by Jane Jensen
“Am I . . . dying?” Amber asked. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She shifted her hand on the bed, seeking mine. I took it and held it again.
“No, Amber. The doctor said what they’re giving you in the IV will take care of the toxin. You’re going to be okay.”
Amber took a shaky breath. “Feels like I’m dying.” She closed her eyes.
“No, honey. You’re not dying.”
No, Amber would be one of the lucky ones.
PART II
Straw Man
CHAPTER 6
I was still towel-drying my hair as I turned on the TV in the living room to catch the nine A.M. press conference.
Ezra came in from the kitchen. “Thought you were gonna get some sleep after your shower.”
“I will, babe, but I want to see this.”
After leaving the hospital, I’d stopped by the police station. Glen had just gotten back from Philly, and he looked even more sleep deprived than I felt. He took the list of names I’d gotten from Amber so his team could contact them. Then Grady insisted I go home and get some sleep. I was tired, but it was hard to ramp down knowing what was about to hit the fan. News on the deaths in Philly was supposed to break this morning, and the brass was scrambling to put together a press conference. Glen had been on a call with the state’s agricultural department when I’d left.
I turned to the local news channel and sank down onto the couch. They’d cleaned Glen up and put him in front of the microphone. I wasn’t surprised at the choice. Put the CDC man in front. Everyone respects a doctor. But Mitch Franklin, head of the Pennsylvania Department of Agriculture, was standing to Glen’s right looking grave and authoritarian.
“I’m Dr. Glen Turner with the CDC. We’ve been investigating a small outbreak here in Lancaster County for the past week, and we now have word that some cases have shown up in Philadelphia as well. At this briefing we want to fill you in on what we know about this illness, what we’re doing about it, and what people at home can do to keep themselves safe.”
The noise of camera shutters and flashes was so loud it sounded like firecrackers. Turner came across well, I had to give him that.
“That’s the man who was here last night.” Ezra sat down next to me on the couch. “He’s an important person?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that, but I supposed it was true. “He’s in charge of the investigation into what’s causing the sickness.”
“So far there have been twenty-nine confirmed cases and nineteen fatalities.”
Murmurs were audible in the press audience.
“This is not—I repeat, not—a contagious illness. It’s a food-borne sickness, and the only way to get it is by consuming a contaminated food source. We’ve confirmed that this outbreak is caused by a toxin called tremetol. The confirmed cases have all been linked to raw milk from cows that have ingested a nonindigenous plant that contains the toxin. This makes the cows ill, and the tremetol gets passed on in the milk. The CDC is currently investigating how and where the sickened cows got access to the plant, but in the meantime, there are some things you can do to keep yourself and your loved ones from getting ill.”
Ezra had his arm around my shoulder on the back of the couch, but he pulled away and leaned forward, looking worried. I felt nothing but relief. Finally, they were telling the public what they needed to know to stay safe. Then again, how many Amish families would see this press conference? None.
“First, as of eight o’clock this morning, the Pennsylvania Department of Agriculture has suspended all raw-milk sales in Pennsylvania until this matter is resolved. Second, we’ll be distributing information to the farmers in the county about what symptoms to look for in their animals and what plant they need to check for in their pastures. Third, we recommend that no one consume raw dairy products until we can be sure all affected milk is accounted for. And finally, this illness is treatable if those who are sick report to their local hospital immediately. If you have any of the following symptoms: muscle weakness, trembling, stiff or slow movements, nausea, vomiting, or unexplained exhaustion, please report to your doctor or the closest emergency room and get checked out. We’ll be working with the hospitals and physicians in the area to make sure they know what to look for and how to treat it. That’s all we have to report at this time.”
There were more flashes from cameras, and a dozen reporters called out questions, but the news station cut back to their talking heads. Ezra turned down the volume. He stood up and paced. “This is bad. This is very bad.”
“Surely it’s better for them to act quickly and make sure no one else gets sick.”
