Jim Baen's Universe Volume 1 Number 3 October 2006

by Baen Publishing

  Swimming up from cloudy, static-filled memory came the scene before the explosion, too, frozen in dead memory. The car, moving forward into the crowd, seconds before the detonation. The point of view swiveled and there in the room were the faces of the plotters, three bearded ones.

  Jean memorized them in a moment. He turned and walked out, getting ready for the next attack, knowing now who to look for and thinking again of Montclair Boulevard.

  ****

  For James Benford

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  Little Sips by Barbara J. Ferrenz

  Illustrated by David Maier

  The little boy sat on the examination table, swinging his bare feet. His mother played with his downy hair as she spoke to the doctor. "I can't think of anything we've done differently."

  "No over-the-counter medicines? New cleaning products? Herbal medicines?"

  The mother shook her head each time. "No, nothing. Maybe he got better on his own. Maybe he never had it in the first place."

  Miracles and spontaneous cures weren't on the top of Dr. Fellows' list of possibilities. And he knew his diagnosis had been correct. "Mrs. Allen, Cody has. . .had hydrocephalus. I wouldn't have scheduled him for the shunt today if I wasn't sure. Maybe the pre-surgery antibiotics knocked out an infection we weren't aware of. Maybe. . .I don't know. Let's watch him closely. We can reschedule if we have to."

  She caressed the back of the toddler's head. "Do you think it'll come back?"

  "I. . .I don't know," he said leaving the examining room.

  Mrs. Allen picked up Cody's clothes to dress him, again touching his head. She put the clothes down. "What's this?" Parting the child's hair, she looked at the clear crusty spot at the base of his hairline. "Honey, what have you gotten into?" She scraped it away with her fingernail.

  ****

  Grant Fellows returned to his office in the lower level of the neurobiological research department of the university hospital. He was glad the rest of the staff had gone to lunch. He would have to tell them it was true, the little boy's hydrocephalus that had distorted the shape of his head and disturbed his physical and mental development had gone poof. Marianne had taken the mother's call. Even though they all thought it was a case of maternal nerves before the surgery, his colleagues and the interns ribbed him about his "misdiagnosis." Grant tossed the folder onto the desk and sat. Routine infantile water on the brain wasn't his area anyway. He was more interested in the recent rash of cases of spontaneous intracranial hypotension.

  Fourteen, so far, with more coming in every week. When it started over a year ago, the cases weren't surprising. Poor health and dehydration were responsible for all kinds of maladies. Heart disease, tuberculosis, and the little tears in a weakened brain pan that allow the drip, drip, drip of cerebrospinal fluid until the brain no longer floats on a liquid cushion but sinks into the lower opening of the skull. Grant understood how nasty and painful the deaths had been as each of the homeless were brought in from the dark sewers around the water treatment plant. Spontaneous intracranial hypotension wasn't commonly seen in the down-on-their-luck alcoholics who lost all interest in food and water in their eternal search for another drink, but it wasn't unheard-of. A group of kooks protesting the plant blamed the deaths on the treated water and pointed out the low magnesium levels of the victims reported in the newspaper. They weren't influenced by the expert opinions stating that cause of death was known and had nothing to do with deficient magnesium, which is epidemic in the U.S. population and pronounced in alcoholics. They were tree-huggers and all progress was bad to them.

  When the schizophrenic bag ladies who didn't drink and the babies living with their indigent mothers in abandoned cars began coming in, he felt he had at the very least a journal article and at best a major research study with federal funding. Then all hell broke loose. Middle class Joes and soccer Moms and socialites succumbed—their brains were leaking fluid like a '68 Chevelle.

  The phone rang. He heard quick footsteps from the door as Marianne ran in to answer. A minute later, she leaned into his office. "Boss, there's another one. Up in the ER."

  ****

  Grant heard the screams before he pushed through the double doors of the emergency room. He pulled aside the curtain and stepped carefully to avoid the vomit splashed across the floor. A young woman writhed in pain, her hands gripping the sides of her head.

