“Unfortunately that’s true,” Marsha said. “But we in the business all know where the problem is: it’s in the slaughterhouses. It’s simply profit over safe meat.”
“When are you willing to help?” Kim asked.
“Whenever,” Marsha said. “Right now if you’re up for it. Actually, tonight would be a good time for me to try because there’ll be less risk. The only people at Mercer Meats now would be the overtime cleaning crew. I can’t imagine they’d think much if I browse through the patty-room logs.”
“All right,” Kim said. “You’re on. Let’s go.”
THIRTEEN
Saturday evening, January 24th
Tracy felt shell-shocked. Her divorce had been tough, especially the custody battle with Kim, but it was nothing compared to what she was feeling now. Thanks to her experience as a therapist, she recognized clearly the symptoms; she was on the verge of slipping into a serious depression. From having counseled other people in similar circumstances, she knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but she wanted to fight it. At the same time, she knew she had to let herself grieve.
As she rounded the final bend in the road and approached her house, she could see Carl’s yellow Lamborghini parked at the curb. She didn’t know whether she’d be glad to see him or not.
Tracy pulled into her driveway and turned off the engine. Carl came down the steps to meet her, carrying a bouquet of flowers.
Tracy stepped out of her car and into Carl’s arms. For a few minutes they didn’t talk; he just held her in the late-afternoon darkness.
“How did you find out?” Tracy asked, with her head still pressed against Carl’s chest.
“Being on the hospital board, I hear all the news,” Carl said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” Tracy said. “God, I feel drained.”
“I can imagine,” Carl said. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
They started walking up the pathway.
“I hear Kim really lost it. That must make it extra tough on you.”
Tracy only nodded.
“The man’s clearly out of control. Who does he think he is—God? I tell you, the whole hospital is in an uproar.”
Tracy opened the door without responding. She and Carl went in.
“Kim’s having a hard time,” Tracy said.
“Ha!” Carl commented. He took Tracy’s coat and hung it along with his in the hall closet. “That’s an understatement. As usual, you’re being generous. I’m not nearly so charitable. In fact, I could club him for carrying on the way he did in the Onion Ring restaurant last night about Becky’s getting sick there. Did you see the article in the paper? It’s had a big effect on the Onion Ring share price. I can’t tell you how much of a paper loss I’ve suffered from his lunacy.”
Tracy went into the living room and collapsed on the couch. She felt exhausted and yet wired and anxious at the same time. Carl followed her.
“Can I get you something?” Carl asked. “Like a drink or some food.”
Tracy shook her head. Carl sat across from her. “I spoke to some other members of the Foodsmart board,” he said. “We’re seriously thinking about suing him if the share price continues to fall.”
“It wasn’t an idle accusation on his part,” Tracy said. “Becky had a rare burger there the night before she got sick.”
“Oh, come on,” Carl said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Becky didn’t get sick there. Hundreds of thousands of burgers are made in the chain. No one gets sick. We cook those burgers to death.”
Tracy didn’t say anything. Carl quickly realized what he’d said.
“I’m sorry. That was a poor choice of words under the circumstances.”
“It’s okay, Carl,” Tracy said wearily.
“I’ll tell you what bugs me about all this,” Carl said. “Hamburger has gotten a bad rap with this E. coli brouhaha. It’s now like a knee-jerk reaction: E. coli and hamburger. Hell, people have gotten the same E. coli from apple juice, lettuce, milk, even swimming in a contaminated pond. Don’t you think it’s unfair that hamburger has to take all the crap?”
“I don’t know,” Tracy said. “I’m sorry I can’t be more responsive. I feel numb. It’s hard for me to think.”
“Of course, dear,” Carl said. “I’m the one who should be sorry for carrying on like I am. I think you should eat. When was the last time you had a meal?”
“I can’t remember,” Tracy said.
“Well, there you go,” Carl said. “How about we go out to some quiet place?”
