by Alex Kava
The tall, lanky FBI agent had been leaning against a corner but stood straight when Platt entered. He offered his hand while Bix only nodded and continued to make demands to some poor soul on the other end of the phone line.
Platt had met Agent Tully on the same case that Bix had referred to last night. It was the same investigation where Platt had met Maggie O’Dell. Almost a year ago a madman had stuffed envelopes with the Ebola virus and sent them to what appeared to be random victims.
Maggie had been exposed and ended up in a USAMRIID isolation ward at Fort Detrick under the care of Platt. The case had taken a personal toll on Tully as well, resulting in his suspension during an internal investigation that eventually cleared and reinstated him. When Platt recommended Agent Tully to Bix last night, he did so knowing that Tully was one of only a handful of people Maggie trusted. For Platt that was justification that he met Bix’s criteria.
Platt exchanged greetings with Ms. Stratton then asked her to fill him in. She glanced at Bix as if looking for permission but only momentarily.
“At first I thought it might be some kind of prank. In my thirty-two years I’ve never seen so many children ill at the same time. It was awful. Absolutely awful. And it happened so suddenly. My secretary noticed a line to the nurse’s office and not fifteen minutes later the line had doubled. Then I heard children vomiting in the hallway. Some of them using the trash receptacles. Others holding their bellies and not able to get to the restrooms, which, by this time, were also backed up.”
“Did you notice any odd smell prior to the students getting sick?”
“What kind of smell?”
“Anything out of the ordinary.”
“We have a school full of children. There’s no such thing as ordinary smells.”
Platt smiled until he realized she wasn’t joking.
“I think Colonel Platt means something like natural gas.” Agent Tully stepped in. “Rotten-egg gas, perhaps, or any strong chemical smell.”
“Oh, heavens no. Nothing like that. You think a chemical could have caused this?”
Bix snapped his cell phone shut with enough of a clap to draw everyone’s attention. He stood up, sending Ms. Stratton’s desk chair smashing into the back wall. He ignored the scowl from the principal as he unleashed his outrage at her.
“You didn’t tell me one of your cafeteria workers was sick when she reported in this morning.”
“What? This is the first I’m hearing about it.”
“She’s at the front entrance babbling to the police officers that this is all her fault.”
“That’s not possible! We abide by the highest standards.”
“Right. Well, she came back after the evacuation. Appears she has a guilty conscience. Admitted she wasn’t wearing gloves today.”
“We require gloves on all our kitchen servers.”
“Well, it sounds like her gloves were a bother. She got tired of taking them off to blow her nose.”
TWENTY-THREE
NEBRASKA
The girl was lying.
Maggie tamped down her impatience. She was beginning to think these interviews were a waste of time. She glanced at her watch. Maybe the autopsies would reveal more. She leaned against the bedroom wall next to a bookcase topped with stuffed animals belonging to a much younger version of the girl they were now talking to, although her mannerisms seemed to slip into little-girl mode as the questioning progressed.
Sheriff Skylar’s kid-glove treatment of Amanda Vicks was in stark contrast to what he’d put Dawson Hayes through. Yes, Dawson had been in possession of a Taser, but there was no evidence, as of yet, to prove any of the teens had been shot with the gun. And Dawson had been severely injured. Amanda only had a bite mark on her forearm that she couldn’t seem to explain beyond her declaration at the scene that “He bit me.”
Now when Maggie asked, Amanda said she couldn’t remember where or when she was bitten. If it had been a wolf or cougar certainly she would have remembered, but Maggie didn’t press the matter. They had taken photos of the injury. She’d trust Lucy Coy to determine whether it was animal or human sooner than she’d trust the memory of a girl who had most likely been tripping out on a hallucinogen when the incident happened. And to Maggie, that was further evidence that this interview was probably worthless.
