Taji's Syndrome

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “They were supposed to have been destroyed,” Harper reminded him.

  “Yes. That is what makes it difficult,” Jeff agreed. “No one wants to admit that the orders were not carried out, or were only partially carried out. We have to be diplomatic about our dealings, and that slows us down.” His voice dropped with the last and he made a gesture of frustration.

  “Do you think it will do any good?”

  “Well, the National Security Agency and the Executive Security Department are both breathing down the necks of the coordinator in Atlanta. She can handle them, but from what she tells me, the ESD is being very touchy. According to her, even the FBI has been more helpful.”

  “That’s a strange state of affairs,” said Harper.

  “Yes, it is,” said Jeff. “By the way, don’t be surprised if someone from the ESD shows up here and starts checking up on the patients you have here.” He put his agenda back in his pocket. “I know it isn’t easy, but if you can accommodate them, it might be best if you try. They can make things go smoothly or put all kinds of barriers in our way, and we’ve got enough to handle with the disease without—”

  “Sorry,” said Sam Jarvis as he came through the door. “I got tied up with that new admit. She’s only fifteen and she’s going to die, that’s how she put it.” He was thinner than two weeks ago, and the lines of his face were more deeply scored than before. There was fatigue in every line of his body; when he sat down he slumped and it was a short while before he picked up his copy of the printout.

  “When did you go home last night?” Harper asked with concern.

  “I didn’t,” Sam confessed. “I ended up sleeping in the surgeon’s lounge. The two beds in there are filled with boulders.” He worked his shoulder, as if trying to relieve its stiffness. “And I’m not as young as I was once.”

  “Who else is coming?” Jeff inquired while Sam went over the material in the printouts.

  “This ACTH reading is what gets me. It doesn’t make any sense at all.” Sam stopped. “Most of the quarantine staff will be here in half an hour—that’s the time when the shifts change. We only keep them on for three hours, then they have two off and another three on. It’s awkward at times, but we’ve found that the concentration is better and in most cases there are fewer mistakes, and fewer of the staff become ill.” He watched Jeff as he said this, as if measuring his response for approval or disapproval.

  “I wish more hospitals would be as careful,” Jeff told him, knowing that a response was required from him. “I think we lose more patients to carelessness than to infection.”

  “You were saying something about the ESD when I came in,” Sam said, making another of his abrupt changes of subject. “What was that all about?”

  “They’re checking out this investigation, because of the possible involvement of the government. We’ve requested all information on strategic substance storage areas, just in case.” Jeff regarded Sam through narrowed eyes. “We have to go along with them or we won’t get much help.”

  “Great. Okay. I’ll brief everyone on the floor, I guess. You can tell the quarantine staff.” Sam stifled a yawn. “And I’d appreciate it if you talked with the administration.”

  “Yes, if you like.” Jeff very nearly smiled. “Have they been giving you much trouble?”

  “They have their procedures, but those procedures aren’t designed to handle something like this outbreak.” This time the yawn would not be stopped. “Sorry about that.”

  “You need rest,” said Jeff.

  Harper was openly curious. “What you said earlier, about the carelessness—do you mind if we talk about that some more, Doctor Taji?”

  “Jeff; please, Jeff,” he said, wanting as few barriers between them as possible. “Yes, I’d be very happy to talk to you or anyone else working on this investigation about the issue of carelessness.” In his mind, he heard the groans of his colleagues back in Atlanta, who were heartily sick of his pet theories about carelessness.

  “By the way, we have found one person on the staff who was exposed to the syndrome and has no sign of contracting it,” Sam went on, mastering his exhaustion for the moment. “It’s probably too early to tell, but . . .”

  “Keep an eye on . . . him? her?”

  “Her,” said Sam. “She’s already volunteered.” He looked over at Harper. “If it turns out that she doesn’t have the disease, then we’ll try a few tests on her. We’ve done a blood workup already, but I want a full series of scans.”

  “How do you know she was exposed?”

