Dorado spoke low and quietly, “Sherrie, what are you getting at?”
She finally focused on him. “If I gave you a list of four hundred names and careers to search out—you always get hits, particularly if the name was common like Mitchell. We got hits on Carolyn Mitchell, seven in fact. They were two kids still in school, one woman in prison for the last seven years, one a well-published lawyer, another a shop owner and two died recently at the ages of 90 and 82. But we found no Carolyn Mitchell, veterinarian in the right age bracket to have a 16-year-old daughter. Eight people downstairs searched the less common names for over an hour now and none have got a hit on a name that reasonably makes sense when compared to the job title.”
“So they aren’t real.”
“On the surface it looks that way, but if you create four hundred names and jobs without checking the Internet first, chances are you might accidentally get a correct hit on some of them. For instance…” she waved her hands in the air in frustration, “make up a name like Jennifer Louis or Ann Cortez, along with the title nurse. You actually may find a Louis or Cortez that works as a nurse somewhere. So far, none of the names make sense. I'm not saying they're not real people of course, but it does imply that, if he made the names up, he researched them to make sure we wouldn’t get a correct hit.”
“So you think we have four hundred ghosts in the machine?” Dorado said.
Sherrie waved one hand in frustration. “No, I’m saying that I don’t know what we have. We have names, a timeframe and a place. Yet nothing comes up that fits those bits of data. The lack of information strikes me as really odd.” She paused and bit her lip in thought. “Possibly we aren’t searching in the right way. One person worked with only the children’s names and cross-referenced them with Dawson and the nearby hospitals. Not one child on this list has birth records anywhere in North Dakota. Many of the unusual names don’t register a hit anywhere in the US. I think we may call and try to talk to hospital administrators and track down hard copy records but that takes a lot of time. We won't get anyone today though.”
“What do we know about the town?”
She handed over a thin file. “Here's all the public information from the ‘net. The military public sites don't list any base in that area. However, the county sheriff says he's seen a military communications base in a valley about forty miles away. It’s pretty isolated. I asked him if he's visited out to the base recently or seen any of the people.”
Dorado cocked an eyebrow, “And?”
“No, the townspeople don’t go out that direction. The base personnel stay pretty well self-contained. I asked him to drive out there, look it over, and call me back.”
“He agreed?”
Her hands fluttered as she answered, “With a lot of sweet talking, yes. He should be calling soon.”
Mitchell rubbed a thumb across the com-unit in his pocket. He queued in line at one of the security checkpoints where Park Police performed cursory bag checks but Mitchell felt calm. Once inside the gates, he could tap into any of a dozen computer systems to send the next few messages. Most of downtown DC overflowed with Wi-Fi active spots. However, he had to stay in the same spot when sending the messages out. Moving around from server to server disrupted messaging. Inside the fence line, he'd blend into the hundreds of visitors for the Folklife Festival.
The queue at the metal detectors moved forward and he listened to one plump woman dressed in designer jeans and rayon shirt shriek in protest as they confiscated silverware items from her picnic cooler. He took a deep breath, drawing in calm as he approached the smallish female officer who waved him through the mobile metal detector. He emptied his pockets of his few items while another cop unzipped and searched the backpack. The inspector removed packages and poked a stick inside the pack. A half-hour earlier, he had tested the false bottom and it held in place. There wasn’t enough metal in the com-units to set off the detectors and, since he kept them turned off, the units wouldn’t trigger the electric circuit detectors. Still, he sweated as the brown clothed officer removed the food and drinks from the backpack.
“Lotta food for one man,” the officer muttered.
“I’m meeting my family inside the gates.”
The man nodded and helped him stuff the wrapped parcels back into the backpack. “Have a good day,” the officer said curtly as he moved on to the next one in line.
The brightness of the day blinded him for a moment as he stepped from the tent. As promised, the sun stayed bright but cool breezes made the tent flaps wave. He walked to the art sculpture garden that bordered along the Museum of Natural Science and sat on a stone bench among the brightly colored flowerbeds. Looking around, he slowly unpacked the backpack top and fingered the bottom lining. He neither felt nor saw any changes in the seams. The false bottom stayed secure. He sighed, closed his eyes for a moment before repacking the bag again.
The Mall cement sidewalks circled the large grassy opening that made up the Mall between the Smithsonian museums. Dirt paths started by exiting the cement path on both sides and then meandered through exhibit booths and large white tents that were a part of the Folklife festival. The right side led off to the darkly shaded small crafts area under great spreading trees while the left paths went towards the large entertainment and food tents in the center of the great empty expanse of grass. Peering inside, one could see bleacher-like sitting and hear the strains of exotic music or voices chanting in a foreign language. In the food tents, small lines began to form as the smell of roasted meat and pepper spices filled the air.
People moved and shifted in the empty lawn spaces, crowding each other and leaving Mitchell feeling claustrophobic. They flowed along the lanes moving east and west, collapsing on tufts of green grass, chasing balls along the open area or herding kids. Orange and white robed folks jumped about and banged on tambourines to one side while the Jesus-types, well-groomed, pleasant men and women stood spotted along the edge of the sidewalks, passing out pamphlets.