Maggie wondered if Sheriff Skylar knew the girl was lying. Perhaps that was why he was taking a gentler approach and using a different interrogation technique on her. However, earlier he seemed much too polite with Amanda’s mother, Cynthia Griffin, and the girl’s stepfather, Mike Griffin. On the drive over, Skylar had mentioned to Maggie that Mrs. Griffin’s family—the Vicks—owned several businesses in the area, including the meat-processing plant, a ranch, and two area banks. Maggie was sure she must have misunderstood about the banks—no one owned banks anymore, did they?
Skylar pulled up a chair, keeping a safe distance from the bed, unlike the menacing stance he had taken with Dawson. Whatever the sheriff’s intention, Maggie remained quiet. After her only question about the bite mark she stayed back out of Skylar’s way and out of the trailing vapor of Amanda’s annoying incense. She wanted to keep the girl off center and slightly outside her nice, warm comfort zone.
If it had been up to Maggie she would have questioned Amanda outside of her bedroom, another of Skylar’s decisions that she didn’t agree with, but not necessarily a bad one. Maggie decided to use it to her advantage. There was such a thing as a witness being too comfortable. Maybe she’d catch Amanda off guard with some of her own interrogation tricks, like simply standing instead of sitting. It made the witness have to keep track of two interrogators even if both weren’t asking questions. Being on different levels accentuated the effect. Sometimes the interrogated lost track of his or her story—or lie—needing to watch for a reaction from two people.
It appeared to be working.
The girl’s bloodshot eyes flitted from Skylar to Maggie and back to Skylar, trying to stay on the sheriff. She batted at her blond hair, pushing tangles out of her face. It looked as if she hadn’t brushed it yet today. She held on to a water bottle and absently took the cap off and screwed it back on, but Maggie noticed her coordination was off. Every few seconds Amanda stopped and gulped a few swallows like each sentence left her mouth dry.
“I know it’s not easy to talk about but can you tell us what you saw, Amanda?” Skylar’s questions came soft and gentle like he was coaxing a kitten out of a tree.
“It’s hard to describe,” she started to answer, eyes darting to Maggie. Her hands made the plastic water bottle crackle as she squeezed too hard and tightened the cap, then immediately started unscrewing it again.
“The lights came out of nowhere. We were, like, just sitting and talking. Then there’s this flash of light. It was like one of those big strobe flashes on a camera.”
She took a sip from the bottle. That was it. She was finished with her story. Maggie wanted to ask how soon had they seen the lights after they chewed on the salvia. She knew Amanda wouldn’t be confessing anytime soon to using any drug. Maggie also guessed the salvia wasn’t the girl’s first experimentation with drugs. Skylar had to see that, didn’t he? He’d questioned Dawson about drugs. Certainly he would ask Amanda.
“How about sound?” he said instead. “Did you hear anything unusual?”
“Oh yeah. It was really weird. Sort of like a hum. No, maybe more like a purr.”
“You mean a purr like an animal?”
Maggie could see the girl peeking out from behind a strand of hair, looking at Skylar as if waiting for him to give some hint as to the correct answer.
“I don’t think so. Then there was this sort of sizzle. You know like when you first throw a hamburger on the grill.”
Skylar winced at the comparison. If she wasn’t mistaken, Maggie thought the girl seemed pleased by his reaction.
“What made that sound?” Skylar asked. “Did it come from above? Did it seem like it was coming from the lig
hts?”
This time Maggie had to stop herself from wincing. He was offering too much information. Why was he leading this girl?
Amanda simply shrugged and tried to put the cap back on the bottle. She missed. Looked down and tried again. Maggie noticed the girl’s hands were steady. There was no shake or tremble from ner vousness. She didn’t see any of the signs of fear in Amanda that she had seen in Dawson’s eyes. In fact there seemed to be nothing uncomfortable about recounting the incident, and Maggie realized it had nothing to do with her lack of coordination.
“Did you see what happened to your friends?”
This time she looked like she was actually thinking about the event for the first time.
