Contagion

by Joanne Dahme

  “I’m sure we’ll find him,” he replied, lightly guiding me by the elbow as he opened the carriage door.The detective stepped away to allow me to enter. It was then that I screamed at the sight of Julius sprawled across the carriage’s backseat, his head bent at a disconcerting angle where it rested in the corner, his long legs crooked awkwardly in the aisle.

  “Julius!” I called, pulling myself into the carriage. I leaned over him and shook him gently by the shoulders, praying that he was only asleep. In an instant, Detective Buchanan crowded behind me.

  “Has he been attacked?” the detective asked, trying to peer around me without physically moving me aside. “Is he bleeding?” The detective sounded angry, but I didn’t answer him as I placed my hand across Julius’s forehead.

  “Well?” Detective Buchanan asked, squeezing his bulky frame next to me. “I don’t see any signs of a blow.”

  Julius was feverish, and his pale skin was splotchy. I quickly loosened his tie and undid his morning coat and the top buttons of his shirt. I gasped as I looked at what I feared I would see—flat, rose-colored spots covering his chest. My parents had the same symptoms before they died from the infection.

  By this time, Detective Buchanan had eased beside me. “You must be careful, Mrs. Dugan. It looks like . . .”

  “It’s typhoid, Detective,” I affirmed. I turned to confront Detective Buchanan. I wanted to challenge him to defeat this more intangible and insidious criminal. “We must get him home and summon a doctor,” I urged.

  In a moment, Detective Buchanan was in the driver’s seat, yelling to the caretaker to open the gates.

  SEAN

  I stood on the retaining wall of the middle reservoir. I considered this basin to be the primary chamber of the heart of the city’s water distribution system and surveyed the four basins surrounding me. The northern reservoir, to my left, was empty, as my men had recently drained it a few weeks ago to inspect its walls for cracks.The basin appeared intact. But something wasn’t right, I thought, as I blew on my hands to warm them. People were getting sick, and I had not put out the word to boil the water early enough to prevent the contagion from finding many victims. For the first time in years, I had not recognized an imminent threat to the water supply.

  I watched as the Bureau of Health’s chemist lowered a jar into the turbid, brown water, shattering the tranquil reflection of the gray clouds floating on the reservoir’s surface. The chemist, an older gentleman with white hair and a bristling walrus mustache, was meticulous as he raised the jar from the water, careful not to spill one drop on his worn but clean morning coat and black trousers. After screwing the lid tight with a cloth, the technician held the jar into the air, and peered at the murky water. From even this distance of a few feet, I could discern the floating particles, as if the jar were a child’s snow-flaked water globe that the man had just shaken vigorously. I scowled at the jar, although the chemist remained circumspect in demeanor.

  “Well,” I couldn’t help but interrupt. “What do you think?”

  The technician turned and looked at me dispassionately. “Nothing unusual,” he finally replied. “I’ll take an extra sample or two from each basin to be sure.” He bent to place the jar in a wooden crate. “I should have some results for you by tomorrow.”

  I frowned. Under the circumstances, tomorrow seemed like forever. I stared suspiciously at the gently lapping waters. The water appeared murkier. The chemist lowered another jar in the far corner of the basin. I couldn’t wait for him to move on and crouched down onto my hands and knees to peer into the water. I inhaled its vapors. Something was not right. I could sense it. I thought I detected the faint aroma of sewage. Even if I did, the disturbing odor was not unusual. But something about the water was nagging at me.

  I stood up and suddenly felt powerless as I looked across the expanse of placid, brown waters, each basin separated by earthen dikes. Cast-iron fences surrounded each reservoir chamber. To my left, the brick standpipe towered above the reservoirs like a sentinel. I felt its accusing presence.

  This morning, the Bureau of Health had already reported 452 cases of typhoid.The city appeared to be on the brink of one of the worst typhoid epidemics in years, yet nothing had happened to precipitate this outbreak. It was late fall, and the demand for water was not great. The reservoirs were not being drained before the sediments in the water could settle to their bottoms. There had been no great storms to overwhelm the city’s sewer system or wash upstream sewage into the river. I knew periodic outbreaks would occur and had trained myself to be vigilant in watching for the circumstances that caused them. But what had triggered this one? The usual factors were not in place.

