He reached over and grabbed a carrot sliver from the pile. “The Fourth is going to be a true nutfest.”
“I heard they raised the estimated crowd levels to over three and a half million throughout the city.”
Dorado nodded and frowned. “I think we’re covering everything but damn, what if we miss something.”
“What happened with the anthrax case?” she replied quietly. She placed the carrots in a bowl and moved on to mincing onion with short, slashing motions.
“The guy confessed after we grilled him for a while. He claims he grew the spores to sell but didn't have a customer lined up. We’ve found nothing that indicated any plans to distribute it, particularly on the Fourth. He’s named some of his potential customers but so far swears he hasn’t sold anything.”
“You believe him?”
Dorado shrugged, “Doesn’t matter. The DA’s trying him and his mother under the Homeland Security Laws. The terrorism charges include a death sentence. Even the mother’s looking at something like ten years as an accessory to the fact.”
“But the team only found anthrax?”
“Yeah, that bothers me too. It looks like Noonan and the army’s case don't connect, which means we may have another bio-factory out there.”
Half an hour later, they sat at Sherrie’s pine wood table, the steaming clay pot of chicken curry between them. They ate in silence for a while. Dorado noticed how Sherrie stirred and flipped her food around her plate more than actually taking a bite. Her face was tight along her jaw lines and her lips pressed into a thin line.
“What’s on your mind?” Dorado asked softly.
Sherrie sighed and put her fork down. She folded her hands in her lap and spoke. “I think I found another case.”
“Shit!" he said softly. Dorado put his fork down and leaned back, Anthrax or botulism?”
“The plague.”
“What plague?”
“Bubonic plague, also called the Black Death. An Army general checked into Bethesda with symptoms.”
Dorado sagged, rubbing his eyes and forehead with one hand. “Shit, this just doesn’t get any better. So there may be two more bug factories out there.”
“I don’t think so.” Sherrie sat back, shoulders straight against the high back seat. “I think it is one guy. I hoped Noonan worked with a group or knew something about it but since you didn’t find any evidence that seems unlikely.”
“What makes you think it's one person?”
She shrugged her thin shoulder slightly, “Both of the cases involve military men, both lived in Virginia; both have strong connections to the medical corps. The general’s in charge of the USAMRIDD.”
“The what?”
“The U. S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. Most people refer to it as the Institute.”
Dorado shrugged, “So the guy got infected at work.”
Sherrie picked at her food. “I don’t think so. A call came in to the Springfield police saying the guy collapsed inside his home. He’s a paper pusher, not a direct researcher. The report stated that investigators saw blood and destruction consistent with a struggle in the house. Additionally, some good Samaritan put a note on the door warning the police that the general was contagious. I think one man is targeting military people out there.”
“Yeah, but the cases have widely different MOs. Most perps tend to be loyal to one method. Besides which, the general is still alive. Can’t we cure plague by now? I mean, it’s not like there’s been an outbreak since the Middle Ages.”
“Actually there’s been a lot of outbreaks but only in very underdeveloped areas in third-world countries. And you’re right—we cure it with shots of antibiotics. No, I think the weapons were chosen for convenience. The use of them is the critical clue.”
Dorado leaned forward, “What do you mean?”
“Our bad guy needed the colonel dead, quickly and quietly but also noticeably so he used a weapon that was silent, extremely deadly, and relatively unique. The records stated that the amount of botulinum poisoning in his body was extremely high, not what you get from simply eating a can of bad peaches. At those levels, it’s one of the deadliest poisons known. The bad guy wanted the death to be noticed."
“The general’s a different case. Local PD rushed him to the county hospital but within an hour, the military stepped in and took him away. The Army’s being very secretive about his condition but I think he’s still alive. They asked local law enforcement to issue an APB for a James Mitchell throughout the Metropolitan area. I think the Army knows who is doing this and they’re searching for him. Therefore, that brings up the question; if you wanted to kill someone, and you obviously had the means, why not just kill him? After all, knives, guns, or a bludgeon to the head all guarantee a death with a lot less effort.”
“Unless you need him alive.”
“Right.” Sherrie leaned forward, her hands pressed tight on the tabletop. “If this guy somehow infected the general, he wanted people to know about it. Again, the disease is rare, too unusual to slip under the radar. And the germ’s not normal.”
“How’s that?”
“Why whisk him away? Any hospital can treat a bacterial infection with a lot of antibiotics. Why hasn’t the general reappeared, feeling better?”
“Antibiotic-resistant?” Dorado sighed and frowned. Antibiotic-resistant diseases had increased for the last fifty years. The numbers of deaths to common bacterial infections rose steadily every year. The pharmaceutical industry strained to keep up with new treatments for the changed microbes.
“Yes, not in the way you think. It’s more like a super bug. He left the office at five and then by nine o’clock at night was checked in with a case so advanced it indicates that the general has been infected for days. The symptoms of the disease are ugly. Mike, people would have noticed him being sick. Others around him should show symptoms too. The murderer wants people to know he has this disease.”