“You don’t understand!” Ezra said vehemently. “Who sells raw milk? The Amish. And they’ve had to fight the government to do it for years. They want to regulate us. They don’t like that anything is outside their control! They’d put us out of business if they could.”
I thought Ezra was being overdramatic. I had a hard time sympathizing with his distrust of government, since I’d always worked for the city in one way or another. “It’s only until the CDC is sure they know exactly where that toxin came from. We need to make sure it’s not going to affect any other farmers’ cows. That’s common sense.”
Ezra shook his head. “And what if they never find it? Or just say it’s so? And next it is not only raw milk, but any food sold off the farm. And what about baking? The Amish bake with milk. What if customers no longer want to come look at my mules because Amish farms are . . . dirty?”
“Ezra! None of that is going to happen,” I said with a surprised laugh. “You’re the one who likes to say ‘Don’t borrow trouble.’”
Ezra looked unconvinced, a frown on his brow. On the dining room table, my phone pinged. I got up and answered it. It was Hernandez. “Hey, Harris! Did you see the press conference?”
“I did.”
“Well, it’s nuts here. They’re gearing up teams to go out and talk to the Amish, ya know, because they don’t have TV and all that. Grady said anyone in our office could volunteer to help out today if they didn’t have anything else urgent. I’m gonna go. Thought I’d see if you wanna go with me.”
I raised my eyes to find Ezra watching me. “You didn’t get any sleep. You should lie down for the morning,” he said.
“I slept some at the hospital,” I countered.
Nevertheless, I wondered if this was the best use of my time today. They would have a lot of men out there passing out information to the Amish. And I could just imagine the warm reception that was going to get. I could probably push off my other tasks at work one more day, but should I?
The thought of focusing on my other cases made me wince. I wasn’t ready to let this go. I doubted I could get engaged in another task—or sleep. The press conference should have eased my mind, but it hadn’t, not deep down where it counted.
There was an anxiety sunk deep inside me, and it wasn’t appeased. Shit. This was my war. I just wished I understood who the enemy was and what the battle was about.
“I’ll come,” I told Hernandez. “Meet you at the office in twenty.”
—
Back at the police station, Grady rolled his eyes as I passed him in the hall as if to say, Can’t stay away, can you? Hernandez was not at his desk in the Violent Crimes room. His chair was pushed in neatly—military habit.
I was about to text him when Glen Turner walked up. “Morning. Again.” He smiled at me sheepishly.
“No rest for the wicked,” I countered. “Nice job on the press conference. You looked so prime time.”
His mouth fought to rein in a prideful smile. “Well, someone has to be the guy with the bull’s-eye on his forehead. So, um, Hernandez mentioned you were coming in to volunteer. You sure you’re up for that after last night?”
I tilted up my chin. “I had a shower. I’m fine.”
“That works out for me, then. I wa
s hoping you’d be willing to give me a hand today.”
“Oh?”
“I need to do interviews at the three farms where Amber got her milk. I’ve already sent agents out to stop them from drinking or selling it, and to see if anyone is sick and needs urgent care. But I need to go myself and do a face-to-face. Since they’re Amish, I thought you might be helpful.” He ruffled his hair in frustration. “The DCNR is going to check those farms for white snakeroot, and I hope to God they find it. We still haven’t found the source of the tremetol at the Kinderman farm or the Hershbergers’, and we’ve gone over those pastures multiple times. The DCNR guys say white snakeroot is a woodland plant that only grows in shady and damp areas. Both the Hershbergers’ and the Kindermans’ cows are kept in fenced pastures, and even where the pasture gets shady from nearby trees, there’s no sign of the plant. We also haven’t found it in anything we sampled from the barn—the water, the feed. . . . We’ve dismantled and tested over two hundred bales of hay. Hell, we even tested the sparrow and mouse droppings in the barns. But we still haven’t found the source of the tremetol.”