  I wondered what I had missed. This was my life. This is what I had devoted myself to—water. I thought I knew its character, its varying nature. I thought I understood the Schuylkill River and the elements that threatened its purity better than anything else in my life. Suddenly, I was blind. I missed something that I should have seen, allowing the disease to ambush the city without warning.

  I felt like I was quickly failing—failing to provide safe water because of my inability to convince the City Councils of the need to protect the water supply. I was in control of nothing, I realized bitterly—not the water quality, not the laws, not even who I could protect or care about. I used to feel a swelling sense of pride when I stood on these grounds. Now all I saw were basins filled with a brown, lethal concoction, ready for delivery to an unsuspecting populace.

  Typhoid. I hated the disease as if it were a conscious entity. I had set my life on a path to ensure that the disease would not ravage the city, as it did year after year. I had vowed that I would not lose those I loved to a disease that could and should be stopped. I thought of Eileen, how I had held her hand as she lay dying, and that the only thing that enabled me to walk away from her deathbed was this oath. If only I had told Eileen to boil the water those three years ago. But then, I didn’t recognize the signs of contamination as quickly. I did tell Rose.

  I had practically run to her home this morning, after learning from my father that Julius had typhoid. My father had heard from his friends at the stable that Julius had been stricken and that Dugan had refused his wife the opportunity to nurse him. He’s afraid of disease, the men had snickered, giddy over the fear of a wealthy man.

  When I had hurried along Spring Garden Street, I couldn’t help but grimace at the sudden profusion of quarantine signs, posted hurriedly on doors and windows, and the nervous glances of passers-by as they spied them. Some people went so far as to cover their mouths and noses with a handkerchief. I could only shake my head at this futile gesture, although I sympathized with the fear.

  There were fewer postings in this neighborhood, as compared to my own. The signs had materialized overnight. Though discrete, these warnings boded an enormous horror. They often meant a quick and ravaging death for those who became infected.This could be avoided, I knew, if only there was a way to reach the poor and the working families, who worked in the homes of the wealthy people and carried with them the germs of the disease. Many of them didn’t read, so the public notices were meaningless to them. Others were fatalistic and didn’t believe that boiling the water actually made a difference. But boiling the water was the best way to kill the germ. I had reminded my father to boil the water before I left for work. I felt disgusted by the need to do so. Obviously, the disease was defeating me.

  When I had approached Rose’s corner, I was surprised and alarmed to see her hurrying down her front steps. For a moment, I thought she might have been running from someone. But she had seen me from the dining room window.

  “Are you boiling your water, Rose?” I asked breathlessly.

  “You’ve heard about Julius?” she asked. “Oh, Sean. This is what I wanted to tell you. Poor Julius became sick at the cemetery.” She looked back at the house. “Julius is at his sister’s home now,” Rose remarked bitterly. I didn’t dare appear relieved. I didn’t want the disease anywhe
re near Rose.

  “My father heard. I’m so sorry about Julius. I felt . . . more comfortable knowing that he was near you.” My own gaze had been drawn to the house. “Rose, forgive me, but this is extremely important. You are boiling your water, aren’t you?”

  She was startled by my sudden intensity. “Why, yes, Sean. Brigid, our cook, has been instructed to do so. We always boil our water,” she added, looking away, ashamed of this confession.

  “Good,” I had replied. “I feel a horror about this, Rose. This epidemic came without warning—no heavy rains or unusual demand on the system. Something extraordinary has happened, and I don’t know ...” A carriage festooned with black bunting distracted me. I ran my hand through my hair and swore. “I’m sorry.”

  Rose looked into my face, her expression tight with concern. Her cheeks were flushed. Her hair, pinned back in a French twist, had loosened from its braids, as if she had fixed it absentmindedly. I thought she looked more beautiful than ever. But Rose had trouble looking directly into my eyes.

  “What is it?” I asked gently, trying to calm her. “Is there something new in the investigation?”