Mitchell stood to one side of the path and watched the life play in front of him. The snatches of conversation took on a white noise over the footfalls that began to come together as the heartbeat of an enormous animal. He closed his eyes and the smells and sounds flooded over him, causing him to lose himself to that steady beat. A quiet tear rolled down his cheek as he took a deep calming breath.
A thump against his shoulder sent him spinning downward almost off his feet. Strong arms kept him from falling and he looked into the face of a bearded stranger.
“Yo, buddy, sorry about that. You okay?”
Mitchell nodded as he righted himself and hefted the backpack up. The Good Samaritan reeked of beer and soil, his clothes being the denim and cotton shirts often found on greenies. The man grinned, nodded and then walked on into the crowd.
Police officers with dogs moved through the edges of the cement paths. One German Sheppard stopped, watching Mitchell with nose upright and alert. The officer glanced over at him, assessing but then with a slight jerk of the leash pulled the dog forward. Mitchell felt too exposed being motionless so he hitched the backpack higher on his shoulders and moved back into the crowd.
“By April 17th, the Marburg virus killed almost everyone. The death squads moved door to door, shooting the living and setting fire to the dead. By the time they finished, BL-4 lay in unrecognizable ruin. Five people survived the disease, too weak to fight back. They were shot in cold blood.
“But the thing you need to know the most is that the military took all the pathogens we made. Colonel Forester, acting on the orders of General Talbot, took four large cryogenic units filled with the worse, genetically altered bacteria and virus that humanity will ever know. They grabbed the vaccines and cures too but no factory can manufacture the vaccines fast enough to inoculate the innocents before the contamination turns into an epidemic. Each disease has the capacity to be a world killer. These cryo-units must be found and destroyed. James Mitchell, BL-4”
Dorado put down the el
even o’clock message and looked over at Olsen who looked paler than normal. “What’s wrong?’
“Before coming up, I looked up the term, Marburg. It’s bad, Mike. The disease is related to Ebola only worse and has only shown up a couple of times since its discovery in 1967. When it showed up, it killed 90% of those infected, spread quickly through contact with body fluids. It easily jumped from patient to care givers. The people, Mike, the people died because their body literally drowned in its own blood. The one word description that all references used was 'agonizing'.”
“You think that’s what this guy has?”
“I think if I watched my family and all my friends die over days screaming in pain, it’d make me hell bent on revenge too.”
Dorado nodded. “Contact La Croix’s liaison and give them everything we’ve got. He’s supposed to coordinate with Homeland Security. Let’s make sure that happens. I’ll get Taylor, Cardell, and Charro to check in. The perp talks about spraying the crowds. That means the perimeter folks should look for aerosols, spray bottles, that kind of thing. He may already be inside the perimeter but we can start confiscating suspicious aerosol containers. I’ll explain it to them and they can stir things up at the fences.”
“Okay,” she nodded.
The phone chirped again as Olsen stood to leave. Dorado answered and waved at her to sit while talking, “Sheriff Yeager, I’ve got Ms. Olson right here. I’m going to put you on speaker phone.”
He reached for the USB wire and plugged the small com-unit into the small computer speakers. A click later and a raspy voice queried, “You folks still there?”
Olsen called out, “Yes, Sheriff, I'm Sherrie Olson. Did you drive out to the Communications Station?”
“Yeah Missy, I did but it sure isn’t here anymore.”
Dorado and Olsen exchanged glances, “What do you mean?”
“Well, the road just kind of ends at where the base should be. I see some broken cement and pot holes where buildings used to be but no one’s been here for awhile.”
“Sheriff, this is Mike Dorado, Washington DC Police. Are you sure there was a base there?”
“Hell yeah, It was some kind of communication base, not very big. We've had it here for… oh hell, since before I was elected. That makes it more than ten years. Teenagers used to come out and park near the fence line to neck so we'd send a patrol out on Friday and Saturday to chase them back to town. We stopped that several years ago at their request. They preferred for their own security to chase the kids off. The base folks came into the town for festivals, shopping and whatnot. You could always tell them apart because they kind of stuck to themselves and didn’t talk much.”
“Ten years?” Dorado’s mouth formed the word “shit” silently and Olsen nodded.
“Longer actually, I think but yeah at least ten years.”
“Would anyone in town know when the people left the base?”
“I can ask around but I don’t think so. We all just assumed they still lived out here. I’ll call up and ask Charles Bergonson. He owns the U-haul place. He might know when some of them rented U-hauls. Some of the people might have rented trucks for moving.”
Olsen spoke up, “Sir, are you at the site now?”
“Nah honey, I’m on my way back to town.”
“Did you see any scorch marks on the ground or areas that looked burnt?”
A long pause and a sigh flowed over the line before the old voice came on again, “I didn’t really get out of the car to look around. There wasn’t nothing much to look at except broken cement and whatnot. I can go back and take another look but to be honest missy, I got grandchildren waiting for me to start the barbeque pit up.”
Dorado glanced at Sherrie, saw her eyes widen and one finger rose, pointing towards the squad room. The North Dakotan rambled on. “Odd that they'd just up and leave like that…” three men in Army green formal uniforms and looking thunderous crossed the squad room heading straight for the office, a colonel in the lead.