Dorado shook his head, “That doesn’t make sense. Terrorists like the media. They broadcast their message so why didn’t this guy send a video or build a website? Why chose these two guys over just sprinkling the damn bug in a shopping mall? “
Sherrie smiled slightly, “What if the guys are the message?”
“So this guy is pissed off at the Army. Humph.” Dorado took a long drink from his wine glass. “Did you run his stats on the databases?”
She picked up the wine glass and took a sip of the red. “The name is pretty common so we get hits off of it but no one that fits his stats. The Army provided a name and fingerprints so it should be relatively easy to track him down. But the man is absent from any of the standard databases, not even the Department of Motor Vehicles or the government birth/death certificate sites.”
“Okay, so he doesn’t drive a car.”
Sherrie shook her head, “You don’t get it. Mike, do you know how easy it is to find someone today?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I have someone’s name and stats, or even only their fingerprints and the right computer resources, I can find their home address within ten minutes. It takes longer if all we have is a picture but no name. Even a DNA sample alone gives us enough information for many databases. Within an hour, I can tell you their life story, where they live, and their last hundred purchases. Given twelve hours, I can find them and give the officers a pinpoint location where to pick them up once they buy food or gas. With computers, blogging, government IDs, bankcards and the different 'net systems, privacy doesn't exist anymore. That’s just a myth. And most of that’s using the legal resources. If I did the kind of searching that’s illegal but still very easy for most of the computer-literate, I find even more information. The individual days of our lives are catalogued through IDs, cameras, scans, and our own communications every minute of every day. Most of that eventually lands on an Internet, Hypernet system or storage database. No one’s off the system, not even the Greenies living on their technology-banished
farms.”
“I had no idea.”
“Most people don’t.” She sighed and continued, “Few people in America understand how hardwired their identity is into the many central computer systems out there. Normal people can’t get to that information but someone with my job and my clearance or higher, it’s easy. Hackers are even faster. Once we know the bad guy's identity, finding them is easy. The bigger problem occurs when the perp moves but doesn’t update their address, acts as a squatter or when they switch from using their assigned bank cards to fake or stolen IDs.”
“So you don’t think James Mitchell exists?”
“I’m saying that it's odd that the Army thinks he's real. They have fingerprints and stats but no social security number. The military catalogues everything ultimately based on social security. All the information I could get adds up to nothing. The name’s common enough, but nothing matches the photo or fingerprints.”
They sat in silence for a while finishing the curry off. Dorado finally spoke softly, “I tell you Sherrie, this shit is getting too deep for me.”
She smiled in return. “Like I said, few people really understand how much of their lives are recorded every minute of every day. Most people are happier being deluded.” She reached over and stroked the top of his hand.
He smiled back, intertwining her fingers. “Well, let me work with those things I do understand. How common is the plague? I mean, does it transfer by touch? Does this guy come from some plumbing-free third-world hole?”
She shook her head, “According to my nurse friend, the disease’s not common at all and unheard of in this aggressive form except…” Her voice trailed out
Dorado nodded, “Except for the manufactured form, bioengineering. Shit! Has the CDC been brought in?”
Sherrie nodded, “The Springfield police contacted them. They decontaminated the entire house then the Army threw them out. The Institute took over the investigation.”
“So what's the next step? How do we find a guy that may or may not exist?”
Sherrie sipped more of the wine. “I could go back in time through the records. Continue to see if anything comes off his fingerprints. They may have missed some records that are ten years or more. It’ll take time though.”
“What do you mean?”
Sherrie pursed her lips before speaking. “Well, the Army’s pretty sure he exists and they want him badly. If he came into this country legally from somewhere else, then we check passports and ports of entry. It means that our mystery man may have the ability to alter his records. Whoever changed them was very thorough too, when you consider credit records, police, banking, and the IRS. Not just any records, but ones at the highest government levels. Very few people have access like that.” She tapped her finger against the white linen tablecloth as she talked slowly, “That implies someone powerful, someone…”
“Government.”
“What?” She looked up, brow furrowed in puzzlement.
“It implies government interference. No one else can change that many records, most of them related to state and federal governments. Someone in the government erased this guy and now they or at least the Army needs the information back.”
“That’s it.” Sherrie grinned at him, “That’s the next step, backups. Every major system runs backups regularly and those files are kept for a while. Most places use online storage systems. I might be able to access some of the backups.”
“That's a good start but maybe we are looking at this the wrong way.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we caught Noonan, we tracked the disease and the man. Tracking the man isn’t working here so let’s focus on the disease. Are there medical people in the area doing research? After all, this may be just another simple lab theft. Talk with the CDC again about symptoms and smells so we know what we are dealing with.”
She bit her lip thoughtfully, “Okay. I can probably have something for you by end of day tomorrow.”
“Okay, that sounds good. Write up what you know so far. Let’s keep this as official as possible. We still don’t have any clear clue that this has anything to do with the Fourth of July celebration so I’ll pass it on to the Chief.”