  “Oh, Sean,” she hesitated. She glanced at the funeral carriage and then back to me. “You will solve the water problem. I know you will.” Her eyes flashed a ferocity that surprised me. “Everything is fine,” she assured me, looking down at the sidewalk. “I needed to tell you about Julius.” Suddenly, she turned, sensing someone else’s eyes upon her. I looked in the direction of the dining room to see a figure quickly step out of view.The fire in her eyes flared.

  “Martha,” she said grievously. “I wish it were she who caught the typhoid.” She frowned. “Forgive me. That was a terrible thing to say.”

  “Not under the circumstances,” I replied, looking at the house again with the same suspicion that I now harbored for the reservoir. This was good—her anger, I thought. This is healthy. It will help protect her against the figure behind the window curtain and her husband if need be.

  “I’ve submitted my report, Rose.” I wanted to take her attention away from the house. I couldn’t help but shake my head. “It will be lost, forgotten in the latest hysteria.” I felt resentful about what I knew in my heart to be a quixotic cause. But in Rose’s presence, the bitterness was easier to take. “The public outrage is justified of course.”

  “Sean, you are doing your best,” Rose had insisted. “But you cannot control the industries, or the politicians.”

  She then grasped my arm. “Please be careful, Sean,” she pleaded. “There’s—an evil—touching us.” She looked in the direction of the house. “It’s not just Nellie’s murder. It seems much more pervasive than that, except that I don’t know where it’s coming from. I know I sound crazy,” she apologized.

  I was further alarmed by her words. What else has happened to her that she has not told me? I felt an evil too, but for me it was in the water running in the pipes beneath the streets, breaching the sanctity of homes through their faucets. I searched her face for a sign of a more personal evil, some indication that Dugan had harmed or threatened her.

  “Rose, are you sure that you are all right?” I asked gravely.

  “I’m fine, Sean,” she replied firmly. She quickly turned to go back into the house. “I must go. But please be careful,” she pleaded one more time.

  “You also, Rose,” I whispered to her retreating form, as I watched her climb the steps with the resignation of a soldier going to battle.

  Please protect her, I prayed now, staring at my reflection as it shimmered in the once again smooth water of the basin. I felt as if days had passed since I saw her, although it was only this morning. I scowled at my image—a man in a bowler and morning coat, looking for some answer in these waters. If the situation weren’t so desperate, I’d laugh.

  I looked up and was surprised to see Chief Trout marching up the reservoir path, his black top hat bobbing higher over the horizon with each step. I frowned. I had no desire to talk with Trout. My chief was as ineffectual as I was.

  “Sean,” Trout called, opening the basin’s gate and carefully balancing himself as he walked along the retaining wall. “What have you discovered? Anything to point to the cause of another epidemic?”

  “Epidemic?” I repeated somberly. I swore under my breath. “This doesn’t make sense, Chief. The circumstances that normally cause an epidemic don’t exist. Something is not right.”

  Trout stood before me, his dark eyes peering into my own. He looked haggard, his cheeks more gaunt than usual. Judging from the dark hallows beneath his eyes, Trout wasn’t getting much sleep either. “Four hundred and fifty-two cases, I believe the Bureau of Health counted as of yesterday, as if the numbers mean anything,” he grumbled beneath his breath. “Not all of them have been confirmed.”

  I stepped back. “If the numbers mean anything?” What the hell did he mean by that? Was Trout losing his senses?

  “I don’t understand it. How can so many be sick? We’ve had no real storms or flooding…” I kicked a stone into the basin.Trout gave me a sour look.

  “The Bureau of Health is sampling the basins again today,” I continued, indicating with a nod the man now lowering ajar into the south basin. “We won’t have the results until tomorrow. The samples we obtained on Monday showed nothing.” But that was not unusual I reminded myself.The river sediment often masked the typhoid germs.