  As he approached the patient, a voice called out behind him.

  "Hey, you! Nobody goes in there without talking to me first."

  "And who the hell are you?" He turned and saw a petite woman wearing an ill-fitting discount catalog pantsuit.

  She flipped a badge open. "Detective Wilding, city police. Who are you?"

  He rolled his eyes and called to one of the nurses. "Will you get this person out of here?"

  "Wait a minute, bud." Wilding grabbed his arm. "Are you a doctor? They've got three in there already."

  "So now they've got one more. Get out of my way." He tugged his sleeve from her grip and stepped toward the patient. She was alive, but just barely. Dr. Fulton, the neurosurgeon on call, rolled her over and attempted a hasty epidural blood patch on her spine as the nurse attached the IV to rehydrate her. This one had a tiny spinal puncture like nine of the others. The emergency treatment was going to be too late. She was dying. Grant checked her nose for encrustations and finding none, determined that fluid was not coming from a tear in the subdural meninges. CSF leaks without known origins, like head trauma or spinal taps, often started in the lower brain and drained into the nasal sinuses. The girl seemed well-nourished and in good health otherwise. Why wouldn't she have seen a doctor as the headaches increased as the fluid decreased? Why didn't any of them?

  Grant reviewed the chart, staying until the young woman, SIH Case #15, was declared dead and the attending physician understood that the corpse was to be removed to the neurobiology research unit for autopsy before being released to family. He called down to his office and instructed one of the interns to grab the parents for a standard interview to make sure they had a full history. As the life support monitor was shut down and the team wandered away for the attendants to come in and clean up, he stepped through the curtain only to be face-to-face with Detective Wilding.

  "Fellows. You're the one I should be talking to," she said.

  "Maybe, but why should I talk to you? This isn't a police matter." He continued walking to his office. Wilding followed, almost skipping to keep up with his long stride.

  "You're the dry brain guy, right?"

  He smiled. "That's one way of putting it."

  "So you could be a suspect."

  He stopped. "What?"

  "I thought that might get your attention, Sparky." She took a small notebook and pen from her pocket. "Tell me, doctor, what kind of medical expertise would it take to withdraw a lethal amount of spinal fluid?"

  Grant couldn't help laughing. "You've got to be kidding. You think there's a mad spinal tapper out there?"

  "A serial killer. I don't see what's so funny."

  He rubbed his chin as he searched for words she would understand. "This is a medical mystery not a criminal mystery. Yes, we're seeing more cerebrospinal leaks than usual and the mortality rate is higher than expected but this is a known medical condition. That's why I'm doing my research. To find out why. What gave you the idea that there was something intentional happening here?"

  "Some researcher you are. Haven't you seen the pattern? He's working his way up Water Street."

  Each case from the first to the girl on her way to his autopsy room appeared on a city map in his mind. A cluster where Water Street dead ended at the treatment plant, then block by block into downtown. "Holy shit," he whispered.

  ****

  The detective pushed aside Grant's folders and spread a map on his desk. She pointed to the icon for the water treatment plant. "After the seventh death down there, we were called in to move the winos out. I didn't think much about it until last June when the city a
ttorney's nephew died from a spinal leak and an under-the-table investigation was requested. I was told it was an untreated spinal leak and it just happens sometimes. The CA wasn't happy to hear it but what could he do? Then I remembered that they said the bums all died from dry brains. I looked for a connection." Wilding took her pen and connected the dots on her map. "Angela Timsbury lived right here on Water Street East."

  "Who?" Grant asked.

  "The girl who just died. She had a name, you know. And parents and a little brother. She was nineteen years old. She studied sociology at the community college. Her boyfriend's name is Gerald and she liked to play basketball."

  Grant refused to feel guilty about his ignorance of personal information. The survivor interview would pick up some of it and who cares what her boyfriend's name was? "The transients were malnourished and dehydrated and at high risk for SIH. We've been collecting data on the more recent cases. Case 15, Angela, is the second healthy one to expire from low CSF. Usually the symptoms of orthostatic headache, uh, headache when standing up, and violent nausea are so severe that treatment is sought early. The body only has about 150 milliliters—less than a cup—of CSF at any one time and replaces it two or three times a day. It's not easy to get what you call dry brain."

