by Dave Edlund
“Help? With what?”
“I’ve read about you. Asked around to people who know you,” Lee explained. “You are an engineer, a scientist. You are very good at solving problems to get to the truth.”
Peter looked into Lee’s eyes. He didn’t see anything other than trust and humility. “What do you need my help with?”
Lee leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “The Tribal Committee on Health and Welfare keeps accurate records of illnesses contracted by residents of the reservation. For the most part, the types of illnesses and frequency of occurrence are statistically no different from other areas in Oregon and the Northwest. However, there is one alarming exception.”
“I don’t have a degree in medicine or molecular biology,” Peter said.
“I know. You have a degree in chemistry from the University of Oregon. And you own and operate EJ Enterprises, a small business in Bend that designs and manufactures special pistols for the military. I’ve read your biography.”
“Okay.”
“Over the last four days, the health clinic has reported a high number of cases of orchitis. Do you know what that is?”
Peter shook his head.
“It’s an inflammation of the testes. It’s a rather rare illness, which is why the anomaly was spotted so quickly. Ordinarily, it might take a few weeks to observe a statistical deviation for rates of infection from more common diseases such as the flu.”
“I assume you’ve already reported this to the Oregon Health Authority?”
“Yes. But they dismissed my concern and said I should wait two weeks, that it might be a short-term spike that goes away. They told me that the few cases we have seen are not statistically significant.” Lee paused while Peter ruminated over the choice of words. To say that disease on the reservation was not significant was a slap in the face, demonstrating ignorance or insensitivity—or both—to the history of relations between native Americans and the encroaching white settlers.
Lee continued. “Besides, they said they have no jurisdiction on the reservation, and told me I should call the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta.”
“Did you?”
Lee nodded. “They were not helpful. They told me that if we still see a higher-than-normal number of cases after two to three weeks, then they will consider opening an investigation.”
“I’m assuming an infection of the testicles can be painful.”
“Very. I’ve learned that it’s an occasional complication of the mumps in post-pubescent males that may result in sterility. But with vaccinations against the mumps quite common and widespread, there hasn’t been a case reported on the reservation in more than six years. So, I am left to wonder, why a sudden spike in reported cases of orchitis? I’m asking for your help. I need you to use your knowledge of science to help us solve this problem. We can’t wait for the CDC to decide that we have an outbreak, and then who knows how long for them to do anything meaningful.”
“Well, I can’t fault your mistrust of the government. But why not just wait a couple weeks? I don’t understand the urgency.”
“Native Americans have always felt a spiritual relationship with Nature,” Lee said with a twinkle in his eye. “Maybe not so much anymore, but the elders still feel a connection to the natural order. Something is wrong—the balance in Nature is disturbed. I don’t know by what, but I fear that if we wait, the consequences will be severe.”
“And how many cases have been reported so far?”
“Fifteen. But I suspect the actual number is greater. It is difficult for young men to seek medical help for a disease that afflicts their genitals. Young men are very prideful.”
Peter leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Maybe I’ll have that coffee now.”
Lee rose from the table and poured two mugs of steaming brew. “Sugar or cream?” he asked.
Peter declined both.
“So you’ll help me?” Lee asked.
He sipped from the mug before replying. “Yes. I’ll take a couple days off and do what I can. But understand that investigating the cause of an outbreak is something I haven’t done before. I can’t promise anything more than I will do all I can to help you.”
“How do we start?”
“The first step is always to examine the data for each person who has contracted the infection. I need everything you have. Name. Age. Where they live. What they ate and drank. Where they work. Everything. No detail is too small or insignificant.”
“I have asked the staff at the clinic to put everything we know into a spreadsheet.”
“Then that’s where we begin. Do you have a copy here?” Peter asked.
Lee shook his head. “It is only on the server at the clinic. We can go there. If you need a copy, I’ll make sure one is provided to you. We will have to remove the names of the patients, of course.”
“Well, let’s go. The sooner we start the better.”
“Okay. Just one more favor to ask.”
Peter raised his eyebrows.
“Can I ride with you in that fancy car of yours?”
Peter reached into his pocket for the keys. “Catch,” he said as he tossed the keys across the table. “Since you know where we’re going, I guess you might as well drive.”
Lee’s face split into a big grin.
Chapter 9
Warm Springs, Oregon
March 14
Lee didn’t stop grinning during the entire ten-minute drive to the tribal health clinic. He parked in a handicap spot in front of the entrance and turned off the engine. As Peter reached for the door handle, Lee offered his cell phone. “Would you mind taking a picture of me behind the wheel? I could never afford a car this expensive. At my age, figure it’s my first and last time to drive a luxury automobile like this.”
Peter snapped a half dozen photos before they both exited, and Lee returned the keys.
Inside, Lee greeted the receptionist. “Hi Lucy. This is Peter Savage. He’ll be helping us investigate the cases of orchitis.”