Tracy looked at Carl in total disbelief. “My daughter just died. I’m not going out. How can you even ask?”
“Okay,” Carl said, raising his hands in defense. “It was just an idea. I think you should eat. I suppose I could get some takeout food. What about that?”
Tracy lowered her face into her hands. Carl was not helping. “I’m not hungry. Besides, maybe it would be better for me to just be alone tonight. I’m not very good company.”
“Really?” Carl questioned. He was hurt.
“Yes, really,” Tracy said. She raised her head. “I’m sure there’s something you should be doing.”
“Well, there is the dinner at Bobby Bo Mason’s house,” Carl said. “Remember me telling you about that?”
“I can’t say that I do,” Tracy said tiredly. “Who’s Bobby Bo?”
“He’s one of the local cattle barons,” Carl said. “Tonight’s the celebration of his assuming the presidency of the American Beef Alliance.”
“Sounds very important,” Tracy said in contrast to how she felt.
“It is,” Carl said. “It’s the most powerful national organization in the business.”
“Then don’t let me keep you from it,” Tracy said.
“You wouldn’t mind?” Carl said. “I’ll have my cellular phone. You can call me, and I can be back here in twenty minutes tops.”
“I wouldn’t mind at all,” Tracy said. “In fact, I’d feel bad if you missed it on my account.”
The car’s instrument panel splashed light on Kim’s face. Marsha stole glances at him as she drove. Now that she’d had a chance to observe him, she had to admit to herself that he was a handsome man even with his two-day stubble.
They drove in silence for quite a ways. Finally Marsha was able to get Kim talking about Becky. She had a feeling it would be good for him to talk about his daughter and she was right. Kim warmed to the subject. He regaled Marsha with stories of Becky’s skating exploits, something Tracy had not mentioned.
When the conversation about Becky lapsed, Marsha had talked a little about herself, explaining that she’d been through veterinary school. She’d described how she and a girlfriend had become interested in the USDA and had vowed to join the agency to make a difference. She’d explained that after graduation, they’d discovered there were obstacles for them to get into the veterinarian side of the USDA. The only entry-level positions available were with the inspectional services. In the end, it had only been Marsha who’d joined. The friend had decided the year or so it would take to be transferred was too big a sacrifice and had opted for private veterinarian practice.
“Veterinary school?” Kim questioned. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Why not?” Marsha asked.
“I don’t know exactly,” Kim said. “Maybe you are a little too . . .” Kim paused as he struggled for a word. Finally he said: “. . . too elegant, I guess. I know it’s probably unfair, but I’d expect someone to be more . . .”
“More what?” Marsha asked as Kim paused again. She was enjoying Kim’s mild discomfort.
“I guess tomboyish,” Kim said. He chuckled. “I suppose that’s a stupid thing to say.”
Marsha laughed too. At least he could hear how ridiculous he sounded.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Kim said, “how old are you? I know that’s an inappropriate question, but unless you are some kind of child prodigy, you’re not in your early twenties like I’d guesse
d.”
“Heavens, no,” Marsha said. “I’m twenty-nine, pushing thirty.”
Marsha leaned forward and turned on the windshield wipers. It had started to rain. It was already as dark as pitch even though it was only a little after six in the evening.
“How are we going to work this?” Kim questioned.
“Work what?” Marsha asked.
“My getting into Mercer Meats,” Kim said.
“I told you, it won’t be a problem,” Marsha said. “The day shift is long gone along with the supervisors. Only the overtime cleaning crew will be there, along with a security guard.”
“Well, the guard’s not going to be excited about letting me in,” Kim said. “Maybe I should just wait in the car.”
“Security is not going to be a problem,” Marsha said. “I have both my USDA and Mercer Meats I.D.’s.”
“That’s fine for you,” Kim said. “But what about me?”
“Don’t worry,” Marsha said. “They know me. They’ve never once even asked to see my I.D. If it comes up, I’ll say you’re my supervisor. Or I’ll say I’m training you.” She laughed.
