by Cade Brogan
“Unfortunately,” Claire said, “there’ll always be someone who thinks he’s invincible, thinks the warnings don’t apply to him.” She nodded in the direction of a bicyclist. “Like that guy, pedaling along with no clue how close he is to exposing himself to the virus.”
Rylee turned on her strobe, slowing down.
As she pulled alongside the cyclist, Claire rolled down her window. “I take it you don’t know a warning’s been issued to limit public exposure. You’re approaching a quarantine area. You need to turn around now.”
“Yeah, okay, turning around right now,” the young man responded. “Didn’t mean to break any laws,” he continued, “just figured it was a big deal over nothing.”
“Well, now you know it’s not,” Claire said, shaking her head as she rolled up her window. “Idiot,” she muttered. “No sense, none whatsoever.”
“Some folks don’t trust the authorities to give ‘em a straight story,” Rylee responded. “Doesn’t sound like that was the case with him, but it will be for some, especially our mentally ill residents.” People like her mom, off their meds, and actively psychotic. “We need to keep that in mind when we talk to folks, that they might not trust us, that they might not know what’s best for them.”
“Yeah, sure,” Claire responded. “I try to do that. Just didn’t get that feeling with this guy.”
“My mom, she’s mentally ill,” Rylee said quietly. “Makes me overreact when we’re dealing with that population sometimes. Not always, but sometimes.” It was important for partners to understand one another—to be honest, and straightforward.
Claire smiled kindly. “I’m sorry.”
“She had her first breakdown when I was in Kindergarten,” Rylee continued. “Since, it’s been one hospitalization after another. She gets stable on her meds, then stops taking them, paranoid that they aren’t what they are. Rinse and repeat, over and over. I just wanted you to know.”
Claire smiled. “If there’s anything I can ever do, you just have to let me know.”
“Thanks, but unfortunately it is what it is,” Rylee said. “Not much anyone can do for her except to hunt her down when she’s camped out in some alley and haul her back to the hospital.” With a soft breath, her gaze floated across the water to the spot she’d fished with her grandpa, and on one occasion, with her mom. They were fond memories, some of the best of her childhood, and she resolved to take Abby if she wanted to go. She nodded down the road. “Staging area ahead on the right.”
“Yep,” Claire said. “You think we’ll suit up?”
“Doubt it,” Rylee responded. “Nothing to suggest the cabbie was involved, just a guy doing his job. Figured we’d touch base with the ME and CDC in the cold zone and move on. Not like we don’t have plenty to work on.”
Claire nodded. “Gonna try one more time,” she said dialing, listening for an answer, and sighing as she ended the call.
Rylee caught her eye, getting out of the vehicle. “Maybe she’ll call back while we’re inside.”
*
“Good to see you,” the ME’s man greeted, resting his hand on Rylee’s shoulder. He’d been in the process of suiting up for the hot zone but had stopped what he was doing to meet them at the door. Always the gentleman, he had silver hair, trimmed neatly to his collar, and bright blue eyes, attentive and kind. He was a person who made time for the pleasantries in life, a person she very much admired. “Your grandparents,” he asked, “are they well?”
“They are,” Rylee answered. “I’ll tell them I saw you.”
“You do that,” Ben responded warmly. “And you tell your gramps we need to go fishing while it’s still cool.”
“Will do,” Rylee said, noticing that Claire had shifted her stance. She nodded in her direction. “This is my new partner, Claire Robbins.” Then, she touched Ben’s arm. “Dr. Ben Holmes,” she introduced, “our best forensic pathologist, or at least my favorite, and a dear friend of my family.”
Ben smiled, shaking Claire’s hand. “What Rylee neglected to tell you was that I’ve known her since she was a small child. I can still see her, trailing behind her grandpa as they came through the office, her toy gun drawn, a squirt gun if I remember correctly, and a cardboard badge pinned to her little rawhide vest.” No one except Ben Holmes would take time to reminisce in his bright yellow hazmat, one of the many things that she loved about him.
Rylee felt warm, her cheeks flushing. “You can stop anytime,” she said. “You know the rule, no embarrassing stories from my childhood.”
“As you wish, Detective,” Ben responded with a soft chuckle. “I suppose you’d like to get down to business.”
“Wouldn’t want to trouble you,” Rylee answered, chuckling with him.
“Right this way,” he responded, leading them to a table in the corner. “So, the deceased is Joe Lewis,” he began, “fifty-six, African American, a father of four according to his employer. His wife is listed as his emergency contact. However, I don’t believe they lived together.”
“I’ll call her,” Claire volunteered. “I mean if she hasn’t already been called.”
“I don’t believe that she has,” Ben said, pushing back his chair. “Wait here; I’ll get her contact information for you.”
“That’s a job no one’s gonna fight you for,” Rylee commented, thinking that when she’d been partnered with Rich, she’d always been the one to have to do next-of-kin notifications.
“I know,” Claire said quietly, “but it’s something I can do to repay an act of kindness that goes back to the night my dad died. I was only five, but I still remember that officer who knocked on our door. I wish we’d have gotten his name so that we could’ve thanked him properly for being so kind.”