They walked past the counter into a back office. Against a wall were two utilitarian metal office desks, pushed end to end to create a long work surface. At each desk was a rolling office chair. The austere furniture was functional though dented and scratched. On each desk sat a keyboard, monitor, and mouse. The walls were painted mint-green and decorated with faded posters of different cities from around the world.
Lee eased himself into a chair and opened a spreadsheet. Peter looked over his shoulder as he resized the array of rows and columns to fit the display.
“These are the fifteen reported cases,” Lee explained. The first column contained a unique number, rather than a name, to identify each patient. He pointed to the second column. “Their ages are entered here. The youngest is fourteen and the oldest is thirty-four. They live all over the reservation.”
Peter pointed to the column giving their addresses. “We need to get these residences plotted on a map. Do you have someone who can do that?”
“Lucy is pretty good with computers.” He leaned back and called out. “Lucy!”
“Yes, Mr. Moses?” she said as she entered the office. Her hair was raven black and straight, pulled back behind her ears and just reaching her shoulders. Like many of the people living on the reservation, she was Native American. Peter estimated her age to be about thirty, less than half the years he figured Lee had racked up. She wore a white medical coat over jeans and white turtleneck sweater.
“Peter would like to have these addresses put onto a map.”
“Sure,” she said. “That’s easy. I’ll pull up a digital map of this area and plot each residence.”
“Would you also put a marker where each of the patients works or goes to school?” Peter asked. “If we’re lucky, there’s a pattern—something they all have in common. And that could be the source of the illness.”
Lucy went to work on the other desk computer while Peter and Lee continued to review the data tabulated in the s
preadsheet. “The two youngest patients are still in school,” Peter observed. “And four of the adults are unemployed? I don’t see a work address for them.”
“Yes,” the tribal elder replied. “Unemployment is high on the reservation. When the casino opened several years ago, that created many good jobs. But there still are not enough jobs for everyone.”
Pointing to empty cells, Peter said, “There are some big gaps here.”
“I know. I have three staff from the clinic out conducting interviews to get as much information as possible about what each patient ate. We are trying to go back two weeks, but I don’t know how complete or reliable the information will be. It’s easy to remember what you ate and drank for the past two or three days, but longer than that and memories become incomplete and unreliable.”
“Has the cause of the inflammation been determined yet?”
Lee shook his head. “Nothing definitive. Blood samples were collected from every patient, but so far, the doctors can’t say if it’s a virus or bacterial infection. They’re simply treating the symptoms, which also include mild aches and a low-grade fever, and trying to make the patients as comfortable as possible.”
“At least it doesn’t sound life-threatening. That’s good.”
Lee nodded. “I agree. The symptoms most closely resemble the mumps, or the flu.”
“Are they quarantined?”
“Yes, but it’s voluntary. They have all agreed to stay home until they recover.”
“And family members sharing the households?”
“Yes, they have agreed to stay inside and not go out. Relatives and neighbors are providing meals. This is working, for now. But if the outbreak spreads…”
“I understand.” Peter drew in a deep breath and exhaled. He quickly ran the math through his head. The number of infected and exposed people would grow exponentially if they were dealing with a contagion. “Well, the information in this spreadsheet is a start. Let me spend some time studying this. It will help if I can have a copy.”
“I’m just about done with the map,” Lucy said. “Five more addresses.”
“Promise me,” Lee said, casting a stern look to Peter, “that you will not share the addresses with anyone. Even though the names have been removed from the spreadsheet, I shouldn’t provide you with their home addresses. I’m bending the rules a lot because I trust you, and we need your help.”
“You have my word.” Peter gave a business card to Lee. “If you don’t mind, just email the file and map to me. I’ll start looking for correlations today, as soon as I receive the data summary.”
“It will be in your inbox by the time you get back to Bend.” Lee extended his hand to Peter. “Thank you again for your help.”
s
Peter was deep in thought as he steered the Wraith south on Highway 26. Leaving Warm Springs behind, he crossed the Deschutes River, not paying attention to the black pickup stopped on a gravel turnout next to the river. It was a popular spot for anglers to leave their vehicles while they fished the river for several hundred yards in each direction. As the Wraith passed by, Peter glimpsed the man sitting behind the wheel, shaved head, sunglasses on. That brief glimpse reminded Peter of another face he’d seen, the man at the coffee shop a week and a half ago. Or was it simply a figment of his imagination?
It was a nice day for a drive—a beautiful spring day, rather cool but sunny and dry, not even a wisp of wind. He replayed the conversation in his mind. Dozens of questions demanding answers. Is this how an epidemic starts? He wondered.
As soon as he was back in his office, he planned to do some research on orchitis, focusing on known causes. Lee Moses had referred to the ailment as an inflammation, an infection, similar to the mumps and the flu. He knew that both those diseases were viral infections. Could that be what had stricken so many in Warm Springs? Or maybe the illness was caused by exposure to certain chemicals. Perhaps a reaction like an autoimmune disorder? After gaining a rudimentary knowledge, he would visit St. Charles Hospital tomorrow and try to speak with a physician to learn more. If he could identify likely causes, that would help with the data review and search for a pattern.