  "Unless somebody's sucking it out."

  "Like a vampire?"

  "More like a murderer with medical know-how."

  Before Grant could tell her she was jumping to an absurd conclusion, his phone rang. "Neuro. Grant speaking."

  The voice on the line was timid. "Dr. Fellows, could you come down here? I was prepping 15 and. . . Could you come down and look?"

  He could hear the intern breathing. "Well, what is it?"

  "I'd rather you look. I'm looking at it but I'd feel more comfortable if you saw it, too."

  Grant sighed. "I'll be there in a few minutes. Don't touch anything."

  "What is it?" Wilding asked.

  "A nervous intern, the bane of the university research scientist."

  ****

  The student in his white lab coat stood at the door as Grant entered, Detective Wilding behind him. The nude body of Angela Timsbury lay on the stainless steel table.

  "What's your name?" Grant asked

  "James." The student swallowed. "Ellicott. James Ellicott, that is. Doctor." He tugged at his tie.

  Grant shook his head. "All right, Ellicott, what's so amazing that I have to see it right now?"

  Ellicott hurried over to the body. "I don't know if it's amazing. I just thought it was kind of, you know, funny. Well, not really funny. Peculiar. Yes, peculiar."

  "Shut up, Ellicott." Grant looked at the girl's face. A pretty face without the dried vomit on the chin. "So?"

  "Here, doctor." Ellicott turned the body on its side. "These bruises on either side of the spinal puncture. What does that look like to you?"

  Grant noticed that Wilding had sidled up beside him. He bent down for a closer look at the gray marks on the skin straddling the backbone. Bruises often come to the surface after the blood settles to the lowest point and lividity sets in. They were irregularly shaped.

  Wilding gasped. "Little hands!"

  Ellicott smiled with relief. "That's what I thought!"

  The bruises did look like two-inch hands had dug their fingers deep into the skin around the tiny wound. Grant's scientific mind immediately filed the observation under preposterous. Wilding and Ellicott looked at him expectantly. He cleared his throat. "It could be anything."

  "Like what?" Wilding asked.

  Grant scowled. "I don't know. She fell on something. Probably the same thing that punctured her spine."

  "Doctor, wouldn't that kind of injury also cause bleeding?" Ellicott asked quietly.

  Wilding headed for the door.

  Grant followed her. "Where are you going?"

  "I have an investigation to work on."

  "Wait a minute." Grant walked with her to the exit. "What are you going to investigate? Baby vampires with spinal tap needles?"

  "If that's what it takes," she called as she continued to the parking lot. "You coming?"

  He shook his head. Somebody with sense had to be part of this. "Slow down, dammit!"

  Wilding laughed.

  ****

  Angela Timsbury's mother and father clutched each other's hands as they sat on their living room sofa, staring at the police detective and doctor. Grant felt as if they didn't understand a word Wilding was saying.

  "I'd like to know what Angela was doing before she became sick," Wilding told them.

  They didn't move.

  "I'm trying to find out what happened."

  Mrs. Timsbury blinked. A tear ran down her cheek.

  Grant pulled his chair up to the sofa and took Mrs. Timsbury's hand. "Was Angela home when she got sick?"

  She nodded and pointed up.

  "May we have a look?"

  She nodded again. Mr. Timsbury sobbed.

  "Thank you." Grant motioned Wilding to follow him upstairs. The first door they came to looked like a teenage girl's room. The bed was unmade and clothes were tossed everywhere.

  Wilding picked up a bra from the lampshade. "It could be a crime scene."

  "The only crime here is slovenliness." Grant looked around. "You're the cop. What are we looking for?"

  She shrugged. "Little footprints maybe."

