Tainted

by Ross Pennie

  “Does she fit the profile of our other cases?”

  Natasha nodded. “So far. But I didn’t think I should be pumping for details. Not without your permission.” She scuffed at a bare spot on the carpet. “The patient is a young woman. Some sort of VIP. My cousin said I would recognize her name.” Her eyes widened. “She didn’t divulge it, of course.”

  “Why would your cousin mention it to you?”

  “Because I work at the health unit and the story’s all over the news.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Dr. Zol,” she said, her face crumpling, “my family has no idea what I actually do here.”

  “I know,” he said, cradling his mug with both hands. “Keep me posted.”

  As he approached his office, he could hear the phone ringing.

  “It’s the mayor on the line,” Anne said when he lifted the receiver.

  “He only ever speaks to the boss. Can you get him to call Dr. Trinnock at home?”

  “It’s you he wants.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Yes. And I better warn you — he’s upset.”

  “Heard about the horse feathers, eh?”

  “He was watching.”

  Zol pulled a face. “Great.”

  “Take a deep breath,” Anne said, “and I’ll put him through.”

  There was a pause, then, “Szabo? Who the hell do you think you are? Certainly no expert on brain diseases.”

  “Sir?”

  “But there you are, embarrassing us all on national television.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” There was no point in going into the details — Trinnock’s sudden illness, the blazing video lights, the pummelling questions, that he’d been thrown to the lions. “I got broadsided.”

  “Bullshit. It was you doing the broadsiding. You went out of your way to make us look like bumpkins.”

  “I was doing my best, Your Worship, to answer the questions honestly.”

  “Hell, you don’t give the media honesty. You give them the goddamn party line. What rock did you just crawl out of?”

  “I’ve learned my lesson, sir. Next time I’ll be better prepared.”

  “Next time? There isn’t going to be a next time. Not for you. When we get Trinnock out to pasture, I’m gonna see that we get someone competent heading our health unit. Someone like that Dr. Wyatt Burr. Now there’s a man who knows what he’s doing.”

  CHAPTER 24

  At four forty-five on that most miserable of Mondays, the trill of Zol’s office phone nagged at him for the umpteenth time. Whoever it was would have to damn well call back tomorrow. He’d been bashed around enough for one day. And more important, he didn’t want to be late for his date with Colleen. Was it really a date? No, he decided, just a drink after work.

  As soon as the ringing stopped Anne’s buzzer blared. “I think you better take this call,” she insisted. “It’s Dr. Banbury, and he sounds exasperated.”

  Zol took the call.

  “Dr. Szabo,” said Julian Banbury, “I did as you asked. I looked for Extendo-Tox in those brains. It was a massive job. Bloody massive.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Immuno-staining for botulinum toxin was negative in every brain.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. ‘Oh.’ In point of fact, chasing that wild goose of yours consumed my entire weekend.”

  Zol rubbed at his temple. “But don’t you agree? The link with Extendo-Tox appears to be irrefutable.”

  “I grant you, it may seem so on paper. But in reality? Not a trace of that toxin in any of those brains. Not even in the densest amyloid plaques.”

  Damn. “Now what, sir?”

  “You must keep hunting for another source of those prions. Animal by-products. Poultry. You’d even be wise to consider fish or seafood.” Banbury cleared his throat. “Yes. A new prion emerging from an unexpected source must be responsible for my tulip pattern.”

  “Are you going to send a sample of Extendo-Tox to the prion lab in Guelph?”

  “That would be a complete waste of time.”

  “But isn’t there a remote chance it’s contaminated?”

  “Good heavens, man. Not bloody likely. Have you forgotten? Extendo-Tox is completely synthetic. I’m certainly not going to risk my reputation making wild allegations against the biggest biotech breakthrough Caledonian’s ever accomplished.”

  Despite the dusk and lengthening shadows, Zol could still see Mr. Wang’s water tap across the street. How much ridicule had Dr. Snow endured when he’d exposed the community tap in a London slum as the source of a deadly outbreak of cholera? Had Snow’s boss threatened to fire him if he announced his findings? Whatever the circumstances, the man had done the right thing.