“When the flashes went off, me and Courtney were sitting to one side. I got up and then I sort of pointed at the fireworks. It looks so pretty I can’t take my eyes away. I didn’t see Trevor and Kyle. Johnny was with us and he was sort of stumbling around because, you know, he’s looking up at the lights, too, and we’re all oohing and aahing.”
Maggie wished she had suggested they record the interview. She lost track of how many times the girl switched from past tense to present and back. Forensic linguistics was about as scientific as criminal profiling, but each had undeniable benefits. To find a probable truth in someone’s statement you analyzed not only their choice of words but also the tense. When describing an event from memory most people used past tense. If they switched to present at any time when telling the story, that part was more likely to be a fabrication than the truth. Amanda had switched tenses several times and without pause. She also managed to do so without giving them any details, so that her mingling of fact and fiction didn’t much matter.
“She needs to get some rest,” Amanda’s stepfather said from the doorway, and Maggie wondered how long he had been standing there. She hadn’t heard him come up the hallway. “Mandy wasn’t even supposed to be there last night.”
“That right?”
“She was supposed to be at Courtney’s studying. She’s been tired a lot lately. Too many demands on her time.”
Maggie watched Amanda while the men talked about her as if she wasn’t there. She caught the girl rolling her eyes. Both men missed it. Her stepfather seemed a bit too proud that Amanda was so popular that it would exhaust her this early in the school year. He sounded more worried about her overextending herself than about the fact that she had lied about her whereabouts. Either he didn’t know about her extracurricular activities outside of school or he didn’t want to know.
Griffin’s concern evidently was enough for Skylar. He flipped his notebook closed, satisfied to call it quits. When he stood up he saw Maggie still standing by the bookcase. He looked like he had forgotten about her.
“I think we’re done here. That is unless Agent O’Dell has any questions for Amanda.”
“Just one,” Maggie said and she patiently waited for Amanda’s eyes to flit back up to her. “Do you usually get high this early in the day?”
TWENTY-FOUR
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Velma Carter wiped her bloodshot eyes and couldn’t look at Platt.
“We were already short two people,” Carter explained. “I couldn’t call in sick another day.” She sunk her chin into her chest and shook her head. “Those poor babies. All my fault. I didn’t mean to make them sick.”
“But you didn’t think about that when you took off your gloves.” Roger Bix’s rage was brutal. He had been looking for someone to shred and now he believed he had found the culprit.
“Roger,” Platt tried to interrupt him.
“We’ll need to test you.” Bix was unrelenting. “See just what the hell you’ve been spreading.”
The woman started sobbing again. When Detective Racine brought her in the small office, the woman’s face was already red and blotchy. Racine hadn’t left and no one suggested she do so. She stood quietly aside, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Platt didn’t think she was comfortable with Bix’s approach, either.
“What the hell were you thinking,” Bix continued and this time Platt stepped in between the two.
“Ms. Carter, I’m Dr. Benjamin Platt.” He left out the “colonel.” No sense in putting this poor woman more on edge. “We’ll need to take a couple of test samples from you. Is that okay?” They’d need both blood and stool samples, but he’d tell her that later.
She pulled a tissue from somewhere up her sleeve and blew her nose. He could hear the rattle inside her chest. But it sounded like typical cold or flu symptoms. Nothing that would give almost seventy children such immediate nausea and diarrhea.
Platt didn’t look at Bix. He wanted him to know he was cutting him off, but from the corner of his eye he could see that the man’s face was as bright as his orange hair. Platt couldn’t help wondering what had Bix wound so tight, much too tight. He was treating this woman like a terrorist with a bomb strapped to her chest. Yet last night when Platt had suggested a kitchen worker might be the culprit, Bix had dismissed the idea.
“I’m going to have someone come and take a few samples. Is that all right with you, Ms. Carter?” Platt waited for the woman to nod.
“Hell, I’ll take the samples myself.” Bix was at it again.
