CHAPTER 46
FBI Washington Field Office
Before Mallory called Alton, she decided to compile more background information on Briggsfield, mindful of fully justifying the faith he had placed in her investigatory skills.
She searched for “Briggsfield” in all local and federal records requiring a level-three clearance—her level by virtue of the FBI—and was surprised to see the company mentioned in an intra-government report issued by the Centers for Disease Control. The CDC report mentioned an unusually high incidence of “idiosyncratic”—unexplained—illnesses, mostly attributable to hemophilia and an above-average incidence of stroke and MI (“myocardial infarction,” or heart attack, she later learned). The report mentioned that the anomalies occurred in two geographic areas, but it didn’t connect the deaths to Briggsfield. Rather, the report simply used a nearby Briggsfield property to identify the geographic locus of the northern-Georgia anomaly, while the second incidence was labeled the Research Triangle Park—or “RTP”—anomaly. A few additional minutes of research were all Mallory needed to verify that Briggsfield’s Corporate Research and Development offices were located in Research Triangle Park, quite close to the second locus.
A few months ago, one of the FBI agents in Mallory’s section had asked her to contact the CDC to assist in an investigation. Mallory had worked with Dr. Carl Roland on that case, and at the moment she was glad that she had rendered the assistance. Having established a working relationship with Dr. Roland, Mallory felt more optimistic contacting him with questions about her Briggsfield investigation. Dr. Roland was a renowned scientist and—while he uncomfortable with political interference in the CDC’s mission—he was also savvy enough to cooperate with inquiries from the federal government, the source of CDC funding.
She lifted the phone and dialed his number. “Dr. Roland, this is Mallory Wilson with the FBI. Do you remember me?”
“Certainly, Agent Wilson,” exclaimed the doctor. “How are you? To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
Mallory briefly explained Alton’s request for help and the results of her research, including the CDC report.
Dr. Roland’s tone changed slightly. “Agent Wilson, I’d be happy to review this with you, but I’m not comfortable discussing it over the phone. Is there any chance you could come down to Atlanta?”
Mallory was somewhat annoyed at the request. This wasn’t an official investigation, so she couldn’t use FBI time or resources. She’d have to use a few vacations days and pay for the travel herself. In the short time in her FBI role, though, she had already learned that she was unlikely to obtain the information she needed without acquiescing to these types of requests. The trip would also give her a chance to see Alton, which would be nice. And if she did need Alton’s help breaking into the Pentagon’s “Top Secret-Special Information” files, she would feel better asking him in person.
“Yes, I can arrange to come down, no problem. How would Thursday work for you?…great…one o’clock?…I’ll see you then. Thanks!”
Mallory’s next call was to Alton. “I have a favor to ask.”
“What’s that?”
“Can you pick me up from Hartsfield-Jackson Airport Wednesday night? I’m flying down to meet a contact at the CDC. He has some information on Briggsfield, the company that owns the private reserve adjacent to Lambert’s camp site, but he won’t discuss it over the phone.”
“Wow! Um…okay, Mallory.”
“Is that okay?”
“Sure—absolutely. I just didn’t expect to see you so soon. Why don’t you text me your flight information?”
Mallory provided a full update on all that she had learned. Alton seemed impressed, not only with the scope of the information she had acquired in just twenty-four hours but also with the next steps she had planned. He thanked her genuinely. Alton appeared truly grateful, and Mallory felt proud to have earned the thanks and admiration of a colleague whose analytical powers she had always held in high regard.
CHAPTER 47
Centers for Disease Control, Atlanta, Georgia
Mallory and Alton were escorted into Dr. Roland’s office, the palatial size of which indicated his importance in the CDC chain of command. As is usually the case when meeting someone spoken to on the phone but never seen in person, Dr. Roland did not look at all as Mallory had envisioned him in her mind. Rather than being a balding, squinting, lab-coated elder, he was a relatively young African-American man who wore a tasteful sport coat. He was tall and lean, looking more like a distance runner than a world-renowned scientist.