“One more question, sir.” Olsen interrupted.
“Yeah?”
“Has anyone in the town been sick lately? Ill with something unusual?”
“Nah, not that’s reached my ears.”
Dorado shifted forward, “Thanks for your help Sheriff. We really appreciate you taking time to do this on your day off.”
“No problem... Happy Fourth.”
“You too, Sheriff,” Dorado hit the off button just as one of the men jerked opened the door.
Once the glass door shut behind them, the Colonel wasted no time on formalities. “Someone in this station’s breaking into top secret files. Our leads say it stems into your group. We’re ordering you to stop immediately.”
Dorado stood and faced him, mouth set in a tight line. Sherrie watched quietly, her face impassive. The colonel’s insignia indicated military intelligence, while the others were military police. Dorado noted this with some surprise and read the name off the man’s tag. “I’m not sure what you are talking about, Col. Anderson.”
“Yesterday, you’ve had an officer named McAfee asking around about General Talbot. Before that, our computer security system caught repeated attempted inquiries into his and several other files. The military’s records are off limits. If you want information, Lt. Dorado, I suggest you use official channels or consider yourself under investigation of suspicious activities under Homeland Security regulations regarding the military and privacy codes.”
Dorado’s eyes narrowed. “If you want a pissing contest over territories Colonel, I think I can provide that. General Talbot and other military personnel are part of an ongoing police investigation. We tried using standard military channels and got nowhere.
“The General’s death’s a military matter.”
Startled, Dorado’s eyes flashed on Olsen for a second. She nodded a fraction of an inch. He rallied to compose himself back into a poker face.
“Well, that depends, sir. Springfield police answered the emergency call to his house. Civilian officers and EMTs risked contamination when they entered the home and found the general sick. Police officers did the onsite investigation.”
“Yes and the investigation was turned over to the military, sir, and I’m telling you to back off.”
“Does that include the investigation into the terrorist activities of James Mitchell?” Dorado saw the man’s eyes widen in response. Dorado leaned back in his chair and gestured to the empty places around the table. “Take a load off Col. Anderson, I think we have some mutual interests to talk about.”
The man sat but eyed the table covered in used coffee cups and paper litter with distaste. Dorado turned to Sherrie and smiled, “Why don’t you take these other two gentlemen and help them get coffee from the break room.”
They stared at each other for a moment before Sherrie rose, beaming warmly. “Okay, right this way.” She sounded breathy.
“Sir?” One man turned to face the colonel.
“Get coffee and take your time.”
“Yes sir.”
Dorado and Anderson silently measured each other up with their eyes as the others followed Olsen’s sway through the glass door and around the desks. Dorado noticed with surprise and amusement the extra sway Sherrie put into her hips. The MP’s attention was riveted on her as they followed her across the large room. The colonel started first. “Are you investigating military personnel, Lt. Dorado?”
“Not as such. Several cases of death by unusual diseases that have cropped up recently in the DC area have caught our attention. It just so happens that two of the victims are military. ”
“I fail to see what interest the DC police have in these men. The general died of complications due to flu, and Colonel Forester of a heart attack.”
“Is that the official word on those men? “ Dorado let the sarcasm seep through his voice. “Let’s be clear Colonel. I’m sitting on the biggest day and biggest damn party of the decade. We’ve had one clear case of bio-weapons manufacturing that r
esulted in the death of a teenager. An ugly death by anthrax. We know of at least one other factory that existed in Maryland.”
“None of the military personnel died by anthrax.”
“Yes but they did die of unusual diseases, possibly manufactured diseases.”
“That’s not possible. Colonel Forester died of heart failure. Judging by your reaction, you didn’t even know the general died until a few moments ago so frankly Lieutenant, I highly question your sources.”
“Cut the bullshit.” Dorado snapped. “Forester died of botulism poisoning and Talbot of some rare crap from the Middle Ages. Now I’ve got a man sending messages saying he owns one hell of a bad bug that he’s going to infect a whole population with. This suspect uses the same name as a guy you’ve issued an APB on. Curiously, your bulletin failed to provide any real facts about the man. Given that I’ve come close to anthrax infection myself from a homemade lab, I find those interesting facts.”
Anderson settled into his chair, crossing his legs. “The Mitchell case is not related. He’s a solider that’s gone AWOL.”
“Really. You didn’t give rank designation on the APB.” Dorado smiled tightly. “That’s kind of unusual isn’t it?”
Anderson frowned. “I’m not here to give you a crash course in military investigations, Lieutenant. Suffice to say that Mitchell's AWOL and we are trying to return him to his unit.”
Dorado nodded, “Well, sir, it’s time to bring you up on current events.” He passed over the police files of Forester and Talbot. Anderson thumbed through the files as Dorado talked. “In the past few weeks, three cases of deadly pathogens showed up, one in the city and, for the sake of argument, let’s say two with military connections. It’s odd but normally not enough to cause any concern except that these diseases are rare, really rare so that three so close to a major event tends to get my attention.
Independence Day Plague Page 23
