by Ben Mezrich
Mulder didn’t have an answer—yet. But he wasn’t ready to discard the theory. The John Doe was linked to Perry Stanton, and Perry Stanton had performed amazing, inhuman physical feats. Wasn’t it possible that the John Doe had been similarly invulnerable?
Mulder reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sterile plastic evidence bag and a small horsehair brush. He leaned close to the dent in the railing and began to collect brush samples. He doubted he’d find anything—but there was always the chance some sort of fiber evidence would show up under analysis.
“What are you doing over there?” Canton asked, watching him. “I said we found the John Doe over here.”
“I don’t think the body started there, Mr. Canton. I think that was just Mr. Doe’s final resting place. It’s the journey between that interests me.” Mulder was about to drop to the ground and get samples from the pavement, when his brush caught on a small groove in the railing. When he pulled the brush free, he noticed a few tiny strips of white cloth caught in the fine horsehairs. He held the brush close to his eyes and saw flakes of some sort of red powder clinging to the underside of the strips. The powder had a strong, moldy scent—somewhat like a loaf of bread that had been left in a damp cabinet too long. Mulder wondered whether the powder and cloth were related to the John Doe. It was possible that the groove in the guardrail had protected it from the elements. He took a second bag out of his pocket and put the strips inside. Then he crossed back to Canton. Canton was looking at him strangely.
“Why is the FBI so interested in this John Doe, anyway? Was he some sort of serial killer?”
“As far as we know,” Mulder said, kneeling down to take more samples from the pavement, “he didn’t do anything but die. Problem was, his skin didn’t die with him.”
Mulder didn’t add the sudden thought that had hit him: Maybe it was his skin that was the killer. Not some microbe carried in his blood—as Scully had proposed—but his skin itself. Because that was the real common denominator. Not his blood, not a microbe, not a disease.
Skin.
Forty minutes later, Mulder entered the infectious disease ward at New York Hospital. The ward was really just a cordoned-off section of the ICU; two hallways and a half dozen private rooms with a self-contained ventilation system and specially sealed metal doors. The rooms were designed with various degrees of biosafety in mind: from the highest level of security, with inverse vacuums and specialized Racal space suits—to the more manageable, low-level rooms, with glove and mask guidelines, maintained under strict video watch by a staff of infectious disease specialists.
Mulder was directed to a low-level containment room near the rear of the ward. After donning gloves and a mask, he was led into a small private room. Scully was standing by a hospital bed, arguing in a determined voice. Dr. Bernstein, Perry Stanton’s plastic surgeon, was sitting on the edge of the bed in a white hospital smock, a skeptical look on his face. There was an IV running into his right arm, and every few seconds he stared at the wire with contempt. It was obvious he didn’t want to be there. And it was equally obvious that he wasn’t the slightest bit sick.
“Look,” he was saying, as Mulder came into the room, “I can assure you, there was no blood-to-blood contact during the transplant. I was masked and gloved. So were my nurses. I’ve done similar procedures on HIV-positive patients. I’ve never had any problems.”
“Dr. Bernstein,” Scully responded, “I didn’t order this quarantine. The infectious disease specialist from the CDC has decided not to take any chances. Your surgical team is the highest-risk group—and this quarantine is just a logical precaution.”
“It’s not logical, it’s pointless. We both know there’s no real cure for lethargica. I can understand restricting my surgical schedule until after the incubation period ends. But why keep me and my staff cooped up in these cells?”
Scully sighed, then nodded toward the IV. “The specialist from the CDC has suggested you remain on acyclovir, at least through the incubation period. It has been shown to be effective in stopping some of the more common types of encephalitis.”
Bernstein rolled his eyes. “Acyclovir has been effective only in encephalitis cases related to the herpes simplex virus. Lethargica isn’t caused by herpes.”