After clearing Redmond, the highway became two lanes in each direction. He was driving in the right lane staying at the posted speed limit. A few cars passed on the left.
Glancing at the rear-view mirror, Peter noticed a black pickup approaching quickly. But rather than moving to the left to go around the Wraith, it closed on his bumper. Come on, buddy, the lane is open. Just go around like everyone else who thinks the speed limit is not fast enough.
Peter maintained his speed, and after a minute the pickup darted into the left lane and accelerated. It pulled up abreast of the Rolls Royce and then slowed again, matching Peter’s speed. There was no traffic within a mile in either direction.
Peter glanced to the side and saw the passenger window was down. The driver was bald and wearing dark glasses. For several seconds, the truck kept perfect pace with the Wraith. Peter turned his head again, waving the driver on. Then he saw the man raise a gun—a sawed-off shotgun. He held it one-handed, by the pistol grip, and swung the muzzle toward the open window. For an instant, Peter’s mind registered the smile on the driver’s face.
Instinct took over as Peter slammed on the brakes. The car rapidly decelerated and the pickup rocketed by as the driver fired. The shot missed the Wraith by inches, and Peter swerved to the gravel shoulder, sliding to a complete stop. The cloud of dust behind the car slowly dissipated. His heart was pounding, and he gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles popped. The pickup sped away too fast to make out the license plate.
Peter leaned back in the seat. Sweat dappled his forehead. He rolled the windows down, deeply breathing in the fresh air. Other cars zipped by as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He doubted there were any witnesses given that no other cars were close at the time.
He picked up his phone and dialed. “Nine one one. What is the nature of your emergency?” the feminine voice said.
“Someone just tried to kill me.”
Chapter 10
Bend, Oregon
March 14
The 9-1-1 operator instructed Peter to remain in his car on the shoulder of the road while she dispatched a sheriff patrol car. About ten minutes later, with blue and red lights flashing, the deputy pulled up and stopped behind Peter.
The uniformed sheriff’s deputy introduced himself and took notes while Peter retold the attempted murder. Another fifteen minutes was consumed by the deputy taking photos and completing a cursory examination of the Rolls Royce. “I don’t see any indication that your car was struck by a bullet or shot,” he said.
“When I slammed on the brakes, he was taken by surprise. If he’d pull the trigger a second sooner, you’d be scraping my brains off the upholstery.”
“You’re pretty sure he fired a shotgun?”
“No doubt at all. Double barrel. Side by side. The barrels were short, and he held it one handed by a pistol grip.”
“That’s a lot of detail to capture.”
“When you have a sawed-off shotgun pointed at your face from only a few feet away, you tend to take notice.”
Skeptical, the deputy pressed. “You’re sure it was a shotgun and not a pistol?”
Peter stared back in silence, irritation beginning to take hold.
“You know something about firearms?” the deputy asked.
Peter nodded.
“So you can tell me what I have holstered?”
Peter glanced to the deputies sidearm. “Glock,” he said matter-of-factly. “Probably 9mm or .40 caliber.”
The deputy raised his eyebrows; he’d thought he had him. “Yes, .40 caliber. Okay, so you know what you saw, I believe you. Can you give me anything on the driver?”
“No, just what I already told you. It happened so fast.”
“Nothing on the truck?”
Peter shook his head. “Just that it was a black, full-size pickup. I’m sorry.”
The deputy closed his notepad and returned his pen to a breast pocket. “Well, I’ll be honest with you. There isn’t much to go on. I’ll write up the report and forward it to the DA, but it’s unlikely an arrest will be made. Maybe if we get lucky and the guy is arrested for another crime, and says something during questioning, we might be able to tie him to you. But it’s a long shot. This might have just been an extreme case of road rage.”
“There was no one else on the road. He had the left lane all to himself. It’s not like I was holding him up.”
The deputy shrugged. “You’d be surprised at how the smallest thing can set off some guys. It’s really hard to say.”
“Can I go now?”
“Sure. Thank you for your statement. We know where to reach you if anything comes up, but I wouldn’t expect much.”
s
At least the questioning by the sheriff’s deputy helped Peter to calm down. He drove the dozen miles to his condominium in the Old Mill District without any other incidents. He thought pretty hard about having a shot or two of Scotch, but then remembered the data that Lee Moses and Lucy had promised to email. Instead, he opted for a mug of strong coffee. A poor substitute, but the better choice under the circumstances. He needed to keep a rational mind.
He turned on his computer, and there it was, an email from the Warm Springs health clinic. It had the spreadsheet as an attached file. Lucy had also attached a digital map of Warm Springs that used two different colored icons to denote the locations where the patients lived and worked or attended school.
As he sipped the brew, he studied the map. There was nothing obvious, no patterns were unveiled to his eyes. The homes and apartments where the patients lived were scattered randomly across the city of Warm Springs, and several were in rural areas outside the city limits. The same was true for the work locations.
Peter opened a new window in his browser and pulled up a description of the city water system, such as it was. City water was limited to a small portion of central Warm Springs. Most residences and business operated on independent wells.