“I’m not dressed like someone from the USDA,” Kim said.
Marsha shot Kim a glance and giggled some more. “What does a night security man know? I think you look bizarre enough to pass for most anything.”
“You seem awfully cavalier about this,” Kim commented.
“Well, what’s the worst-case scenario?” Marsha said. “We don’t get in.”
“And you get into trouble,” Kim said.
“I’ve already thought of that,” Marsha said. “What happens, happens.”
Marsha exited the expressway and started through Bartonville. They had to stop at the single traffic light in the town, where Mercer Street met Main Street.
“When I think about hamburger,” Marsha said, “I’m surprised anyone eats it. I was a half-ass vegetarian before this job. Now I’m a committed one.”
“Coming from a USDA meat inspector, that’s not very reassuring,” Kim said.
“It turns my stomach when I think of what hamburger has in it,” Marsha said.
“What do you mean?” Kim said. “It’s muscle.”
“Muscle and a bunch of other stuff,” Marsha said. “Have you ever heard of the Advanced Meat Recovery System?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Kim said.
“It’s a high-pressure device that they use to clean every scrap off cattle bones,” Marsha said. “It results in a gray slurry that they dye red and add to the hamburger.”
“That’s disgusting,” Kim said.
“And central-nervous tissue,” Marsha said. “Like spinal cord. That gets into hamburger all the time.”
“Really?” Kim asked.
“Absolutely,” Marsha said. “And that’s worse than it sounds. You’ve heard of mad cow disease?”
“Who hasn’t?” Kim said. “That’s an illness that terrifies me. The idea of a heat-resistant protein that you get by eating and that is fatal is the ultimate horror. Thank God we don’t have it in this country.”
“We don’t have it yet,” Marsha said. “At least it hasn’t been seen so far. But if you ask me, it’s just a matter of time. Do you know what is thought to have caused mad cow disease in England?”
“I believe it’s thought to have come from feeding rendered sheep to the cows,” Kim said. “Sheep that were sick with scrapie, the sheep equivalent.”
“Exactly,” Marsha said. “And in this country there’s supposed to be a ban on feeding rendered sheep to cows. But you know something, there’s no enforcement, and I was told by insiders that as many as a quarter of the renderers admit in private they don’t pay any attention to the ban.”
“In other words, the same circumstances that resulted in mad cow disease in England are present here?”
“Precisely,” Marsha said. “And with spinal cord and the like routinely getting into hamburger, the chain to humans is in place. That’s why I say it’s just a matter of time before we see the first cases.”
“Good God!” Kim exclaimed. “The more I hear about this shoddy business, the more appalled I get. I’d no idea about any of this.”
“Nor does the general public,” Marsha said.
The white hulk of Mercer Meats loomed up, and Marsha turned into its parking area. In contrast to earlier that day, there were few cars. She pulled up close to the front door in the same spot she’d been in that morning. She turned off the engine.
“Ready?” she asked.
“You’re sure I should come?” Kim asked.
“Come on!” Marsha said. She opened the door and got out.
The front door was locked. Marsha rapped on it. Inside, the guard was seated at the round reception desk, reading a magazine. He responded by getting up and coming to the door. He was an elderly gentleman with a thin mustache. His security uniform appeared to be several sizes too big.
“Mercer Meats is closed,” he said through the glass.
Marsha held up her Mercer Meats I.D. card. The guard squinted at it, then unlocked and opened the door. Marsha immediately pushed in. “Thanks,” she said simply.
Kim followed. He could tell the guard looked at him suspiciously, but the man didn’t say anything. He merely locked the door.
Kim had to run to catch up to Marsha, who was already beyond the reception desk and briskly walking down the corridor.
“What did I tell you?” she said. “It was no problem at all.”
The security guard walked over to the end of the reception area and peered down the hall. He watched as Marsha and Kim disappeared into the changing room leading to the production floor. He returned to his desk and picked up the phone. The number he needed was on a Post-it stuck to the edge of the counter.