“Agent Wilson, we meet in person!” effused the doctor.
“I’m really pleased to meet you,” said Mallory. “This is my…colleague, Alton Blackwell. He and I are investigating this case together.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Blackwell,” said Dr. Roland. He then turned directly to Mallory. “Let me be quite up-front with you. I have information which may be germane to your case, but I need your assurance that neither my name nor the CDC’s will be directly mentioned in your field notes or reports. My reasons will become clear in a moment, but I need your pledge before I can proceed.”
“Certainly, Dr. Roland,” said Mallory. “Frankly, if your information is helpful, I’ll still be further ahead in my investigation, even if I can’t disclose where I obtained the lead.”
The doctor nodded in approval. “As you may remember, Agent Wilson, I’m the research librarian for the CDC. Part of my job is overseeing a staff that catalogs and cross-indexes the vast amount of information we receive daily. As a medical doctor, my job is to assess the nature and priority of this information from the summaries my staff prepares. I had already seen the write-up of the two hemophilic anomalies before you called earlier this week, and I reviewed the raw data files myself yesterday. There’s no question: in these two geographic areas, the incidence of hemophilia is dramatically outside normal parameters, and the rate of MI and stroke—while not quite as severe—is nonetheless outside the normal range as well.”
“That’s very interesting, Dr. Roland,” said Mallory, “but why did you need to tell us this in person?”
Dr. Roland folded his arms. “An officer from the Pentagon visited Dr. Callahan, my director, two days ago. The officer asked if we had information regarding illnesses in these two particular geographic areas, to which Dr. Callahan replied ‘yes.’ The officer directed that all data related to these anomalies be erased in the name of national security.”
“Do you know who the officer was, Dr. Roland?” Mallory asked, suspecting Senator Braxton’s involvement once again and hoping she could use the officer’s name to verify the connection.
“No, I never saw him,” said Dr. Roland. “He met only with Dr. Callahan, who gave me my marching orders.” He licked his lips. “I appreciate the need to protect our nation, and frankly, I need to be careful to protect the CDC, too, especially when the source of this erasure order comes from an organization with such close ties to Congress, which approves our funding.
“On the other hand, when I became a doctor, I took the Hippocratic Oath to ‘cause no harm,’ as they put it. My job as a doctor is to heal and protect people. There is clearly something happening that is jeopardizing the health and perhaps lives of people in the vicinities of the two anomalies. I can’t, in good conscience, just sweep this under the rug.
“So, Agent Wilson, your timing is perfect. I propose to give you a copy of the hemophilic anomaly files before destroying them. That way, I can truthfully document that we in the CDC followed our erasure order, and you can have the information you need to conduct your investigation. Quite honestly, once you have those files, you’re more likely to make progress on discovering the source of these anomalies than I am. As I said at first, my condition on sharing these data files is that this information cannot be associated with the CDC later.”
“That would be perfect, Dr. Roland,” said Mallory. “Thanks for providing the files. We’ll respect our agreement to
guard your privacy.”
Dr. Roland gave a list of file names to Laura Peterson, one of his junior researchers, and asked her to copy the files onto a flash drive and inform him when the job was complete. Peterson was short and a bit plump. Her floral dress was the height of fashion in the early nineties, and the condition of her hair suggested that her brush might have been misplaced recently. She wore a friendly expression, however, and chatted constantly as she escorted Mallory and Alton back to her desk, which was covered with pictures of felines.
“I see you’re fond of cats, Miss Peterson,” said Alton.
“Yes, I am. Do you like cats, Mr. Blackwell? I think they’re simply wonderful!”
“I do, but I have allergies,” he stretched, “but I bet you’d love my dog Buster, if you met him.”
Mallory quietly chuckled at this exchange but said nothing.
Peterson downloaded the files from the CDC servers and copied them onto a flash drive, which she handed to Mallory. Peterson then walked her two guests back to Dr. Roland’s office, showering them with the bubbly effervescence of her personality throughout the return journey.