  “First, she lives in Medina and her roommate has come down with the disease. Second”—Sam had started to play with a pencil, turning it end to end with each number”—she works in the lab, and she accidentally got splashed with blood serum from one of the patients who has it.”

  “It might not be transmitted that way. If it’s a case of environmental toxins, she can’t be considered exposed.” Jeff delivered his warning in as neutral a tone as he could achieve, for he knew how much this investigation meant to Sam and Harper. He shared their feelings, but not in the terribly personal way of someone who has lost family and friends to the disease.

  “You can’t rule out secondary transmission, either,” said Sam.

  “No; we can’t rule out anything,” Jeff concurred at once. “All right. She’s probably the best source of information we have at the moment. Go ahead and do as you think best where she’s concerned, but don’t expect too much, and, if you can, resist the urge to look in only this one place for the solution.”

  “I’m not precisely an amateur,” Sam bristled.

  “No. I don’t mean that.” He braced his arms on the table and leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Sam’s. “I know from experience how tempting it is to come up with the solution you want, and the explanation you want, and to start selecting your evidence to support that theory.”

  Surprisingly, Harper seconded him. “That’s what we always warn the students about in criminology—the tendency to want the facts to fit the theory rather than the other way around. It’s easy to do.” His tone changed slightly, and he sounded more like a professor again. “You find a victim who has all the outward indications of strangulation and so you don’t look for poison, just in case. Or you find a crime scene where the evidence of a struggle suggests that the assailant came through the window, and so you aren’t as careful as you ought to be about how much broken glass has fallen on which side of the window.” He looked squarely at Jeff. “You think the families of all the victims are at risk, don’t you?”

  “Yes; but I think everyone in the area is at risk, to a greater or lesser degree. For what little impact this might have, that’s the consensus of my colleagues.” He stopped, then went on, “We’re starting to issue warnings for all hospitals west of the Rockies and south of Denver. I think we ought to be sending warnings everywhere, but—”

  “And then what?” Harper demanded.

  “We have to pinpoint the cause of the syndrome, the key to the disease, and then, if it is at all possible, isolate it and get rid of it. Barring that, we have to find a treatment for the disease.” Jeff looked at Sam. “Have you had a chance to go over the material I left you before?”

  “Not closely, no,” Sam admitted. “It’s been too hectic. But I think that I’m going to go over all of it this evening, and the hell with everything else.” He set his pencil aside. “Have you talked to Max Klausen yet?”

  “No, not yet,” said Jeff, sensing tension in the question.

  “He called last night. His wife, Cassie; she’s a remedial reading teacher. She’s come down with the symptoms.” Sam touched the tips of his fingers together. “They’re very close. It’s a good marriage.”

  Harper looked shocked. “Poor bastard,” he said with intense sympathy. “God, after losing his friends, to have this happen.”
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  “And how is Max? How is he handling it?” Jeff wanted to know.

  “He’s beside himself. He blames himself. He says that he must have carried something to her. I told him that doesn’t make any sense, but he’s . . . he’s taking it hard.” Sam changed the subject once more. “I’ve asked Hal Shevis to join us here, along with the quarantine staff. He’s—”

  “I know Doctor Shevis,” Jeff interrupted. “We’ve dealt with him before, and he’s already supplied us with corroboration for the material sent by Klausen. I’m very glad you thought to include him. I ought to have done so myself.”

  “His niece is in the hospital with the disease,” Sam warned. “It’s been very hard on the family. Her father’s a disabled vet, and he doesn’t have any other kids.”

  Harper looked down at his hands, not trusting himself to speak; Jeff cleared his throat. “Do you know if he would rather not work with us? I could certainly understand if he decided to stay away from our work.”

  “It’s going to be okay,” Sam said. “He needs something to do, and this is probably the best answer for him right now. Just like it is for Harper.” He did his best to sound optimistic, but could not sustain it.