“An accident?” Rylee asked softly.
Claire nodded. “A multi-car, a drunk driver, going too fast on the ice.” Something they had in common, both losing a parent when they were five, Claire’s dad to a reckless driver and Rylee’s mom to paranoid psychosis.
“Here you go,” Ben said, handing over a copy of the wife’s contact information as he rejoined them.
“Thanks,” Claire responded, “I’ll give her a call.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“May as well be reading Greek,” Rylee mumbled, rubbing the back of her neck as she stared at the screen of her laptop.
“You probably are reading Greek,” Claire responded, looking up from the calls she’d been making. “You’d be surprised how much of the language has become part of our medical terminology.” Interesting, how much her new partner seemed to know about medicine.
“No, I probably wouldn’t,” Rylee said. “Not after two hours of this.” She’d been perusing scientific journals, probably the same ones that virologists at the CDC subscribed to.
Claire returned to her work, looking up a second time before she made her next call. “Okay, so I just have to ask,” she blurted out, “why is it that you’re doing this? I mean, you said you hated science when you were in high school, that you never got better than a ‘C’ in it. You really think you’re gonna know a potential cure if you see it?”
“No,” Rylee responded with a quiet chuckle. “Not even if it came right up and bit me. That’s the CDC’s gig.” It pleased her that her new partner had the guts to call her on something. That was one negative about Rich; he would never confront her, standing firm in his convictions. “But in answer to your question,” she continued, “I guess I’m looking for someone who understands this thing as well as our doer. I can’t really explain it, but I have this feeling that if I can find that person, we’ll be a giant step closer to catching our killer.”
“No explanation required,” Claire answered. “I just wanted to understand what you were trying to get at. If you need a medical reference to help with the terminology, we—I—have an extra one at home that I could bring in.”
Rylee smiled. We. Why can’t you just admit you have a girlfriend, a girlfriend who obviously lives with you? “Thanks, th
at’d help,” she responded, returning her attention to the abstract she’d been reading. After a couple of sentences, she looked up again. “Oh, and I almost forgot to tell you the news,” she continued. “They named the virus.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Rylee responded. “Walt was telling me about it this morning while you were on the phone with the cabbie’s wife. I guess the scientists went out for a drink after they called it quits last night, and they got to talking about how bad this virus was, and how many people it could kill if they didn’t come up with something. I guess they’re really feeling the pressure over there.”
“Like we are over here,” Claire said. “I can’t imagine anyone on the inside not feeling like they’re working under pressure on this case.”
“No, probably not,” Rylee said. “I’m sure we all hear the clock ticking pretty loudly in our heads. Anyway, they knew they needed to figure out what this thing’s doing inside the body and how it’s getting in, and they needed to do it fast. So, they got to talking about that, and decided that the thing needed a name because lots of people would be worrying about it and want to follow their progress. And they thought it’d be easier if the media had something to call it. So, they figured that since the first case was here, they should be the ones to name it.”
“Please don’t tell me they’re calling it the Chi-town Virus.”
“Nope, but I guess they were toying with it for a while,” Rylee said. “They didn’t call it that because they were afraid it would stigmatize the city, especially if it turned out to be really bad.”
Claire pursed her lips, nodding. “So, what’d they call it?”
“Armageddon,” Rylee said, allowing the word to plunge like a dead weight to the floor. “They’re calling it the Armageddon Virus.”
“From Revelation,” Claire responded, swallowing, “the location of the battle of all battles.” She took a breath, holding it. “I’d have felt better if they’d have called it a series of letters and numbers like the flu viruses.”
“You and me both,” Rylee answered. “But if you think about it, it kind of fits, even if it did get named over a bottle of cognac.” With that, her eyes returned to the article she’d been reading about a deadly virus discovered in West Africa. “Oh my God, I think I might’ve found something.”
“What?” Claire asked, her eyes widening. “What’d you find?”
“This pharmaceutical company,” Rylee said, “I’ve never heard of ‘em before, but they published this article.” She read it to herself and then out loud. “Symptoms, timeline, everything, it all matches up.”
Claire pushed away from her desk, stepping around.
“Says here there was this outbreak in this little village in West Africa,” Rylee went on, “that only a couple of people survived. These two virologists, they took blood samples from these two survivors and ended up discovering what they thought might turn out to be a cure for the disease. I don’t see where it ever got tested though.” She furrowed her brow. “Looks like it was just dropped.”
“It’d be a shot in the dark,” Claire said, “but wouldn’t it be cool if it turned out to be our virus?”
“Yeah…especially if the cure worked,” Rylee responded, jotting down the names of the two virologists. “How about you see if you can come up with something on these two and their company, New Day Pharmaceuticals, while I give Walt a call? CDC probably already knows about this, but I want to check to be sure.”
