Tainted

by Ross Pennie

  CHAPTER 8

  “Extraordinary,” said Colleen Wool-ton, private investigator, from behind her desk at two thirty that afternoon.

  Zol had just given her the ten-minute gist of the CJD story.

  “And yes,” she continued, her hazel eyes sparkling, “it would be my pleasure to help you with your investigation.”

  Zol couldn’t quite place her accent. Australia? New Zealand? No, probably South Africa. That would fit with the photo on the wall behind her — a lioness and two cubs in a sundown standoff with a wildebeest and her calf. Her voice was controlled but soothing, just like her face. Freckles sprinkled her nose, and she had a warm smile that seemed to come straight from the heart. Even in her shoes she was only about five feet tall. Her head and body were perfectly proportioned and her demeanour attractively feminine.

  She swept her thick, loosely braided ponytail off her left shoulder. Its strands of copper and gold glinted in the rays streaming from the bank of halogen pot lights in the ceiling. “I must tell you — if we’re going to work together, I need to be kept abreast of all the details of the investigation as they emerge.” She opened her hands and spread her fingers in reassurance. “Only so that I can help you by supplying the missing pieces others might have difficulty snagging by, shall we say, more traditional means?”

  Zol rubbed his sweaty palms against his thighs, embarrassed at feeling this nervous in the presence of such an attractive woman. “Sure,” he said. “At the health unit, I always insist we work as a team.”

  She pulled a scribbler from a drawer and picked up her pen. “Do you have time to give me the details of what you’ve got so far?”

  He took his notes from his briefcase and proceeded line by line through the three cases. Colleen seemed to follow every word, took detailed notes, and appeared more at home with the medical jargon than he had expected.

  After half an hour, Zol stood, stretched, and removed his blazer. It was sweltering under the pot lights. He felt awkward towering over Colleen’s tiny frame and sat down immediately. “You’re very good at the medical terms,” he said. “Have you —”

  “Handled a medical case before?” She shook her head. “Not as a PI. But I did manage my husband’s practice.” Her gaze dropped to her hands. “Until he was killed.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” He tugged at his collar, his neck slippery with sweat.

  She waved dismissively. “It’s been five years.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Liam. Liam Woolton. I doubt your paths would have crossed. He was a general internist.”

  “Oh? Where?”

  “Saskatchewan. When we first arrived from South Africa he took a post in Yorkton. I don’t suppose you’ve been there.”

  Zol shook his head.

  “To a girl from a city like Cape Town, it felt like Timbuktu.” She looked guilty for a second, as though she’d spoken out of turn. “But good people,” she added. For several moments she rubbed at a stain on her desktop. “After four winters we couldn’t take minus thirty any longer. Picked up and moved to Ontario’s sun parlour — Leamington.” She looked up. Though her eyes were dry, tears didn’t seem far away. “But Liam was killed before we actually established the practice.”

  She turned and reached into a small fridge, then handed Zol a glass and a bottle of water, both frosted with condensation. “Enough about me,” she said. “You look like you could use a drink.”

  Zol didn’t bother with the glass. He drained half the bottle before putting it down.

  His cellphone vibrated against his belt. With the ringer turned off, he’d been ignoring the buzzing of incoming calls ever since he’d left his office. This time he excused himself, flipped open the device, and answered it.

  “Dr. Banbury’s looking for you,” Anne said, clearly frustrated. “He says it’s urgent.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been tied up. Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Just for you to call him back as soon as you can. I’ll give you his number.”

  Zol tore a sheet from the message cube on Colleen’s desk and jotted down the number. “Thanks. I’ll call him now.” He turned to Colleen. “That was our secretary,” he said as he ended the call. “The brain pathologist I was telling you about, Julian Banbury, he’s been looking for me. It sounds urgent.”

  “You make the call, and I’ll pour us a little Amarula. It can always be counted on to steady the nerves.”

  Banbury picked up on the third ring. “About time you called me,” he said. “Got some news for you, old chap.”