Scully nodded, then shrugged. “Dr. Bernstein, I’m not going to argue medicine with you. Your specialty is plastic surgery. Mine is forensic pathology. Neither one of us is an infectious disease specialist. We should both defer to the expert from the CDC.”
Bernstein didn’t respond. Finally, a grudging acceptance touched his lips. He glanced at Mulder. “I guess I should do what she says.”
Mulder smiled. “Usually works for me. Scully, can I borrow you for a moment?”
Scully followed him out into the hallway. After the door sealed shut behind them, she pulled down her mask. “Mulder, I’ve got some good news. Dr. Cavanaugh, the hospital administrator, has made some initial headway tracking down the John Doe’s body. One of his clerks found a transfer form from Rutgers Medical School in New Jersey. Cavanaugh thinks the cadaver might have been mistakenly sent over for dissection. We’ll know for certain within a few hours.”
Mulder digested the information. He didn’t think it was going to be as simple as that. “I’ll hold my breath. In the meantime, I’d like you to take a look at something. Tell me if you have any idea what it is.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small bag containing the cloth strips and the red powder. Scully took the bag from him and carefully opened the seal. She looked inside, then scrunched up the skin above her nose. She shook the bag, separating some of the red powder from the strips of white cloth. Then she pressed her gloved fingers together against the sides of the bag, getting a sense of the powder’s texture. “Actually, I think I have seen something like this before. From the scent and grain, I think the powder might be an antibacterial agent of some sort. The strips of cloth look like they could have come from a bandage. Where did you get this?”
Mulder’s body felt light as his intuition kicked in. Now he was getting somewhere. “The accident scene where the John Doe’s body was found.”
Scully looked at him, then back at the red powder and the strips of cloth. It seemed as if she was suddenly doubting her own memory. “Before you jump to any conclusions, let me show this to Dr. Bernstein. He’s a surgeon—he’ll have a better idea of what this is.”
They reentered the private-care room. Dr. Bernstein was lying on his back, his hands behind his head. “Back so soon? Have I been paroled?”
Scully handed him the plastic bag. “Actually, we’re just here to ask for your opinion. Do you recognize this red substance?”
Bernstein sat up, shaking the bag in front of his eyes. He opened a corner of the seal and took a small breath. Then he nodded. The answer was obvious to him. “Of course. The Dust. That’s what we call it. It’s an antibacterial compound used during massive skin transplantations. We’re talking about patients with at least fifty percent burns, often more. It’s fairly cutting edge; very powerful, very expensive. Its use was only recently approved by the FDA.”
Mulder crossed his hands behind his back. He felt a tremor of excitement move through his shoulders. A powder used in skin transplants. If it was connected to the John Doe, it was a stunning discovery, and a bizarre, striking coincidence. He cleared his throat. “Dr. Bernstein, how common is this Dust?”
“Not common at all,” Bernstein said, handing the bag back to Scully. “I don’t think it’s used in any of the local hospitals. Certainly not at Jamaica. I spent part of last year out at UCSF, where I first got a chance to try it out. If you want more information, I suggest you contact the company that developed and markets it. Fibrol International. It’s a biotech that specializes in burn-transplantation materials. I’m pretty sure their headquarters is nearby.”
Mulder had never heard of the company before. He knew there were dozens, if not hundreds, of biotech companies located up and down the N
ortheast Corridor. He watched as Scully thanked Bernstein, then he followed her back out into the hallway. He could hardly contain his enthusiasm as he told her what he was thinking. “Scully, this is too much of a coincidence.”
“Well—”
“A specialized transplant powder found at the scene where the John Doe was picked up,” Mulder bulldozed along. “It might mean that the John Doe himself was a transplant recipient. Then his skin was harvested, passing along strange, unexplainable symptoms to Perry Stanton. The red powder—the Dust—might be the key to everything.”
Scully squinted, then shook her head. “Mulder, you’re jumping way ahead of yourself. You found this powder at the scene of the accident, a spot on a major highway leading out of Manhattan?”