“That’s not good.” I could feel Glen’s frustration, and my own mirrored it. If they couldn’t find the source of the toxin, they couldn’t be sure other farms hadn’t been exposed. Which meant there’d be no quick lift on the raw milk ban. Farmers would be angry and the public would be scared.
“I didn’t have a lot of luck questioning Mr. Hershberger,” Glen continued. “Maybe you can get more out of these farmers than I can. Or maybe you’ll think of something I didn’t, notice something I didn’t—knowing the Amish as you do.”
I was flattered by Glen’s faith in me, especially after we’d gotten more than one cold shoulder when we did calls the other day. But I wasn’t about to remind him of my lack of effectiveness. I wanted to be as close to this case as I could get.
“I’ll go with you. I should let Hernandez know. I was going to volunteer with him today.”
“He, um, already left. I told him I’d be needing you today.”
I raised my eyebrows. “That’s . . . efficient of you.”
He had the grace to look guilty. “I didn’t think you’d mind. If you prefer—”
“Nope, I’m good,” I said briskly. “Let’s go.”
—
We pulled into the driveway of Levi Fisher’s farm in Glen’s unmarked sedan. The place was already crowded with several SUVs bearing DCNR decals, a CDC van, a police cruiser, and an unmarked white truck with a back cab. Three Amish children, looking perfectly healthy, watched us from the farmhouse’s back doorsteps. Their faces were blank, as if they were watching a flock of birds or some other ordinary occurrence and not the invasion of their family farm by medical and police personnel.
As we walked by the pasture, I noted a number of men in green shirts scouring the area. I assumed they were DCNR agents looking for white snakeroot. Good.
Inside the barn it was quiet, a heavy silence that felt weighted, like at a wake. An Amish man, likely Levi Fisher, was seated on a bale of hay. He held his black hat in his hands, and his head was bowed. He wasn’t old, maybe early thirties, and his still boyish face was tight with grief. He looked so miserable I felt sure some member of his family must be very ill or dead. My sympathy went out to him. I was easily able to picture Ezra or perhaps Hannah’s husband, Isaac, in his place.
“Dr. Turner?” A young CDC officer approached us. She was dressed in the agency’s white coveralls and gloves.
“Hi, Elaine. This is Detective Harris from the Lancaster police. How’s the search going?”
Elaine nodded in acknowledgment at me. “Hello. They’re checking outside now. We took samples of the feed and hay, but we haven’t done anything in the stalls yet. We wanted to give the vet some space.” She tilted her head toward the stalls. “Come see for yourself.”
The barn had a long, open pen for the cows. There was an old wooden half wall on the interior side that came to my chest. A wide door, now closed, led out to the pasture. Inside the stall were six brown cows, all Jerseys, all with milk-engorged udders. And they were sick. One lay on her side, panting, her eyes rolled back in her head. A man in blue coveralls, who had to be the vet, was kneeling beside her, injecting her with something. The other cows were in various stages of distress. One stood with her head in a corner as if she were trying to hide. The rest milled about, stumbling near the wall. They were trembling, their flanks shaking like they were being stung by an invisible horde of bees. Mucus dripped from one cow’s nose. They looked like the Kindermans’ cow to me.
I exchanged a dire look with Glen. There was little doubt the Fisher farm had tremetol poisoning.
“Once the vet is done, I want samples of everything in that stall,” Glen ordered. “Straw, feces, urine, their water and any traces of food in the trough or on the floor, birds’ nests in the rafters, everything. And get saliva and blood samples from the cows.”
“Right,” agreed Elaine crisply.
“What about the family?” Glen asked her.
She shook her head. “None of them appear to be sick. We checked the milk supply they had in their kitchen—two gallons’ worth. The expiration dates written on them were yesterday and today, so that milk is over a week old. According to Mrs. Fisher, they drink the older milk themselves so it won’t go bad. The new milk goes into their shop for customers. It’s possible they dodged the bullet on this. But we’d still like to run blood work on the whole family, if you agree?”
Glen nodded. “Yeah. Of course.” He looked at me. “Will they have a problem with giving us blood?”