Chapter 14
July 2, 2026
Mitchell loaded the last of his food into the backpack. He walked over and pulled the blue windbreaker from the closet. The weather turned cool after the storms of the last two days. The webcast predicted a clear eighty-degree day for the Fourth. He smiled at the thought. The crowds broke all expected forecasts. Protesters, partiers and celebrants flooded in. Every hotel was booked. Many entrepreneurial types rented rooms out of their houses. "America’s 250th will be a party worth remembering," was the advertisement for months from the board of tourism. Mitchell practically chuckled, “God himself gives me permission, Caroline,” he said to the darkness. “It’s the perfect time and place. Our vengeance will come.”
The gasoline fumes rose from the puddles on the floor. The suffocating odor made his stomach turn. He needed to leave before the fumes made him sick. Backpack in hand, he stood on the small, cracked steps before the open front door of the little two-bedroom rental that had been his home. He fingered the matchbook, sighing. He hated this part. Destruction was not part of his nature. However, this next necessary step guaranteed the safety of others. With the flick across the gritty paper of the matchbook, the first match flared to life. He held it against the book cover, igniting the paper. Tossing the book in, he quickly shut the door and trotted across the small lawn before the muffled explosion blew the windows out. Flames licked out the jagged opening of the windows of the living room and began to dance up the siding as he quickly walked away.
He stopped at the curb to watch the fire engulf the house. The living room window gave off light show of dancing orange and red. If the fire burned long enough and hot enough, it might twist and ruin some of the lab equipment beyond recognition. He considered that an extra bonus but not really necessary. The firefighters would come soon enough to put it out, hopefully before it spread to the surrounding houses. He didn’t intend to hurt the neighborhood. However, fire purifies, sterilizes, evaporates and disintegrates. No future landlord, renter or even police officer would become ill because they touched a piece of furniture or wall. Fire guaranteed that.
Black smoky odor blew towards him on the predawn breeze. The heat chased away the coldness. Watching the colors glow, the flames lick up the ceiling was hypnotic. As a hole appeared in the roof, Mitchell became lost in memory. Images of men with back tanks and nozzles spitting flames across houses, trees and cars filled his mind. The acrid smell once again filled his senses through the HAZMAT suit. Most mind rocking of all on that distant, foggy morning was the silence. There should have been screams and the sounds of running feet but the senses only replayed the repeated whoosh of the nozzle, the crackling of timbers and silence.
“Hey, fellah! Is that fire?”
Mitchell jarringly returned to the present and turned to face the voice. The man, dressed in robe and socks stared past him at the house. “Christ, have you called anyone? There could be people in there!”
“The house is empty.” Mitchell replied. He resettled the backpack on his shoulder and then turned and began walking towards the corner.
“What the hell are you doing?’
Mitchell kept walking. He heard the man’s call but ignored it and continued on. He hadn’t meant for anyone to witness his departure.
“Christ! Anna, call the fire department!” the neighbor shouted.
The last of James Mitchell, indeed all the memory and evidence of every man, woman and child of BL-4 rested in his backpack, included his last remaining vials of engineered death. For now, they rode safely nestled in a padded, mini cryo-unit that looked a great deal like a coffee thermos next to his canned food. His feet made muffled thumps as he rounded the corner, another explosion blew out more glass and black smoke boiled up through the morning light. By the time he hit the s
econd corner, sirens screamed down the street.
There was very little to do today except let time pass. He planned to ride the trains to the three specific stations, checking his previous work. After those chores, he planned to stick to the open spaces like the monuments and the National Zoo. Crowded places gave him anonymity. The local Tonians stayed home to avoid the crowds but he expected the tourists would be as thick as the flies that decorated the overflowing trashcans.
He picked a place under a bridge that covered a wooded creek near the National Zoo. The overpass bridge was two stories above the creek and the woods grew wild and dense. A walkway led down to a path behind the brownstone apartments for a dog walk. Some vagrant occupants often made the place their temporary homes. Area residents avoided them, hoping not to be bothered for spare cash.
Ten minutes of walking later, he reached the second bus stop along the line. The column of black smoke billowed upward black against the cool white light. The bus came, doors opening with a pneumatic whoosh and, as he stepped onto it, he felt the moment of no return passing by as he joined the early morning commuters.
Dorado swore obscenities in Spanish as he tore the cell receiver out of his ear and tossed it on the desk. The black mood lasted all day and now approaching 4:00, it wasn't going to improve. McAfee looked up from the files, grinning.
“Life not going well, chief?”
“The fucking liaison to the FBI is stonewalling me. Sonofabitch says he’ll pass the message along again but LeCroix’s busy today, can’t be bothered. You know that slimy bastard hasn’t called me back on any of our warnings.”
“Well, notifying him covers your ass. Besides which, we neutralized the Pure Blood threat.”
Dorado scowled. “Yeah, then they took it over. It’s not about covering ass. It’s about stopping shit before it happens. How can we run any kind of task force if the fucking Feds won’t communicate with us?”
Independence Day Plague Page 20