  “But Dr. Banbury, this is way bigger than our reputations.”

  “My good man, I’d say you’ve got yourself into enough trouble already — or should I say horse feathers? I’d be watching my step, if I were you.”

  Zol ended the call, and with it the workday. Although this had probably been one of the worst days of his life, it wasn’t as bad as that day Francine had called him at the hospital. He was a surgical resident at the time, gowned and gloved and assisting at a hysterectomy. She told him that in five minutes she was leaving their marriage, their son, and the country. Max was asleep in his crib; she figured he’d be okay in the house on his own for a while, but he’d be wanting his lunch soon and Zol had better come home and feed him. As Francine’s taxi sped toward the airport, Zol raced home, still dressed in his blood-spattered scrubs. When he burst through the door, Max was asleep and the house cluttered by the tempest of Francine’s reckless exit. While his ten-month-old son sat in a high chair flinging his lunch at the kitchen walls, Zol called his program director at the Faculty of Medicine. They agreed it was next to impossible for one man to be both a surgeon-in-training and a single parent. Zol transferred to a vacant training spot in the public-health program, where the working hours were predictable and overnight calls were never expected. He came to like public health, and found it worth giving up surgery to have Max all to himself and Francine out of his life. It was a year before she phoned. Collect, from an ashram near Bombay.

  At the Nitty Gritty Café across from the health unit, Zol ordered a glass of Australian merlot from a harried barman. Patrons crowded the bar. Marcus had breathed unprecedented bustle into the place by revamping his menu and serving only Fair Trade coffee. He’d brought in milk and cream from an organic supplier, baked his own loaves from stone-ground grains, and found home-style jam that was certified gelatin-free. It was the only place around that anyone trusted to serve prion-free fare.

  Zol couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a drink before five o’clock, but he wanted one now. He kept his eye out for Colleen. He needed a good dose of her nurturing smile, her delicious perfume. Funny how he was attracted to her common sense. He used to run from it in a woman. That was how he’d ended up with Francine, whose quirky charm soon devolved into recklessness.

  Just after five Colleen rang on his mobile to say she was tied up and couldn’t join him. She would call him later in the evening. And not to worry that every radio station had played that horse-feathers sound bite all day long. He’d spoken the truth, and sooner or later he would be vindicated. Just hang in there. Her advice was much harder for him to swallow than a third glass of merlot.

  He took his drink with him to the men’s room. The liquor laws didn’t allow people to take alcohol into the washrooms, but no one cared about such trivialities these days. He locked the door of the tiny lavatory. After the hubbub around the bar, the quiet john felt like a haven.

  The job of a public-health specialist had turned out to be more about sweating over the public’s wrath than protecting its health. As a trainee, he’d been shielded from the harangues of the press and the politicians for five years. But today, less than two years on the job, he’d managed to become a clown in a media circus. If Wyatt Burr took over Trinnock’s
job, it was clear that Zol would not be staying in Hamilton; he’d either be posted to the rocky wilds of Moose’s Testicle or forced right out of public health into some hot, greasy roadhouse kitchen where food was served not by its taste but by its weight. Hell.

  He wondered what Hamish thought about all that had happened after their last powwow in the sunroom. It had been a week since they’d spoken, and in that time their orderly investigation had turned into a maelstrom fuelled by accusations, edicts, and fear. Zol knew he’d been too sharp with Hamish on the phone. But what had Hamish expected, calling after midnight, waking a guy up with such an outlandish allegation?

  What did Hamish think about Wyatt Burr’s brouhaha over the gelatin? Perhaps he was so miffed about the sausages he didn’t care. By now, Zol thought, Hamish could see that Public Health had bungled things completely; probably he was staying well away, leaving them to their idiocy.

  Since the day he had first stepped into a health unit, Zol had felt the tension between physicians in practice and doctors in public health. Both sides wanted to do the right thing. Clinicians erred in favour of individual preoccupations, the public-health docs in favour of political correctness. Too bad they seldom worked hand-in-hand. Zol swirled the merlot and dipped his nose deep into its bouquet — cherry and cedar overlaid with a hint of wood smoke. He remembered Hamish fussing over the wine he’d brought for dinner. Despite his prissy quirkiness, Hamish was a good guy. He wasn’t called the Whispering Warrior for nothing.