“You heard Dr. Bernstein. This powder is rare and expensive. We need to talk to the people at Fibrol International, find out if we can trace—”
Mulder was interrupted by a high-pitched ring. Scully had her cellular phone out before the noise had finished echoing through Mulder’s ears. Only a few people had Scully’s number—and Mulder had a good guess who it was on the other end of the line.
Barrett, Scully mouthed. Her face changed as she listened to the tinny voice in her ear. When she hung up the phone, her eyes were bright and animated. “It’s Stanton. An eyewitness saw him entering a subway terminal in Brooklyn Heights. Barrett wants to know if we want to be in on the arrest.”
Mulder was already moving toward the elevators.
9
Susan Doppler closed her eyes, the scream of metal against metal echoing through her skull. Her body jerked back and forth—her tired muscles victimized by the rhythmic mechanical surf, as the crowded, steel coffin burrowed through the city’s bowels. She had entered that near-comatose state of the frequent commuter, barely kept awake by the turbulent chatter of the rails resonating upward through her feet.
Like many New Yorkers, Susan hated the subway. But the forty-minute ride into Manhattan was a necessary part of her daily routine. A single mother at thirty-one, she could hardly afford cab fare—and there was no direct bus route from her home in Brooklyn to the downtown department store where she worked an afternoon shift. As long as her nine-year-old daughter needed child care and braces, she had no choice besides the underground bump and grind.
Today, the ordeal was worse than usual. The air-conditioning had gone out two stops ago, and Susan could feel the sweat rolling down her back. The air reeked of body odor and seasoned urine; every breath was a test of Susan’s reflux control, and her throat was already chalky and dry from her labored search for oxygen. The car was packed tight, and Susan struggled to keep from being crushed between the two businessmen seated on either side of her. The man to her left was overweight, and his white shirt was soaked through with sweat. Worse still, the man to Susan’s right was angled and bony, and every few seconds he inadvertently jabbed her with a knifelike elbow as he turned the pages of the newspaper tabloid on his lap.
Still, with her eyes tightly shut and her head lolling back against the rattling glass window, she could almost pretend she was somewhere else: a sauna in a city on the other side of the world; a steaming beach on an island in the middle of the Pacific; the fiery cabin of an exploding airplane hurtling toward the side of a mountain. Anything was better than a crowded subway in the middle of July.
Susan grimaced as she once again felt the sharp elbow poking into her right hip. She opened her eyes and glared at the emaciated businessman. He was tall, spidery, with grayish hair and furry eyebrows. He seemed completely engrossed in his tabloid, oblivious to anything but the colorful pictures of celebrities and freaks.
Susan turned away, frustrated, and rested her chin on her hand. Wisps of her long brown hair fell down against her cheeks, framing her blue eyes. Azure, her ex-husband had called them—back when he had cared. The prick. Her eyes narrowed as she chided herself for thinking about him. It had been over a year now, and he was no longer a part of her or her daughter’s life. Her eyes were blue—not azure.
Susan’s body stiffened as the subway car wrenched to the left, the lights flickering. When the flickering stopped, she found herself staring directly at the man seated across from her. The sight was so pathetic, she almost gasped out loud. Only in New York.
The man was hunched forward, his small, football-shaped head in his hands. His jagged little body was barely covered by a filthy smock, the thin material stained and torn and covered in what looked to be flecks of green glass. The man seemed to be trembling—probably crack or heroin—and his thinning hair was slick with sweat. As Susan watched, the man shifted his head slightly, and she could see that his lips were moving, emitting a constant, unintelligible patter. She caught a glimpse of his eyes—noting that they were blue, just like hers. Maybe even a little azure.
She turned away, repulsed. The man was obviously homeless, most likely mentally disturbed. Thankfully, he was too small to cause any problems. Still, Susan was glad she wasn’t sharing his bench.