  But Trout wasn’t looking at me. Instead, he was surveying the horizon as if he expected something to suddenly appear. He then stared at our joint reflections. “Dugan has been in with the mayor and has spoken with a number of councilmen. He’s pushing for filtration—saying it’s the only way to guarantee the public’s health.” He looked directly at me now, his dark eyes blazing. “Dugan has told the mayor that we’re standing in the way of progress—that we’re failures.” He nearly spat out the last word.

  I was surprised at the intensity of Trout’s emotions. “Listen, Chief. It is up to us to determine what is causing the epidemic.This is our responsibility.”

  “Now you sound like Dugan,” Trout accused. I felt my own reservoir of anger stirred at the mention of Dugan. “He must be reveling in this. Every victim is another notch toward his securing the filtration contract.”

  “He wants my job, Sean,” Trout whined unpleasantly. “All of this grandstanding on the part of Dugan is just for show. He’s convincing the mayor that I am a fool.”

  I didn’t like the hysteria I detected in Trout’s voice. “The mayor knows better, Chief. He knows what kind of man Dugan is ...”

  Trout kept shaking his head, as if he didn’t hear me. “I’ve lost my focus—my ability to lead—over my desire to meter.” He then grabbed me by the arm. “But they all miss the point,” he argued. “Metering will reduce usage and thus provide more time for the water to settle. But the mayor won’t listen to me now. Dugan wants my job.”

  Good God, I thought. He sounds like he’s having a nervous collapse. “Listen to me, Chief. I know that the mayor would never want a man like Dugan in an office down the hall from his own. Dugan as a supporter is one thing. Dugan as a paid assistant is something completely different,” I tried to reason with him calmly. “Besides, your job doesn’t pay enough for Dugan. He doesn’t want to be a public servant.” I placed my hand tentatively on Trout’s shoulder. “We need to focus on the real threat—the epidemic.We’ll take care of Dugan later, when the health of the city is restored.” I hoped I was getting through to him.

  “Chief Trout. Mr. Parker,” someone called. Trout and I turned simultaneously to face the reservoir path that paralleled the basin. Officer Russo was waving to us pleasantly. “Do you have a moment for me?”

  I couldn’t believe it. Russo was the last person I wanted to see, especially with Trout in his present condition. I realized Russo must have read the pained expression on my face, or perhaps it was the look of desperate consternation twisting Trout’s features, that caused Russo to amend, “I promise, I will only ta
ke a minute of your time. I’d like to schedule a later meeting with you, Mr. Parker.”

  I nodded at Russo to wait. “Come on, Chief. Let’s get this over with,” I suggested, taking Trout by the arm and guiding him to the basin’s gate. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the chemist carrying his crate of sample jars. Typhoid flashed through my mind again.

  “What can we do for you, Officer?” I asked politely, not wanting to agitate Trout.

  Russo shook both our hands, although his gaze focused on Trout’s face. “I would like to meet with you, Mr. Parker. I have been interviewing a number of Mr. Dugan’s colleagues, and I need to check a few statements.”

  Trout cursed on hearing Dugan’s name. Russo looked at him curiously but continued addressing me. “If you don’t mind, perhaps we can meet tonight at the station. Detective Buchanan will be there also.” When I hesitated, he added, “It’s only for the matter of security. Nothing to be alarmed about regarding yourself,” he assured.

  “Is that really necessary?” Trout interrupted irritably. “Mr. Parker is in the midst of tracking an epidemic.” Trout’s arm swung in an encompassing motion in the direction of the basins, as if to suggest that the evil lay visibly before us. I frowned. At this point, I’d agree to anything to get Russo to leave before Trout gave him cause to stay.

  “That is fine, Officer Russo. Why don’t I stop at the station around seven? Will that suffice?”

  Russo looked at us with interest. Then he tipped his high-crowned police cap. “I would be most appreciative, Mr. Parker. I will see you then.”

  I arrived at the Ninth Police District station house, at seven, as I had promised, to meet up with Russo and Buchanan. I had worked late at the Water Works and had gone directly. By that time, I was already perturbed by the events of the day, the chilling wind, and my nagging hunger. When the police sergeant told me that neither Russo nor Buchanan were at the station, I was angry initially. I was tired, and I didn’t have the time to waste.