“Mr. Cartwright,” the guard said when the call was answered, “that USDA lady, Miss Baldwin, who you asked me to watch for, just walked in the door with another guy.”
“Was her companion dressed in a white lab coat, something like a doctor’s?” Jack asked.
“Yup,” the security man said.
“When they leave, get them both to sign out,” Jack said. “I want proof they were there.”
“I’ll do that, sir,” the guard said.
Jack did not bother to replace the receiver. Instead he pressed the appropriate button on his speed-dialer and waited. A moment later, Everett’s stentorian voice reverberated through the line.
“Marsha Baldwin and the doctor are back at the plant,” Jack said.
“Good grief!” Everett sputtered. “That’s not what I wanted to hear. How the devil did you find out?”
“I left word with security to call if they showed up,” Jack said. “Just in case.”
“Good thinking,” Everett said. “I wonder what on earth they’re doing there.”
“My guess is they’re going to try to trace some meat,” Jack said. “That’s what he asked me to do this morning.”
“Let’s not guess,” Everett said. “You get the hell over there and see what they’re up to. Then get back to me. I don’t want this to ruin my evening.”
Jack hung up the phone. He didn’t want it to ruin his evening either. He’d been looking forward to the dinner at Bobby Bo’s for a month and had certainly not anticipated having to go back to the plant. He was in a foul mood when he got his coat and went out to the garage for his car.
Kim stamped his feet and flapped his arms. He didn’t quite understand it, but the thirty-five-degree temperature of the patty room felt more like twenty-five or even fifteen. He’d pulled on a Mercer Meats white coat over his own hospital coat, but they were just cotton, and underneath he had on only his scrubs. The three layers were not nearly enough insulation against the chill, especially since he was essentially standing around. The showerlike white cap didn’t help at all.
Marsha was leafing through the patty-room logbooks, and had been doing so for more than a quarter of an hour. Locating the specific dates, lots, and
batches was taking longer than expected. Initially Kim had looked over her shoulder, but the colder he’d become, the less interested he was.
There were two other people in the room besides Marsha and Kim. They were busy pulling hoses around as they cleaned the patty-formulating machine with high-pressure steam. They had been there when Marsha and Kim arrived but hadn’t made any attempts at conversation.
“Ah, here we go,” Marsha said triumphantly. “Here’s December twenty-ninth.” She ran her finger down the column until she came to Lot 2. Then moving horizontally, she came to the appropriate batches: one through five. “Uh-oh,” she said.
“What’s the matter?” Kim asked. He came over to look.
“It’s just what I was afraid of,” she said. “Batches one through five were a mixture of fresh boneless beef from Higgins and Hancock and imported frozen ground beef. The imported stuff is impossible to trace other than maybe the country. Of course, that would be useless for what you want.”
“What’s Higgins and Hancock?” Kim asked.
“It’s a local slaughterhouse,” Marsha said. “One of the bigger ones.”
“What about the other lot?” Kim asked.
“Let’s check that,” Marsha said. She turned the page. “Here’s the date. What were the lot and batch numbers again?”
“Lot six, batches nine through fourteen,” Kim said, consulting his paper.
“Okay, here it is,” Marsha said. “Hey, we’re in luck if the January twelfth production is the culprit. Those batches were all from Higgins and Hancock. Take a peek.”
Kim looked at where she was pointing. It indicated that the entire lot was made from fresh beef produced on January ninth at Higgins and Hancock.”
“Wasn’t there some way to narrow it down to one or the other?” Marsha asked.
“Not according to the short-order cook at the Onion Ring,” Kim said. “But I dropped off samples from both production dates at the lab. They should have the result by Monday.”
“Until then we’ll assume it’s the January date,” Marsha said. “Because that’s the only one that’s going to be traceable. Hopefully, we’ll be able to go beyond Higgins and Hancock.”