Then the elbow touched her hip again, and she cursed out loud. The spidery businessman finally noticed her, apologizing in a thick New Jersey accent. He folded his tabloid in half, carefully resting it sideways against his knees. As he lifted a corner to continue reading, Susan caught a glimpse of a large black-and-white picture on the back cover of the magazine. The picture was right below a huge headline in oversize type:
PSYCHO PROFESSOR ROAMS NEW YORK
Something ticked in Susan’s mind, and she looked up from the tabloid. Her eyes refocused on the little, hunched man sitting across from her. She stared at the torn white smock, a warm, tingling feeling rising through her spine. Slowly, her mouth came open as she realized that it certainly could be a hospital smock.
She remembered the story she had heard on the news that morning. A little history professor had murdered a nurse and jumped out of a second-story window. She couldn’t be sure—but there was a chance that same man was sitting right across from her.
She shifted against the seat, wondering if she should say something. Then a new sound entered her ears—the squeal of the brakes kicking in. They had reached the next stop. The subway car jerked backward, and the little man suddenly looked up. Susan locked eyes with him—and knew for sure. It was the psycho professor. And he was looking right at her.
Her jaw shot open, and an involuntary scream erupted from her throat. The professor’s eyes seemed to shrink as his entire body convulsed upward. Suddenly, he was on his feet and coming toward her across the narrow car. Susan cringed backward, pointing, as the other passengers stared in shock. There was a horrible frozen moment as the professor stood over her, his hands clenched at his sides. Then the subway car stopped suddenly at the station, and an anguished look crossed his face.
He seemed to forget about Susan as he turned and lurched toward the open doors. His head whirled back and forth as he shoved people out of his way. A heavyset man in bright sweatpants shouted at him to slow down—then toppled to the side as the diminutive professor slammed past. A second later he was out onto the platform.
Susan leapt across the subway car and pressed her face against the window on the other side. She watched the little man reeling away from a crowd of onlookers—then she saw three police officers coming through the turnstiles. Relief filled her body as she realized there was nowhere for the professor to go.
The little man paused, watching the three officers coming toward him. Susan noticed that all three were armed—and wearing white latex gloves. The subway car had gone silent around her, as other passengers jostled for positions at the window.
The three officers fanned out in a wide semicircle, surrounding the professor. The little man made a sudden decision, and spun to his left, heading straight for the dark subway tunnel ahead of Susan’s stopped train. One officer stood between him and the oval black mouth of the tunnel. Susan watched as the officer dropped to one knee, his gun out in front of him. He shouted something—but the little man kept on coming.
Susan gasped as she saw the look of determination spread across the police officer’s face.
Officer Carl Leary held his breath as the little man barreled toward him. He could see the fury in the professor’s wild blue eyes, the sense of pure, liquid violence. He knew he had no choice. In a second, the man was going to be on top of him.
His finger clenched against the trigger, and his service revolver kicked upward, the muscles in his forearms contracting to take the recoil. A loud explosion echoed through the subway station, followed by a half dozen screams from the open subway doors. Leary’s eyes widened as he saw the little man still coming toward him. His finger tightened again, and there was a second explosion—
And then the little man was rushing right past him. Leary fell back against the platform, stunned. He had fired at point-blank range. How the hell could he have missed?
He watched as the professor disappeared into the subway tunnel. Then he felt a gloved hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw the concerned look on his partner’s sweaty face. Joe Kenyon had been riding shotgun in Leary’s patrol cruiser for two years. They had seen everything there was to see in this crazy city—but, for once, both officers were at a loss for words.
“You okay?” Kenyon finally managed. His thick voice was hoarse from the excitement. “The psycho didn’t bleed on you, did he?”
Leary shook his head as he checked the chamber on his service revolver. The barrel was still hot, and he could smell the gunpowder in the air. He counted the bullets, and confirmed that two were missing. Then he shrugged, running a hand through his shock of sweaty red hair. “The diseased little bastard’s out of his mind. Came right at me.”