  “Yes?” Zol said, his pulse throbbing at his temple.

  “Just finished another batch of autopsies. Found four more cases of CJD.”

  Zol felt the blood drain from his face. He closed his eyes and leaned forward. “Did you say four?”

  “Yes. Just like the others. In fact, exactly like the others.” Banbury sputtered as he tried to clear loose phlegm from his throat. “I reviewed every slide, and there is something curious about all this.”

  “Yes?”

  “The pattern of the amyloid plaques in this whole set of brains is unique. All seven have a configuration that’s not like anything that’s been reported before.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The British cases have a daisy-like pattern. The plaques I’ve discovered are denser and more elongated. More like tulips.”

  “Tulips?”

  “That’s right. Tulip plaques. That’s what I shall call them when I post this on ProMed.”

  Oh God, thought Zol, he’s not going to broadcast this on the Internet already. “What — what does this mean?”

  “Heavens, man. What do you bloody think it means? We’ve got something new and exciting happening. Right here in Hamilton.”

  Zol gripped the edge of Colleen’s desk and stared absently at the poster of the lioness and the wildebeest.

  “Dr. Szabo? Are you still there?” asked Banbury.

  “Hmm.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a whole new cricket match. Seven cases of homegrown CJD and maybe more to come. Do this right, and you’ll be famous.”

  “More likely infamous.”

  “Hunt down the prions, get this sorted, you’ll be a hero.”

  “You kidding? Even if I found the prions tomorrow, the press would say I dragged my feet and put lives at risk by masterminding a cover-up. And whatever lobby groups get involved — cattle ranchers, meat packers, God knows who else — they’ll accuse me of reckless grandstanding, making wild suppositions without benefit of a meticulous investigation.”

  “Come, come, my good fellow. It won’t be that bad. Not when the facts come out.”

  “Maybe. But in the meantime I get tarred and feathered by all sides. Like the MOH in Walkerton — he did a perfect job of handling their E. coli water tragedy and still he got crushed in the stampede of a panicking public.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Not by much.” Zol grabbed the water bottle and finished it off. “Look, I need you to give me some wiggle room — a few days before you post this on ProMed.”

  “Come, come. I’ve already been through this with Hamish Wakefield. I’m not going to sit on something this big for long. It will take me the weekend to do some special stains and review a few more slides. Then two or three days to write my report. I shall be ready to make my ProMed posting sometime early next week.”

  Less than a week! They’d never be able to find the source of the outbreak that quickly. “Can you at least call me before you make any announcement? I don’t need to tell you what’s going to happen when this gets out.”

  “I can assure you, this is the real thing. Not like that ridiculous Lassa fever fiasco. But yes, I shall call you first. Would you like the names of the latest cases now, or shall I fax them to you?”

  Anyone could read the printouts as they rolled out of the fax machine at the health unit; it was as good as publishing the whole damn story in the Spectator. “No, no. Ple
ase don’t fax them. Not to my office.”

  Colleen caught Zol’s eye, pointed to her machine, then flipped him her business card, the fax number circled. Somewhat calmed by her self-possessed manner, he nodded and read out her fax number, his voice feeling not quite as strained.

  Two minutes later, the machine beeped and fired out a handwritten list of four names with their occupations and birth dates. As Zol scanned the sheet, he was shocked at the sight of the second name: Delia Smart, Shakespearean actress, fifty-eight.

  Suddenly, his mind flashed back a dozen years, and he pictured his favourite customer glowing in the candlelit corner she always favoured at The Bard’s Table in Stratford. He could almost hear that commanding voice, that perfect diction gushing over his beef Wellington. A career ago.

  An iceberg of guilt floated in Zol’s chest as he drove to the health unit from Colleen Woolton’s office. Twelve years ago he’d been an apprentice, a mere underling at The Bard’s Table. But he’d known about the uninspected steaks and chops the owner brought in on a regular basis from a dodgy butcher. The owner had insisted the animals had been a little lame, but healthy, and perfectly good on the table at half the price. But what if the animals had been lame not from injury, but from mad cow disease? What if he’d had a hand in infecting Delia Smart with prions? How could he live with himself? More than ever, he had to hunt down the source of the prions, to prevent further cases. Only then might there be a melting of his icy guilt.