“…and then Fluffy carried the last kitten into the closest, and the family was all together again!” Peterson concluded as they returned to Dr. Roland’s office.
“I gave them a copy of the files, Dr. Roland,” said Peterson. The doctor turned to his computer and, with a few deft keystrokes, deleted the original files from the CDC servers.
“I’d like to thank you again, Dr. Roland,” said Mallory. “I know you’re going out on a limb for us, and I appreciate the trust. I believe you’re doing the right thing.”
“Thank you. I think so, too. I hope the information in these files will be useful to you.”
Mallory turned to Alton. “I need to make a few phones calls. Jim…Agent Thompson, I should say…has been helping me on the Anderson case, and I need to check in with him. I also need to get Sutton, my chief, up to speed on this case. Do you mind waiting a bit? Can I meet you at your car in thirty minutes?”
Dr. Roland cut in. “You’re welcome to stay and keep me company for as long as you like, Mr. Blackwell.”
Alton assented, and soon he and the doctor were alone. After chatting about the Atlanta Falcons for a few minutes, Dr. Roland asked, “So do you and Agent Wilson, ah…have a thing going?”
“Naw, we’re just friends. By the time she and I met, I was already damaged goods,” he said, nodding toward his left leg. Dr. Roland looked up as if expecting more, but Alton didn’t elaborate.
At the prescribed time, Alton limped back to his car, deep in thought. The brief conversation had revived shadowy hopes which—even when at their strongest—he had not entirely understood himself, and which over time he had allowed to fade back into the periphery of his life. For a moment, he tried to better recall and understand those aspirations, but dried leaves blowing across the parking lot began to form patterns, and the details of the investigation soon filled his mind.
CHAPTER 48
Alpharetta, Georgia
Over the next two days, Alton and Mallory poured over a multitude of information concerning Briggsfield. With the CDC files in particular, they spotted trends. As Dr. Roland had indicated, the CDC data clearly showed an increase in health problems at the two locations, but they didn’t explain why the increase had occurred.
On the second day, they decided to interrupt their research for a quick lunch break. As they ate, they watched the local news. A field reporter came on to state that Laura Peterson, an employee at the CDC, had died in a bizarre hit-and-run accident on the street in front of her house. Mallory and Alton were saddened by the passing of the bubbly researcher who had provided the “hemophilic anomaly” files two days ago, and they wondered what was to become of her cherished cats.
Mallory and Alton were at a loss to know what conclusions to draw from Peterson’s death.
“I there’s no irrefutable proof that the hit-and-run was intentional,” said Alton. “But on the other hand, doesn’t it seem unlikely that her death, as well as the all the illnesses reported in her CDC files, were completely random?”
“Yeah.”
“Mallory, I don’t think we’re going to make much progress unless we visit Briggsfield itself.”
“I agree. Which site would be better, do you think?” asked Mallory.
“I’ve seen the Georgia site, and I’d rather not visit there again without a MOPP suit,” said Alton, referring to the environmental-protection suits he had seen the Briggsfield employees wearing. “Plus, I don’t think that location will be of much use in determining why they’re conducting their activities there.”
Mallory picked up the train of thought. “Briggsfield conducts all of its R&D at the Research Triangle Park location. That site would be the origin of whatever is happening at its Georgia site. And since there are hemophilic cases near both sites, Briggsfield must be conducting similar activities at both locations. Yes, I think we should pay the RTP site a visit.”
“You can’t go as an FBI agent. Not if you’re still going to keep this investigation under the radar.”
“Of course,” said Mallory. “We’ll have to use a more subtle approach. We’ll need a method of penetrating their security. Let me see who Briggsfield uses…” she checked an FBI database. “McMillan Security…they’re good. This won’t be a walk in the park. Why don’t I use my FBI credentials to research Briggsfield employees who might be able to provide some information?”