*
Addison maneuvered from her chair to the carpet, pushing through excruciating pain in her right leg. A useless appendage, it left her in agony much of the day. Spinal cord injuries, each one was uniquely devastating. She stretched, wincing, forcing herself to exercise as if her life depended on it. She had to do it, had to push through the torture several times each day. Abandon her routine, a routine that she loathed, and her muscles would atrophy, leaving her body in the shape of her chair. Who’d have thought that with all the risks she’d taken in her life, a thirty-minute bike ride, a distracted driver on his way home at the end of a long day, would leave her paralyzed from the waist down, disabled? He’d driven home, shaken but with hardly a dent in his front bumper; she’d been transported on life support to the nearest level one trauma center. On that day, life as she knew it ended. And she was angry: angry at the idiot who’d hit her; angry at her sister for having so little faith in her ability to recover; angry at her former partner for not fighting for them, for the business they’d worked so hard to build, angry that he’d gotten married while she worked her ass off in rehab; and angry, oh so angry, that when all was said and done, she’d been left with a fraction of what she’d had at the time she was injured. As she maneuvered back up and into her chair, the buzzer sounded signaling that she had a visitor. She activated the intercom system through a device that she wore on her wrist. “Yes?”
“Detective Robbins and Detective Hayes,” Claire said. “If we could, we’d like to speak with you for a few minutes.”
“I’ll buzz you in,” Addison responded, wondering why they wanted to see her. Break-ins, there’d been several recently; not in her building, but in her neighborhood. She guessed that they were canvassing the area, checking to see if she or her neighbors had seen anything unusual. She rolled near the door, awaiting their arrival, unbothered by her disheveled appearance. Her life was difficult, and she cared less if they knew it.
*
“Unique building,” Claire commented, figuring that whoever lived here had money.
“It is,” Rylee responded. “Pretty sure most of the units are subsidized, and set-up for people with mobility issues.”
“Ahh, that explains the open floor plan,” Claire said. “Someone put a lot of thought into making everything accessible.”
“Yeah, they did,” Rylee responded. “It was designed by an architect who became disabled. He may live here; I’m not sure. Never been in one of the apartments, but they’re all supposed to wrap around the front corner of the building. See, right over there.”
Claire paused for a look. “So, every residence has two glass walls.”
“Yep,” Rylee responded, stepping into the elevator, “and with this location, quite a view of the city.”
“Sounds like a lot get it compliments of the government,” Claire answered, “our tax dollars at work.”
“Nope,” Rylee corrected, “compliments of the architect. He bought the old building that sat in this location, tore it down to build this one, and plans to leave this one to the disabled in some kind of trust.”
“Nice guy,” Claire said, “the world needs more just like him.”
“It sure does,” Rylee answered, pressing ‘7’ and looking up. At the sound of a ding, they got off, turned, turned again, and knocked loudly.
“I’m coming,” a woman called out.
“Detective Hayes and Detective Robbins,” Rylee called back.
“I’m on my way,” the woman responded. “I’m in a wheelchair; it’ll take me a minute.”
“Take your time, ma’am,” Claire said, brushing a wrinkle from her trousers. She smiled when the door opened. “Are you Addison Marsh?”
“Yes,” the woman responded. She had a petite build, light brown hair, and matching eyes. Her facial scars and deformed body, most likely the result of a collision, made her look older than her forty-nine years.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Claire said, “but if we could, we’d like to sit down and talk with you for a while.”
“What’s this about?” Addison asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“It’s about your business,” Claire responded kindly, “New Day Pharmaceuticals.”
“Down the tubes three years ago, a year after my accident,” Addison answered, turning to roll in the direction of a pristine pair of picture windows.
“That explains why we didn’t come across any recent publications,” Rylee said. “Sorry things didn’t work out.”
“That’s life,�
�� Addison responded, wheeling to a seating arrangement that’d been perfectly positioned for a maximum view of the Loop. “I have sodas in the refrigerator. Please, help yourself.”
“No, thank you,” Rylee responded.
“Thanks, a soda sounds good,” Claire said. “Can I get you one?”
“No, my stomach can no longer tolerate them,” Addison answered. “I have them for my occasional visitor.”
“Sit tight, I’ll be right back,” Claire said, stepping off. She was impressed by the oversized kitchen with its built-in grill station and refrigerator at wheelchair level. “You have a beautiful home,” she said, setting her Diet Coke on a coaster.
*
Rylee leaned forward, speaking loudly and slowly. “So, I’m sure you’ve heard the news about this virus that’s killing people.”
“Of course,” Addison responded, her tone unemotional. “It’s hard to miss, isn’t it? Turn on the TV. Switch the radio to a local station. Open the newspaper.” She smirked, shaking her head slowly. “And there it is, front and center. Of course, I’ve heard about it.”
Rylee cocked her head.
“I take medication for anxiety and depression,” Addison explained, meeting her gaze firmly. “There’s no reason to work myself up when there’s nothing I can do about any of it.”
Rylee nodded, realizing that a person in her condition had no choice but to look out for their own health. “So, this virus,” she continued, “the CDC’s checking on whether or not it’s the one you discovered in West Africa. From what I understand, it looks pretty similar.”
“That Gordon Voss and I discovered in West Africa,” Addison corrected.
“Yeah, I saw that,” Rylee said. “So, if it turns out to be the same one,” she continued, “I’m pretty sure they’ll be in touch with the both of you.”
“If you’re not here because it’s my pathogen,” Addison responded, “then why are you here?”