  They split up, looking at the mattress covered with clumps of dried puke, the shelves with romance novels and a stereo, the closet with more clothes on the floor than on the hangers. Wilding picked up a framed photograph of Angela with her arms wrapped around a lanky, grinning boy. "I got a question for you, doc. How do you explain the holes in the victims' backs?"

  He grimaced at a pile of dirty underwear in the corner. "The holes, as you call them, are usually the size of a pin prick or not visible at all. It's been widely believed that bone spurs on the spinal column puncture the central canal but my research has shown microscopic evidence of an external epidermal opening. There's a reason why the intracranial hypotension is called spontaneous. No one has found a valid cause."

  Wilding hunched down to study the carpet. "So people are springing leaks and the entire medical profession doesn't know why."

  "You'd be surprised by how much we don't know." Grant wandered into the connecting bathroom. "Wilding, come here!" He walked to the open window and crouched to get a better look at the thick clear substance smeared on the wall beneath.

  "Looks like snot." Wilding came up behind him, removing a small plastic bag from her pocket.

  "It goes all the way outside."

  "Or it came inside." Wilding scraped a small amount of the mucus into the baggie and sealed it shut. "Maybe the lab can tell us what this is. It'll take a few days at best."

  Grant turned. "I've got a lab."

  "It's all yours. Why don't you do whatever it is you do and I'll go down to the treatment plant."

  "I'm going with you. We'll drop off the specimen with Ellicott. He can call when he's finished."

  "Stop scaring him, then, or he'll never call."

  ****

  The lights of the city were a half mile away. Wilding scanned the ground with her flashlight. Chain link fence topped with razor wire surrounded the plant. Beyond the parking lot, a culvert led to the storm drain that had been home to the men and women who died first from cerebrospinal fluid leaks.

  Grant stopped as he realized where Wilding was going. "We're not going down there, are we?"

  Without hesitating, she called back, "You don't have to."

  He quickly caught up with her. "What do you expect to find?"

  "The source of the snot." She climbed down the embankment and followed the culvert into the eight-foot-tall storm drain. Their footsteps echoed in the blackness. A faint smell of wood smoke and BO served as a reminder of the people who had lived and died here. The white cone of the flashlight moved methodically over the space, illuminating clothes and other belongings left behind. Grant felt very much ou
t of his element. They moved slowly as the detective inspected side to side. Well into the tunnel, surrounded by the dark, the light no longer showed signs of past residents. Grant heard something hit the metal behind him. He swirled around and strained his eyes to see. Wilding brought the flashlight up and shined it toward the entrance. A figure shifted to the side.

  "Who's there?" Grant's shout was answered with silence.

  Wilding pushed past him, holding the flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other. "What did you expect? 'It's only me, the killer.'"

  He felt ashamed of how frightened he was as he stayed close behind the tiny woman with the big weapon. As they approached the relative light of the opening, she whispered, "Stay here." He did as she said, even though he really didn't want to be left behind in the dark. He watched as her small shape moved away.

  "Police!" she called. "Step out where I can see you!"

  A moment later the figure was framed by the night sky beyond. "Who's that behind you?" a man's voice shouted.

  "None of your business! Who are you?"

  "You're a cop? You're kind of puny for a cop."

  She tucked the flashlight under her arm and held up her badge. "I'm Detective Amy Wilding, city police. Now who are you and why are you here?"

  He put his hands up. "I live up the road. My name's Jackson. The cops run all these fellas off a few months ago and I've kinda been keepin' an eye on the place. I saw you and whoever that is hidin' back there come in. That's all."

  "Come on out, doc!" She pushed Jackson away from the storm drain and patted him down. Grant caught up with them as they climbed out of the culvert and into the parking lot.

  Wilding took out her notebook. After taking down the man's full name and address, she asked, "What do you know about the deaths down here?"

  "Who? Me?" He pulled off his baseball cap and ran his hand through his thin hair. "I don't know nothin' about that. Poor folks, all dying like that. It's a shame. I used to come down and talk to 'em about the old days before they built the treatment plant." He laughed sadly. "They used to call me crazy but a couple of them seen for themselves when they went down the culvert to take a dump."