  Zol gulped the rest of his wine and set the empty glass on the counter by the sink. He pulled his cellphone from his pocket and dialled Caledonian Medical Centre.

  “Hello.” Hamish’s voice rang strong and clear. He must still be drinking his green tea.

  “Hi, Hamish. It’s Zol.”

  “I see that.”

  “What? Oh yeah.” Call Display. Should he apologize about the other night or just plunge ahead? He felt the buzz from the merlot and plunged. “What’s new?”

  “Quite a bit, as a matter of fact.”

  “Anything you’d like to share?”

  “Only with someone who doesn’t believe my research is ridiculous.”

  “Look, Hamish, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I was sound asleep. And . . . and — well, I’m just sorry.”

  Hamish said nothing, did not even cough or clear his throat by way of an answer. Zol forced himself to continue. “I must have called you half a dozen times to apologize, but you never answered.”

  “I know.” Several silent moments passed until Hamish sighed noisily and clucked his tongue. “You have to admit, all this business about the gelatin, it’s a bunch of bull.” His tone was clipped, but at least he was talking.

  “Don’t you mean horse feathers?”

  “I suppose.” Hamish sounded puzzled. “But hell’s bells, it’s more like bullshit.”

  “Where have you been all day, Hamish?”

  “In my lab and on the wards. Why?”

  “You haven’t been watching TV or listening to the radio?”

  “Of course not. It is a workday, Zol.”

  “Right. It’s just that, um, never mind. You were about to tell me what’s new.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m expecting the final word in thirty minutes.”

  “Really? What word?”

  “A guy in Guelph is sending me a fax. Going to break your case wide open.”

  Hamish was still working on the case? Zol hardly dared get his hopes up. “And send Wyatt Burr into a corner licking his wounds?”

  “It better.”

  A volley of crackles threatened to break the connection. Just as it seemed the line had been severed, Zol could hear Hamish’s voice loud and clear. “So are you remotely interested in hearing about it?”

  Zol’s cheek’s burned from the wine and the verbal slap. “You bet,” he replied, keeping his voice as bright as possible. The bathroom door handle rattled, and Zol heard a deep voice grumbling on the other side. He imagined a phalanx of glaring faces, growing longer by the second. “But look, I’m on my cell. In an awkward spot.”

  The room filled with the boom of impatient knuckles banging against the door.

  “What was that?” Hamish asked.

  “Tell you later. How about dinner? Tonight, my place. We can talk.”

  “Do I have to choose the wine again?”

  “Not this time. If you’ve cracked this case, there’s a bottle of champagne in my fridge with your name on it.”

  Zol paid the taxi driver who drove him home, went in, and pulled off his winter gear in the front hall. The merlot still whirred in his head. He said goodbye to Ermalinda and closed the door.

  Max stood with his hands on his hips, his face serious. “But why didn’t you drive the car home, Daddy?”

  What was he going to tell Max? That the car had broken down? The battery had died? No, he wouldn’t lie. Not to his son. But as he’d learned this morning, telling the bald truth could really dump him in it. He patted his belly. “Because I drank something that didn’t agree with me.”

  “Are you going to throw up on the carpet? Like on Christmas when I got poisoned?”

  Zol chuckled and rubbed Max’s curly head. “No one poisoned you, Max. You just caught a germ.”

  Max stood his ground, his arms crossed against his chest. “Grandma said I got poisoned. Like Snow White. ’Cept I didn’t fall asleep.”

  “Okay. We’ll call it food poisoning.” Zol gripped the door jamb as he was struck by the image of Wyatt Burr’s rodent face telling the nation to stop eating gelatin. In any shape or form. “But no one did it on purpose.”

  “But where’s the car?”

  “At the office. Don’t worry. I’ll drive it home tomorrow.”

  Max lifted Cory from the floor and headed toward the kitchen.