“No, Mr. Bix,” Platt said, leaning into Bix until the man had to look him in the eye. “We’ll send someone in.” He looked over at Racine. “I saw some paramedics earlier. Are they still here?”
“I’ll go check.”
“We’ll be right back, Ms. Carter. Can I get you anything?”
She shook her head as Platt grabbed Bix by the elbow and escorted him out of the room. He kept walking, pulling Bix along until they were halfway down the hall.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Platt asked. “Last night you told me this could not be a norovirus from improper food handling. You implied it had to already be in the food. Now you unload on that poor woman like she planted the bacteria in every lunch she served. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Doesn’t it make you a little mad when food handlers are so negligent?”
“So you feel better now after lecturing her? Because we both know that unless she has some highly contagious virus or sprayed contaminated body fluids over seventy kids’ meals, she did not cause this.”
Bix shoved at Platt’s hand, though Platt wasn’t even holding on to him anymore. He stood up straight, threw back his shoulders, stretched his neck, and stared at the ceiling. Then he released a sigh and looked at Platt. But still there appeared to be no urgency to explain.
Platt just shook his head. “You’re going to tell me later whether you want to or not. Right now we should start retrieving whatever we can. Before it’s gone.”
“Except we don’t know what we’re looking for at this point.”
“Yes, we do. Undoubtedly, these kids got sick after having lunch in the cafeteria. So let’s go see what we can find of today’s meal even if it means scraping it off the hallway floor and the bathroom stalls.”
TWENTY-FIVE
NEBRASKA
Maggie needed to get to North Platte for the autopsies, so this next interview would have to be her last of the day. That was if Skylar didn’t strangle her before they got there.
“What the hell were you thinking?” The red-faced sheriff had blasted her as soon as they got back to the car.
“The girl’s high. Probably marijuana. That’s why she has the incense burning. Her eyes are bloodshot and dilated. Her coordination is off. I can’t believe you didn’t see that.”
“She’s been through an incredible experience. Of course she’s not herself.”
“Why didn’t you ask her about drugs? You told Dawson Hayes that you knew why they were out in the forest.”
“Amanda’s not a suspect.”
“Neither is Dawson.”
“He had a Taser. A Taser that had been fired.”
“But we don’t have a victim who’s been shot with a Taser.”
“Not
that we know of.” Skylar wouldn’t relent.
“Look,” Maggie said, calming herself and her tone, “next time you decide someone’s a suspect, please inform me.”
“Next time you decide to insult the daughter of one of our community’s most respected business owners, please inform me.”
She shook her head and left it alone for the drive to the Boshes’. It was thirty-five minutes away. The kids lived in different towns but all attended the same high school; one high school for the entire county.
The Boshes’ two-story Colonial, which sat on a huge lot that backed to the city park, predicted what Maggie could expect from this interview. She didn’t need to ask whether Skylar believed this boy was a suspect. Before visiting the Griffins’ house the sheriff had already told her that Johnny B had recruiters from five major NCAA teams at the last football game. But he was going to make them all proud by staying in Nebraska and playing for the Huskers.
“Might even start as a freshman quarterback,” Skylar had gone on. “He’s something to watch. Got an arm on him and man, that boy can scramble. He can get himself out of every kind of mess.”
So Maggie would need to either steel herself for another kid-glove interview or make a decision to take over this investigation.
Mrs. Bosh was waiting outside the front door when they got out of the sheriff’s SUV. She was an attractive woman with a pinched, worried face. She wore slacks, a white silk blouse, and leather pumps. Perhaps she had taken off work early or she had dressed for her son’s interview.
Before they reached the front steps she called out, “He isn’t here.”
Skylar turned to look at the red Camaro in the driveway but before he could ask, Mrs. Bosh continued, “He was here when I came home for lunch. I just got back a few minutes ago and I can’t find him anywhere.” She held up a cell phone. “I checked with a couple of his friends. They haven’t seen him today.”