  “Doubtless,” said Jeff enigmatically. “Then I hope you’re willing to give me a little extra time after the meeting. I want to know the current status of everyone working on the quarantine staff in regard to this disease. Who’s been through the most, who’s in the middle of . . . loss. Who’s getting frightened, who’s getting angry about the disease.” He thought of what it had already been dubbed back in Atlanta: Taji’s Syndrome, TS for short. He hoped the nickname would not catch on here.

  “Almost everyone on the staff knows or knows of someone who has it. The number of cases has gone up sharply in the last week,” said Sam. “Either that, or we’re seeing more of it and identifying it.”

  “Both are likely,” said Jeff. “All right. We’ll deal with this as we must. But I’m going to need your assistance. I think that it would be useful if you’d take the time to get twice-daily updates from the labs. Who besides Shevis could help us?”

  “I’ll get the names for you,” said Sam, “but Hal Shevis is the boss here. We’ve got one other problem: the press. The disease has made the papers and the evening news and we’re getting pressure. I don’t want to see a love of sensationalism taking over the investigation.”

  “No; no one does,” said Jeff, recalling how the reporters had flocked to cover the terrorist attack that had killed his wife. “We’ll have to give them something that can buy us some time, that much is plain.” He looked at Harper again. “How are you with the press?”

  “I don’t know,” said Harper. “Are they anything like grad students?”

  Jeff did his best to smile. He appreciated all that Harper was doing. “I don’t know what grad students in criminology are like. It wouldn’t hurt to treat it like a class.” He looked back at Sam. “Would Shevis handle this for us, do you think?”

  “Oh, I guess so. Ask him.” Sam had slumped back in his chair and was staring at the window in an abstracted way. “I like these days when the mountains are out. Sometimes you can’t see them. They disappear in fog or clouds or rain or snow. I had a patient once, very old and a little out of touch, who was afraid that the day would come when the fog would lift and the mountains would still be gone.”

  Jeff and Harper exchanged one quick, questioning glance. “It’s almost time for the meeting,” said Harper, getting up. “I want to be sure the coffee and tea are available.”

  “Good idea,” said Sam. “Make mine a double.”

  While Harper was out of the room, Jeff took out his two notebooks and opened them on the table; all the while he kept covert watch over Sam Jarvis, trying to determine how much more strain the man could bear before he would not be able to take any more.

  —Sylvia Kostermeyer and Weyman Muggridge—

  Sylvia folded her arms and glared at Weyman. “What kind of remark is that?”

  “Just a simple question,” Weyman responded with a maddening lack of concern. “I’m curious about private hospitals, religious hospitals. They don’t all have to report to PHES the same way that community and state institutions do. I wanted to know who’s covering them and what you’ve found out. What’s upsetting about that?” He had a slow, winning smile that served only to infuriate her more.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted sullenly, furious that she had overlooked something so obvious. “Do you want me to call and find out?”

  “Or I will,” he volunteered, and fell silent as she glared at him. “I didn’t mean that badly, Doctor Kostermeyer.”

  “Of course not,” she snapped and reached for the phone. Half a dozen folders slipped off her desk and onto the floor, their contents scattering. “Oh, shit!” she burst out, slamming the receiver back into the cradle and putting her hand to her head. She started to pick up the folders and was gently stopped by Weyman.

  “You sit. I’ll take care of it. And I’ll make the call. I won’t make you look bad, I promise. I’ll make me look bad.” He was already at his self-appointed chores, and from where he hunkered down to get the printouts that had slipped under her desk, he asked, “How much sleep have you been getting, Doctor Kostermeyer?”

  “Not enough,” she admitted, one hand over her eyes. “There’s so much to do. Two docs in this office have symptoms of the disease, and—”

  “TS,” said Weyman.

  “It sure is,” Sylvia agreed.

  He looked up at her, his lopsided smile broadening. “No, I didn’t mean it that way. TS is what we’re calling the disease in Atlanta. Jeff Taji was the one who started the investigation. He’s in Seattle or Portland right now. Anyway, since it’s his disease, we’re calling it Taji’s Syndrome. TS.”

  “Medical humor?” Sylvia asked as Weyman stacked the files on her desk.

