“As I say, it’s random. Would you take a chance?”
“I might,” Beth said. “Depends on the payoff.”
Gibbs informed us, “There are also random Coast Guard boats that make passes now and then, and if you want me to be very candid, we have electronic devices that do most of the work.”
I asked Gibbs, “Where are the monitors?” I motioned around the office.
“In the basement.”
“What do you have? TV cameras? Motion sensors? Noise sensors?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“All right,” Beth said. “Write out your name, address, and phone number. You’ll be asked to come in for questioning.”
Gibbs seemed annoyed, but also relieved he was off the hook for now. Also, I had the strong suspicion that Gibbs, Foster, and Nash had made one another’s acquaintance earlier this morning.
I went over to look at the stuff on the wall near the radios. There was a big map of eastern Long Island, the Sound, and southern Connecticut. On the map were a series of concentric circles, with New London, Connecticut, at the center. It looked like one of those atomic bomb destruction maps that tell you how fried your ass is going to be relative to your distance from ground zero. I saw on this map that Plum Island was within the last circle, which I guess was either good or bad news, depending on what this map was about. The map didn’t explain, so I asked Mr. Gibbs, “What is this?”
He looked to where I was pointing and said, “Oh, there’s a nuclear reactor in New London. Those circles represent the various danger zones if there were an explosion or meltdown.”
I considered the irony of a nuclear reactor in New London posing a danger to Plum Island, which itself posed a danger to everyone in New London, depending on the wind. I asked Kenneth Gibbs, “Do you think the nuke people have a map showing the danger to them of a biocontainment leak on Plum Island?”
Even straight Mr. Gibbs had to smile at that, though it was a weird smile. Gibbs and Stevens probably practiced that smile on each other. Gibbs said, “Actually, the people at the nuclear reactor do have a map such as you describe.” He added, “I sometimes wonder what would happen if an earthquake caused a biocontainment leak and a nuclear leak at the same time. Would the radioactivity kill the germs?” He smiled again. Weird, weird. He mused philosophically, “The modern world is full of unimaginable horrors.”
This seemed to be the Plum Island mantra. I suggested helpfully, “If I were you, I’d wait for a good southerly wind and release the anthrax. Get them before they get you.”
“Yeah. Good idea.”
I asked Mr. Gibbs, “Where is Mr. Stevens’ office?”
“Room 250.”
“Thanks.”
The intercom buzzed and a male voice came out of the speaker saying, “Dr. Zollner will see his guests now.”
We all thanked Mr. Gibbs for his time, and he thanked us for coming, which made us all liars. Beth reminded him that she’d be seeing him in her office.
We met Donna out in the corridor, and as we walked, I commented to her, “These doors don’t have names or titles on them.”
“Security,” she replied tersely.
“Which is Paul Stevens’ office?”
“Room 225,” she replied.
Proving once again that the best security is a lie. She led us to the end of a corridor and opened door number 200.
CHAPTER 11
Donna said, “Please have a seat. Dr. Zollner’s secretary, June, will be with us in a moment.”
We all sat, and Donna stood there waiting for June.
After a minute or so, a middle-aged woman with a tight expression came out of a side door. Donna said, “June, these are Dr. Zollner’s guests.”
June barely acknowledged us and sat at her desk without a word.
Donna wished us a good day and departed. I noticed that we were never left alone for even a second. I’m a real fan of tight security, except when it’s directed at me.
Anyway, I missed Donna already. She was really nice. There are a lot of nice women out there, but between my recent divorce and more recent hospitalization and convalescence, I hadn’t really been in the game.
I regarded Beth Penrose. She looked at me, almost smiled, then turned away.
I next regarded George Foster. He always seemed the picture of composure. I assumed that behind those vacuous eyes was a fine brain. I hoped so.
Sylvester Maxwell was tapping his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair. I think he was generally pleased that he’d hired me, but he might be wondering how he could control a dollar-a-week independent consultant who was generally pissing off everyone.