  The air hung heavy with the smells of burnt tomato, charred garlic, and overheated olive oil. Ermalinda, bless her, struggled as an uninspired cook who believed that the hotter the stove, the tastier the food. “What’d you have for supper?” Zol said. Maybe there were still the makings of a meal he could throw together.

  Max plunked the cat down by his half-eaten dish of fishy mush. “Spaghetti,” he said. Cory sniffed the cat food and slinked away, his tail held high. Max grabbed his game gadget from the table and poked at it. After a moment he looked up, a wide smile lighting his face. “Can we play NASCAR Speed Marvels?”

  “Dr. Hamish is coming for supper. We have to talk about work,” said Zol. As Max’s mouth dissolved from toothy delight to firm-lipped dejection, Zol was stabbed by pangs of guilt. This CJD business was eating into their time together. “But look — if you get into your pyjamas and brush your teeth while Dr. Hamish and I are eating, I’ll play NASCAR with you when we’re done.”

  “Maybe Dr. Hamish’ll wanna play, too.”

  Zol smiled at the image of Hamish punching the buttons on a video joystick. “Why don’t you tell me what you did at school today and I’ll see if I can revive Ermalinda’s spaghetti.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Hamish padded into Zol’s kitchen in his stocking feet an hour later. Zol knew without looking that his shoes would be perfectly aligned by the front door.

  “Here you are,” said Zol, pressing a thick piece of garlic toast and a Chardonnay spritzer into Hamish’s hands. “You got the fax?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “And?”

  Hamish put down his wineglass and licked his fingers. “Let me put everything into context.” He wiped his hands with a Kleenex, dragged a stool to the counter, and settled himself on the seat. Then he began to recap the saga of the Krooner brothers.

  After several minutes of listening to details he mostly knew, Zol couldn’t contain himself any longer. “But Hamish, what about the big news from Guelph?”

  Hamish took a deep breath. “You know how I said there was a touch of cat meat in Lanny’s pork sausages?”

  Zol concentrated on the bubbles breaking the surface of hi
s club soda. “How could I forget?”

  “Well . . . I was wrong.”

  Zol looked up. His friend’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes narrow, his gaze dipped in embarrassment. “Oh?” said Zol.

  “It’s Mustela. A genus of furry mammals in the ferret family.”

  That didn’t sound good.

  Cory padded in and stood by his dish, waving his tail. His amber eyes glowed expectantly, and his whiskers twitched as he let out a meow.

  “But what’s that Krooner guy doing with ferrets?”

  “There’s another member of the Mustela genus,” said Hamish. A smirk brightened his face. “Until a week ago, the Krooners had twenty thousand mink on their farm. They just finished slaughtering most of them for their pelts.” He lifted a fine, light-coloured hair from the rim of his wineglass. He picked two more hairs off the counter and folded them into a tissue.

  Zol gulped at his soda water. “Don’t tell me.”

  Hamish smiled. “I don’t think I need to.” He picked up the printed fax. “It’s all right here. Krooner’s sausages, head cheese, and pork pies are all positive for pork plus tissue from an animal of the genus Mustela. It must be mink. Lanny as good as told Ken and me when we were up there last week.”

  “You went to his farm?”

  Hamish shrugged and nodded.

  “For God’s sake. The guy sounds like a whacko. If you’d gone snooping in the wrong place . . .”

  “We pretended we got lost while we were hiking,” Hamish said, helping himself to another piece of garlic toast. “Had a drink in his kitchen. And from a distance, saw the hog barn and all those mink cages. Lanny let it slip that he added mink meat to his dog food. He called it a tasty delicacy. Said a little went a long way.”

  Hamish raised his professorial finger. “This means we’ve found the source of our prions,” he continued. “Mink get a disease called transmissible mink encephalopathy. It’s a prion brain disease, like mad cow. It was first described in Wisconsin, in 1947. Likely started by feeding mink the meat from lame dairy cows who had unrecognized BSE.” He paused and swept the lint from his sleeve. “Ned Krooner’s arm was a terrible mess. The mink that bit him was deranged, off its head.”