  Two aspects of Banbury’s discovery suggested this cluster was unique. First, there was the unprecedented appearance of so many variant CJD cases in one city within such a short interval. Second, there was the brand-new microscopic pattern of prion damage in those brains, Banbury’s tulip-shaped plaques. Yesterday, while Zol and Natasha had been staring at Hamilton’s three known cases of variant CJD, Natasha had speculated they might represent a new variety of human CJD, something homegrown without any connection to British mad cows. Now that they were facing seven cases, and at least one of the people had eaten uninspected beef here in Ontario, it was almost certain Natasha was on to something. Her sixth sense for epidemiology was impressive. Maybe, just maybe, Natasha’s intuition could give this investigation a fighting chance.

  Zol turned in to the parking lot behind the health unit and caught sight of Mr. Wang’s wheelbarrow in the yard outside his restaurant across the street. The wheelbarrow lay on its side like a bad omen, its metal sides dented and rusted, its wooden handles splintered, its wheel-fork twisted. A garden hose lay coiled beside it, beneath an outdoor water tap. A century and a half ago and an ocean away, the legendary Dr. John Snow had traced the source of epidemic cholera to a water tap in London, England. Had that landmark discovery dawned on Dr. Snow after months of plodding through the mucky streets of London, or had he been seized by a flash of brilliance one fateful weekend while he was jammed against a deadline?

  Natasha gripped the phone on her desk. “Of course it’s important, Mamaji.” Dr. Zol had only just left her office after breaking the news of the four additional cases of CJD and the tulip-shaped plaques in all the brains.

  Natasha continued her carefully worded explanation to her mother. “It’s a project we need to finish by Monday.” It was all she could do to keep from explaining she’d be missing Friday night supper with the family because she and Dr. Szabo had a public-health emergency on their hands. If Natasha even hinted about tackling a crisis, her mother would soon have it known all over Hamilton that her daughter was single-handedly defending the city against Armageddon.

  “But Tashu, we always count on you for Friday supper. I’m making your favourite, dahi besan kadi. And your brother is bringing Deepak, that nice young doctor.”

  Natasha rolled her eyes and fingered the curls at the back of her neck. “He’s not a doctor, Mamaji. He’s a drug rep. He sells anti -biotics and birth control pills.”

  “Well, almost same thing. He works with doctors every day.”

  “For heaven’s sake, what —”

  “He’s so nice-looking. Beautiful teeth. And almost vegetarian. He only eats a little chicken.”

  What did only eating a little chicken have to do with being a good husband? She was surprised her mother hadn’t mentioned the light colour of his skin. Perhaps she was finally learning a little Canadian political correctness. “If he’s such a nice guy, I’m sure you’ll enjoy his company without me.”

  “Why don’t you come just for an hour? I’ll have everything ready.”

  “No, Mamaji.”

  “But you have to eat, Tashu. I think you’re working too hard. You’ll get wrinkles before we find you a husband.”

  Natasha wouldn’t take the bait this time. “I’ll be fine.”

  Dr. Zol had asked her to come to his house at six thirty to review all seven cases. Dr. Wakefield would be there, and supper would be ready. She figured the meal would be delicious, if what she’d heard about her boss’s kitchen prowess was even only half correct.

  “But what about me?” continued her mother. “I haven’t seen you all week. My West Nile virus could return, and you’ll never see me again.”

  “Come on, Mamaji, that all happened almost two years ago. And you never had West Nile. The tests for it were negative. You weren’t even that sick.”

  “I could have died. The doctor said so.”

  Natasha shook her head and tapped her fingers against her desk. The doctor had said it was a good thing it wasn’t West Nile — just an infection with Coxsackie virus, a relatively harmless form of viral meningitis. All her mother chose to remember was the doctor saying that a more serious form of meningitis could have killed her.