The waiting room was the same dove gray with dark gray trim and gray carpet as the rest of the structure. You could get sensory deprivation in this place.
Regarding Room 250, what I knew for sure about Room 250 is that neither Paul Stevens nor his diploma was in there. There were probably twenty rabid dogs in Room 250 waiting to eat my cojones. Regarding Room 225, I wasn’t sure…. Nothing on this island was quite what it seemed, and no one was entirely truthful.
I said to the secretary, “My aunt was named June.”
She looked up from her desk and stared at me.
I continued, “It’s a pretty name. Reminds me of late spring and early summer, for some reason. Summer solstice, you know?”
June kept staring at me and her eyes narrowed. Scary.
I said to June, “Call Dr. Zollner on the intercom and tell him he has ten seconds to receive us, or we’ll get an arrest warrant for obstruction of justice. Nine seconds.”
She hit the intercom and said, “Dr. Zollner, please come here. Now.”
“Five seconds.”
The door to the right opened, and a big, beefy, bearded man in a white shirt and blue tie appeared. He said, “Yes? What is the problem?”
June pointed directly to me and said, “Him.”
Beefy looked at me. “Yes?”
I stood. Everyone else stood. I recognized Dr. Zollner from the chain-of-command photos in the lobby, and I said, “We have come across the sea and have traveled many miles, Doctor, and overcome many obstacles to find you, and you repay us by jerking us off.”
“Excuse me?”
June butted in, “Shall I call security, Doctor?”
“No, no.” He looked at his guests and said, “Well, come in, come in.”
We went in, went in.
Dr. Zollner’s corner office was big, but the furniture, walls, and carpet were the same as all the others. There was an impressive array of framed things hanging on the wall behind his desk. On the other walls were crappy abstracts, real junk like you see in the best museums.
Still standing, we all introduced ourselves, using our titles and job descriptions this time. It appeared to me—and this had to be a guess again—that Zollner had already met Nash and Foster.
We all pressed the flesh, and Zollner smiled brightly. He said, “So, welcome. I trust Mr. Stevens and Ms. Alba have been helpful?”
He had a slight accent, German probably, if the name was any indication. As I said, he was big—fat, actually—and he had white hair and a white Van Dyke beard and thick glasses. In fact, he looked like Burl Ives, if you want the truth.
Dr. Zollner invited us to sit—“Sit, sit”—and we sat, sat. He began by saying, “I am still in shock over this tragedy. I couldn’t sleep last night.”
Beth inquired, “Who called you last night with the news, Doctor?”
“Mr. Stevens. He said he’d been called by the police.” Zollner continued, “The Gordons were brilliant scientists and very well respected among their colleagues.” He added, “I hope you solve this case very quickly.”
Beth replied, “So do we.”
Zollner continued, “Also, let me apologize for keeping you waiting. I have been on the phone all morning.”
Nash said, “I assume, Doctor, you’ve been advised not to give interviews.”
Zollner nodded. “Yes
, yes. Of course. No, I didn’t give any information, but I read the prepared statement. The one that came from Washington.”
Foster requested, “Can you read it to us?”
“Yes, of course, of course.” He rummaged around his desk, found a sheet of paper, adjusted his specs, and read, “ ‘The Secretary of Agriculture regrets the tragic deaths of Drs. Thomas and Judith Gordon, employees of the Department of Agriculture. We will not engage in speculation regarding the circumstances of these deaths. Questions regarding the investigation of the deaths should be directed to the local police, who can better answer those questions.”’
Dr. Zollner finished reading what amounted to nothing.
Max said to Zollner, “Please fax that to the Southold police so we can read it to the press after substituting the FBI for the local police.”
Mr. Foster said, “The FBI is not involved in this case, Chief.”
“Right. I forgot. Neither is the CIA.” He looked at Beth. “How about the county police? You guys involved?”