I glanced back at Levi Fisher, who now had his head in both hands. “Shouldn’t be a problem. The Amish do get modern health care when they need it.”
“Good. Now what about their customers?”
Elaine gestured toward the door. “Come with me. You need to see their shop.”
She led us out of the barn and across a wide gravel area to a little cement-block building that was coated with white paint. It had a tin roof and looked something like a bunker. An old wooden door faced a parking area big enough for no more than three cars. A sign on the door said “Farm Store. Open 8 A.M.–6 P.M., Mon–Sat.” Another handwritten sign said “Raw Milk!”
Elaine pushed open the wooden door. A rusty old spring set at the top of it creaked.
The room inside was very spare. The whitewashed cement floor was clean. A wobbly wooden stand just inside the door held a few loaves of homemade bread. A folding table along one wall was covered in produce baskets with bunches of green onions, red leaf lettuces, radishes, and peas still in the pod. At the back of the room was an old white refrigerator, and on the left of the wall were the glass doors of a cold case. There were rows of plastic gallon milk jugs, stacks of egg cartons, and blocks of homemade cheese on the cold case shelves.
Glen stepped up to the case and looked at the shelved milk. “We’ll have to test all of these. There are expiration dates on them. We should be able to pin down exactly when the tremetol starts showing up in the milk.”
“Yup. I was just waiting for you to see this layout before we take everything. We should test the cheese too. It’s made here, though it’s considerably older, so it’s probably clean. The fridge has hamburger and raw butter, also made here.”
“Test it all,” Glen said. “Any way to find out who bought milk here in the past week?”
“We’re in luck there.” Elaine picked up a spiral notebook that was lying on a counter and handed it to Glen.
I knew what to expect before he opened it. I’d been to places like this before. The counter had a slot for stuffing in money and checks. The notebook was cheap and had been heavily written in. I took a step closer and looked at the page with Glen.
“Most farm stores work on an honor system,” I explained. “You sign this notebook and write down what you took and the total you paid. The
money goes into that slot.” I looked over the top page and studied the dates written next to the list of names. “Looks like they get about twenty customers a day. They don’t leave addresses or phone numbers, but there’re probably some checks in the slot. Those will have addresses. We should be able to track down all the names if they’re local.”
Glen looked over the notebook, turned pages. His face was tense. “Christ. Thirty-three . . . thirty-five bought milk since Tuesday morning.”
“And people who buy a gallon of milk are likely feeding a family,” I added, feeling my gut twist at the memory of the dead children at the Kindermans’. Christ, we had to get a handle on this and fast.
Glen grimaced. “Elaine, get someone on this list. The police can help us find addresses.” He looked at me. “Come on. We need to talk to Levi Fisher.”
CHAPTER 7
We were invited into the Fishers’ kitchen. Mrs. Fisher hustled the children out of the room, and we joined Levi at the table. He sat dispiritedly in one of the chairs, his posture curled in on itself defensively. He didn’t meet our eyes. I pulled out my iPhone to record.
“This is Detective Elizabeth Harris with the Lancaster Police. I’m here with Dr. Glen Turner from the CDC. We’re speaking to Levi Fisher of Willow Run Farm in Bird-in-Hand.”
I nodded at Glen to begin.
“Mr. Fisher, can you tell us when you first noticed your cows were getting sick?”
Levi shifted his weight and gave a determined sigh. “When we did the milkin’ Tuesday night, two of the cows were shakin’ all over. They seemed kinda restless Tuesday mornin’, and a few was off their feed, but I didn’t think much of it till they was way worse Tuesday night.”
“The milk you sold to Amber Kruger, do you know the date that was milked?”
“It was from that same mornin’.”
“Tuesday morning,” Glen confirmed.
“Ja. Tuesday mornin’.” For the first time, Levi looked up at Glen. His eyes were red-rimmed and haunted. “I figured since she was takin’ it all the way to Philadelphia, might as well give her the milk with the longest shelf life.”