  “Sorry, Mamaji. I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow. Save me some of the dahi besan kadi.”

  She looked at her watch: four fifteen. She’d have to hurry if she was going to get over to health records at Caledonian before five. The charts of the four latest CJD cases were essential for their meeting at Dr. Zol’s.

  CHAPTER 9

  Natasha and Hamish arrived on Zol’s front steps that evening within seconds of each other. Their arms laden with bulky packages, they nodded shyly at one another and introduced themselves in the semi-darkness. Natasha was clutching Joanna Vanderven’s Louis Vuitton bag and a bundle of hospital charts. The slippery folders slid precariously in her arms and nearly escaped before she hitched them into the crook of her elbow. Hamish juggled five plastic bags brimming with a complete Italian dinner from Four Corners. He pulled off a glove with his teeth and reached for the doorbell. As his finger made contact, one of his bags crashed onto the veranda and rolled down the steps. It left a gory trail of tomato sauce and mushroom pieces. Zol had conceded that this was no night to be disdainful about a decent meal arriving packaged in cardboard and plastic. He might have second thoughts when he saw the extent of the mess tomorrow in the light of day.

  Zol answered the door, scooped the charts from Natasha’s arms, and helped his guests stow their winter paraphernalia. As they passed the living room and stepped into the kitchen, Natasha raised her hand to stifle a wide-eyed Wow. Zol responded to the enthusiasm on her face and explained that the place had been both restored and expanded.

  It had started as a plain centre-hall with two tiny bathrooms, Zol explained as Natasha ogled. The builder had modernized the plumbing and the roof-lines, redesigned the veranda, and added a state-of-the-art kitchen leading to a sunroom that embraced a view over the Escarpment. Natasha stroked the restored oak mouldings and tapped her toe against the patina of the hardwood flooring. As usual, Zol kept to himself the small matter of the lottery jackpot that had allowed him to quit the restaurant business, graduate debt-free from medical school, and purchase a home that really was stunning.

  Hamish apologized for spilling tomato sauce on Zol’s porch as he tucked the soiled container into the garbage bin and ran his hands under the tap. Zol shrugged and laughed, then assembled the contents of the remaining packages into a respectable meal.

  Natash
a wandered through the adjacent rooms. Though she didn’t know how long Zol had been divorced, she could tell that a woman had never settled here. The dining room wasn’t graced by the softness of flowers or ceramic figures arranged on a sideboard. There wasn’t the cozy clutter of lifestyle magazines scattered on the coffee table or piled in a basket in the sunroom. The living room’s dark twill drapes needed a brighter touch, red or yellow shantung perhaps, and some contemporary zip in their arrangement. The uninspired artwork was decidedly masculine: a huge Robert Bateman print of a bear catching a fish, a cluster of moody lake-country landscapes, and that famous van Gogh self-portrait.

  The meal from Four Corners turned out to be tastier and fresher than Zol had expected. “We’ve got a fair bit to cover, so we might as well get started,” he said, helping himself to another piece of garlic bread from the basket on the table in front of him. “How are you fixed for water, Hamish?”

  Hamish covered his mouth with his fist, swallowed, and tried to clear his throat. “I’m fine,” he said, whispering through the scars in his voice box.

  Zol caught Natasha’s eye. “Will you take notes as we go along?”

  She nodded and pulled her notepad toward her. “I’m all set.”

  Zol gestured to the pile of charts between them. “I suppose you didn’t get much chance to look at these newest cases?”

  “I flipped through them and scribbled a few notes,” Natasha said.

  “Can you give us a summary before we focus on the details?”

  She glanced at her notepad. “Three women and one man. They range in age from twenty-seven to fifty-eight. All have Hamilton addresses. And they died within twenty-one days of each other.”

  Hamish opened his mouth in surprise. “Three weeks! Quite a tight cluster.”

  Zol suppressed the image of Delia Smart cutting into a serving of his beef Wellington. “If we’re going to find a common source,” he said, “the tighter the better.”