Beth replied, “Involved and in charge.” She said to Dr. Zollner, “Can you describe to us the duties of the Gordons?”
“Yes…. They were involved mostly with … genetic research. Genetic alteration of viruses to make them unable to cause disease, but able to stimulate the body’s immune system.”
“A vaccine?” Beth asked.
“Yes, a new type of vaccine. Much safer than using a weakened virus.”
“And in their work, they had access to all types of virus and bacteria?”
“Yes, of course. Mostly virus.”
Beth went on, shifting to the more traditional homicide investigation questions regarding friends, enemies, debts, threats, relationships with co-workers, recalled conversations with the deceased, how the deceased appeared to act in the last week or so, and on and on. Good homicide stuff, but probably not totally relevant. Yet, it all had to be asked, and it would be asked again and again of almost everyone the Gordons knew, then asked again of those already interviewed to see if there were any inconsistencies in their statements. What we needed in this case, if you assumed the theft of deadly bugs, was a big break, the “Advance to Go” card, something to bypass the procedural crap before the world ended.
I looked at the abstracts on the walls and realized that these weren’t paintings, but color photographs…. I had a feeling these were diseases—bacteria and stuff, infecting blood and cells and all that, photographed with a microscope. Weird. But actually, they weren’t all that bad.
Zollner noticed my gaze and interrupted his reply to some question, saying, “Even disease-causing organisms can be beautiful.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “I have a suit with that pattern. The green and red squiggly ones there.”
“Yes? That’s a filovirus—Ebola, actually. Dyed, of course. Those little things could kill you in forty-eight hours. No cure.”
“And they’re here in this building?”
“Perhaps.”
“Cops don’t like that word, Doctor. Yes or no?”
“Yes. But safely stored—frozen and under lock and key.” He added, “And we only play with simian Ebola here. Monkey Ebola, not human Ebola.”
“And you’ve done an inventory of your bugs?”
“Yes. But to be honest, there is no way we could account for every specimen. And then you have the problem of someone propagating certain organisms in an unauthorized place. Yes, yes, I know what you’re getting at. You believe the Gordons took some very exotic and deadly organisms, and perhaps sold them to … well, let’s say a foreign power. But I assure you, they would not do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too terrible to contemplate.”
“That’s very reassuring,” I said. “Hey, we can go home now.”
Dr. Zollner looked at me, not used to my humor, I suppose. He really did look like Burl Ives, and I was going to ask him for a photo and autograph.
Finally, Dr. Zollner leaned across his desk toward me and said in his slight accent, “Detective Corey, if you had the key to the gates of hell, would you open them? If you did, you should be a very fast runner.”
I contemplated this a moment, then replied, “If opening the gates of hell is so unthinkable, then why do you need a lock and key?”
He nodded and replied, “I suppose to protect us from madmen.” He added, “Of course, the Gordons were not mad.”
No one replied. We’d all been through this before, verbally and mentally, a dozen times since last night.
Finally, Dr. Zollner said, “I have another theory which I will share with you and which I believe will prove true within this day. Here is my theory—my belief. The Gordons, who were wonderful people, but somewhat carefree and terrible with money, stole one of the new vaccines they were working on. I believe they were further advanced on the research of a vaccine than they led us to believe. Unfortunately, this sometimes happens in science. They may have made separate notes and even separate sequencing gels— these are transparent plates where genetically engineered mutations, which are inserted into a disease-causing virus, show up as … something resembling a bar code,” he explained.
No one said a word, and he continued, “So, consider that the Gordons could have discovered a wonderful new vaccine for a terrible disease-causing virus—animal, human, or both—and kept this discovery secret, and over the months assembled all their notes, genetic gels, and the vaccine itself in some hidden area of the laboratory, or in a deserted building on the island. Their purpose, of course, would be to sell this to perhaps a foreign pharmaceutical firm. Perhaps they intended to resign from here, take a job with a private firm, and pretend to make the discovery there. Then, they would get a very handsome bonus amounting to millions of dollars. And the royalties could be tens of millions of dollars, depending on the vaccine.”