“I like it,” said Alton. “We can figure out ahead of time who might be the best source of information and focus on that one person.”
“Exactly,” confirmed Mallory. “One caveat seems pretty clear, though. We should probably rule out the top brass of the company. They’re most likely the originators—or, at a minimum, approvers—of the activity. If we were to ask them questions, we’d just tip our hand to the company and to Senator Braxton.” Mallory compiled a list of the top managers, one of whom was Jeffery Finch.
After reviewing the background of many employees, Mallory recommended Luis Romero, a Desert Storm veteran and lab supervisor at Briggsfield, as their intended contact.
“He seems to have the right credentials,” said Alton. His expression took on a worried countenance. “But exactly how do I start a conversation with him? ‘Hello, I’m Alton Blackwell. Has your company been making anyone sick recently?’”
“I have an idea,” said Mallory. “Does your old class A uniform still fit?”
CHAPTER 49
Research Triangle Park, North Carolina
Alton backed into the “Visitor Parking” space so his Purple Heart license plate would be visible through the lobby window. He stepped out of the car in his Army dress uniform and limped towards the glass doors of the Briggsfield lobby. Although he still wore his hair short, a brief trip to a barbershop had been necessary to achieve the full effect.
He stepped authoritatively to the desk and asked to see Jeffery Finch, knowing from Mallory’s research that Finch had traveled to Briggsfield’s Georgia site the previous day.
“Mr. Finch isn’t in the office this week. Can someone else help you?” asked the receptionist.
Alton made a show of ruminating. “Well, perhaps I could see Luis Romero instead. Could you ask him to meet me here in the lobby?”
A few minutes later, Luis strode quickly into the lobby with an air of being unhappy at the interruption. His expression softened just a bit, however, when he saw Alton’s uniform.
“Mr. Romero, I’m Captain Friday. Thank you for coming up here without notice. I was supposed to meet Jeffrey Finch, but apparently our calendars were out of sync. Would you have a few minutes to meet with me?”
“Depends on what you need,” grunted Romero. He was in his mid-fifties, with graying temples and sharp eyes.
“Did Mr. Finch inform you of my visit? I expected that you and I would converse at some point while I was here, but not quite so soon.”
“No, he
didn’t say a word. Captain, are you a member of Colonel Drake’s staff? Will he be visiting today?”
Alton decided to incorporate this new piece of information into the scripted reason for his visit. He replied, “I don’t report to Colonel Drake, so I’m not sure of his plans. The team I’m commanding reports to General Baker at Homeland Security. We were assigned the job of ensuring that the security at this facility is adequate to support Colonel Drake’s mission.” Alton produced the phony Homeland Security orders Mallory had helped him draft. “I haven’t worked directly with the colonel yet, but my report of this building’s security will be submitted to him. So no one on the colonel’s staff called ahead and informed you of my visit?”
Romero shook his head.
“No?” replied Alton, again feigning surprise. “That’s not like the colonel. Perhaps his staff contacted Mr. Finch only.”
Romero shrugged noncommittally but seemed curious about Alton. “You didn’t serve with Colonel Drake in Afghanistan, then?”
“No. I served there, but not with Colonel Drake.”
“I was in that part of the world during Desert Storm,” said Romero softly.
Alton expressed a genuine interest in the military background of Romero, a former tank commander. The two spent the next few minutes sharing their experiences in the service of their country, Alton’s coming much later than Romero’s, and they quickly established the rapport felt only between fellow soldiers.
“Is there a private spot where we can talk?” asked Alton.
“My office always has people in and out,” replied Romero, “but the cafeteria is pretty deserted at this time of day.”
They made their way to a table in the back of the lunchroom.
Alton explained the overall scope of his “mission” and outlined the information he was tasked with reporting. He soon realized that gaining an understanding of Colonel Drake’s role was key to understanding the government’s interest in keeping the Briggsfield project quiet. Alton decided, therefore, to focus his next questions on the colonel himself.
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