But they were trying to work it out with the USDA and the Department of the Interior.” He added, “Interior has the final say about artifacts and all that.”

  I asked Mr. Gibbs, “Didn’t it
ever occur to you that the Gordons might be up to something? Like smuggling stuff out of the main building and hiding it out by a beach during a so-called archaeological dig, then recovering it later with their boat?”

  Kenneth Gibbs did not reply.

  I prompted, “Did it occur to you that the picnicking and archaeological crap was a cover for something?”

  “I … guess in retrospect … hey, everybody’s on my case, like I should have suspected something. Everybody forgets that those two were golden. They could do whatever the hell they wanted, short of pushing Zollner’s face in a pile of cow crap. I don’t need Monday-morning quarterbacking.” He added, “I did my job.”

  Probably he did. And, by the way, I heard the ping again.

  Beth was talking to Gibbs and she asked, “Did you or any of your people see the Gordons’ boat after it left the cove yesterday at noon?”

  “No. I asked.”

  “In other words, you can be certain that the boat was not anchored off this island yesterday afternoon?”

  “No, I can’t be certain of that.”

  Max inquired, “How often do your boats make the circuit of the island?”

  Gibbs answered, “We usually use one of the two boats. Its route covers about eight or nine miles around the island, so at about ten to twelve knots, you’re talking about a complete circle every forty to sixty minutes, unless they stop someone for something.”

  Beth said, “So if a boat were lying a half mile or so away from Plum Island and a person aboard was watching with binoculars, he or she would see your patrol boat—The Prune, right?”

  “The Prune and The Plum Pudding.”

  “Right, he or she would see one of those patrol boats, and if that person or persons knew the routine, he, she, or they would know they had forty to sixty minutes to come toward shore, anchor, get to shore in a rubber raft, accomplish whatever, and get back to their boat without anyone seeing them.”

  Mr. Gibbs cleared his throat and said, “Possible, but you’re forgetting the helicopter patrols and the vehicle patrols that skirt the beach. The helicopter and vehicles are completely random.”

  Beth nodded and observed, “We just did a tour of the island, and in the nearly two hours, I only saw the Coast Guard helicopter once, and a vehicle—a pickup truck— once, and your patrol boat once.”