No one spoke. I glanced at Beth. She had actually predicted this when we were standing on the bluff.
Dr. Zollner continued, “This makes sense. No? People who work with life and death would rather sell life. If for no other reason than it’s safer, and it’s more profitable. Death is cheap. I could kill you with a whiff of anthrax. Life is more difficult to protect and preserve. So, if the death of the Gordons was in any way connected to their work here, then it was connected as I said. Why would you think of disease-causing virus and bacteria? Why do your minds work that way? As we say, if your only tool is a hammer, then every problem looks like a nail. Yes? Well, but I don’t blame you. We always think the worst. And this is your job.”
Again, no one spoke.
Dr. Zollner looked at each of us and continued. “If the Gordons did this, it was unethical and also illegal. And whoever was their agent—their middleman—was also unethical and greedy, and it would appear he was also murderous.”
It appeared that the good Dr. Zollner had thought this through.
He went on. “This would not be the first time that government scientists or corporate scientists have conspired to steal their own discovery and become millionaires. It is very frustrating for geniuses to see others make millions from their work. And the stakes are very high. If this vaccine, for instance, could be used in a widespread disease, such as AIDS, then we are talking about hundreds of millions of dollars. Even billions for the discoverers.”
We all glanced at one another. Billions.
“So, there you are. The Gordons wanted to be rich, but more, I think, they wanted to be famous. They wanted to be recognized, they wanted the vaccine named after them, like the Salk vaccine. That would not have happened here. What we do here is kept very quiet except within the scientific community. The Gordons were somewhat flamboyant for scientists. They were young, they wanted material things. They wanted the American Dream, and they were sure they had earned it. And, you know, they really had. They were brilliant, overworked, and underpaid. So they sought to remedy that. I only wonder what it was they discovered, and I worry that we will not recover it. I wonder, too, who ki
lled them, though I’m sure I know why. So, what do you think? Yes? No?”
Ted Nash spoke first and said, “I think that’s it, Doctor. I think you’re right.”
George Foster nodded. “We had the right idea, but the wrong bug. Vaccine. Of course.”
Max, too, nodded and said, “Makes perfect sense. I’m relieved. Yeah.”
Beth spoke. “I still have to find the murderer. But I think we can stop looking for terrorists and start looking for another type of person or persons.”
I looked at Dr. Zollner awhile, and he looked back at me. His glasses were thick, but you could see the blue twinkling eyes. Maybe not Burl Ives. Maybe Colonel Sanders. That was it. How appropriate. The head of the world’s largest animal disease research lab looks like Colonel Sanders.
He said to me, “Detective Corey? You have a contrary thought, perhaps?”
“Oh, no. I’m with the majority on this one. I knew the Gordons, and apparently you did too, Doctor. You’re right on the mark.” I looked at my colleagues and said, “I can’t believe we never thought of that. Not death. Life. Not disease, but a cure.”
“Vaccine,” said Dr. Zollner. “A preventive. Not a cure. There’s better money in vaccines. If it’s a flu vaccine, for instance, then a hundred million doses are dispensed each year in America alone. The Gordons were doing brilliant work with viral vaccines.”
“Right. Vaccine.” I asked Dr. Zollner, “And you say they’d have had to plan this for some time?”
“Oh, yes. As soon as they realized they were on to something, they’d begin making false notes, false test results, and at the same time, keeping legitimate notes and so forth. It’s the scientific equivalent of double bookkeeping.”
“And no one would realize what was going on? There are no checks or controls?”
“Well, there are, of course. But the Gordons were each other’s research partner, and they were very senior. Also, their area of expertise—viral genetic engineering—is somewhat exotic and not easily checked by others. And finally, if there’s a will, and there’s a genius IQ at work, then there’s a way.”