  “I don’t know that everything’s in the right order, but it’s all there.” He reached for the phone. “What extension do I want?”

  “Dial eighty-one and then . . . uh . . . seven-three-three. That’s Doris’ line. She’ll know what to do.” Sylvia rubbed her face, unaware that she had smeared her mascara, which along with lipstick was her only make-up.

  Weyman did as she told him, and after little more than a minute, he said, “Hello, this is Doctor Muggridge? Am I speaking to”—he looked at Sylvia for help and read her lips—“Doris Lytton? . . . Yes, Doctor Kostermeyer told me how I could reach you . . . Look, Ms. Lytton, I seem to have made an oversight. I should have asked for this before I left Atlanta, and I’m sorry to cause you extra work, but Doctor Kostermeyer’s right; I really do need to get the stats on this disease we’re investigating from the various private hospitals in the greater Southern California area. I know that it’s a lot of work but she’s absolutely right, and I must have been woolgathering before I took the plane. All the private hospitals, yes . . . and the religious, yes . . . As soon as possible . . . I know it’s a lot to ask . . . I’m certain that you’re shorthanded, but . . . It could make a difference, Ms. Lytton. Call Doctor Kostermeyer and ask her. She’s the one who . . . She does deserve credit, I agree.”

  “You’re the most shameless—” Sylvia whispered, only to be stopped by his warning finger held to his lips.

  “All right. If she approves, yes . . . Thank you . . . Yes, it was foolish I’ll wait for her to contact me, then . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . I won’t forget, no . . . Thank you, Ms. Lytton. Good-bye.” He hung up. “She’s going to call you to find out if you’ll authorize the inquiries.”

  “What do I have to do with it? You’re NCDC, you’ve got more authority than I do.”

  “Not with Ms. Doris Lytton, I don’t. And don’t let her know I’m here. This is all news to you.” He drew up one of the old, straightbacked chairs. “She’s insisting you get the credit for remem
bering to check private institutions. Fine with me.”

  “But you thought of it,” she protested.

  “You tell Ms. Lytton that and she won’t believe you, and she might not help you. And you would have thought of it.” He snatched the phone as it rang and handed it to Sylvia, listening with amusement as she gave her unnecessary permission for the inquiries. “See?” he said when she hung up. “That wasn’t as hard as you thought it would be.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “So they tell me,” he said. “Come on. I want to get over to the medical complex before the traffic piles up too much.”

  “All right.” She rose as she looked around for her jacket and was surprised to see he was holding it for her. “Thank you,” she said doubtfully as she slipped her arms into the sleeves.

  “Where I come from, we still do this sort of thing.” He held the door for her as they left her office and insisted on opening her car door for her, although she said it was silly since she was driving.

  “Well,” she said as they drove down Chula Vista Parkway toward La Mesa, “it’s . . . a treat,” she said, not sure that she intended to be so candid.

  “You know,” he said, as if he had not heard her, “I remember the hoopla when they opened this road, when was it? five years back? Supposed to be the most beautiful stretch of road in Southern California.”

  “That’s what they say,” she told him. “It’s a lot more fun than I-5, and it beats the city streets.” Slowly she began to relax. “We’re meeting with Doctor Gross from Immigration and my immediate superior, Mike Wren. They’ve got some men from Miramar and Pendleton coming; the military’s getting worried. We’re hoping to get some cooperation and time.”

  “Is that why you wanted me to bring all the material we have with me?” He was expecting worse, but did not want to alarm her.

  “In part, yes, but actually, I wanted to see it for myself. I’m worried about this. And I’m afraid that it’s partially a problem with the government or the military, and that scares the living shit out of me.” She tried to laugh and botched it. “Back in the Sixties, my parents were real activists. They went on the marches and rioted in Chicago and demonstrated against Viet Nam. They weren’t famous, but they weren’t unknowns, either. And it’s followed them ever since. They’re paying for all the time and care they put into this country, and . . . I get frightened. I don’t want to fight with the military or the government, especially if they’re to blame for this.”