figure out.
She sat with him for a good ten minutes, all too conscious of the fact that she was more comfortable with dead victims than with the living. She hadn’t had a single answer for Dawson Hayes back at the hospital when he proclaimed that she should have left him to die with the others.
She should have predicted that after such a tragedy, the survivors would have a difficult time. If she hadn’t predicted it as a profiler of human behavior, she should have known from personal experience. How many times had she survived at the hands of a killer while others had died?
It wasn’t even a year ago that Kyle Cunningham had died after being exposed to the Ebola virus. Maggie had been exposed, too. Not a week went by that she didn’t ask herself why she had survived and Cunningham hadn’t.
The real professionals—like her best friend Gwen Patterson, who dealt with the psychological behavior of the living on a daily basis—were quick to identify it as survivor’s guilt: that constant tendency to question instead of accept or simply feel grateful. Maggie could understand that, but not suicide.
“What was it that made you do this?” she asked Johnny, sitting across from him, leaning against the cold cinder-block support column and staring into his dead eyes.
Dust motes floated in the halo from her penlight. The only sound came from the earbuds of his iPod, the tiny gadget tucked into his shirt pocket. It was hip hop or rap, more words than music. That’s why she had mistaken the sound for Johnny mumbling to himself.
Maybe he hadn’t intended to kill himself. It was possible he just wanted to escape, forget about everything and everyone for a few hours. She didn’t see any drug paraphernalia. There was nothing in the dirt surrounding him.
That’s when she saw the cell phone still clamped in his hand. Had he called someone?
She easily tugged the phone away. Rigor mortis hadn’t fully set in yet. With the penlight she looked for the On switch. Pressed it. Nothing. Pressed again and held it down, but the phone still didn’t come on. The battery might need recharging. She slipped it deep into the front pocket of her jeans.
Maggie finally turned herself around and started to leave. It would be easier getting out than it had been coming in. Less surprises. It would be good to breathe some fresh air, to stand up straight and stretch. And yet, she hesitated. She knew she was headed for more unfamiliar ground as soon as she crawled out from under this house. And that’s what made her hesitate.
She sat back on her haunches and looked at Johnny Bosh again.
“What the hell am I supposed to tell your mom?”
TWENTY-NINE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Mary Ellen Wychulis didn’t have to wait this time. Irene Baldwin stood in the doorway and waved Mary Ellen into her office as she got off the elevator.
Inside, a television blared from a cabinet Mary Ellen had never seen opened. Her boss silenced the TV with a remote as she marched by and then dropped into her chair. There were no commands this time for Mary Ellen to sit but she took her usual place and stayed at the edge of her seat.
“Why am I hearing about a possible food contamination in one of our schools—one of our District schools— from CNN?”
“No one from the school notified us.”
“I’ve made half a dozen phone calls and no one seems to know what’s going on. Someone from the CDC,” she said as she flipped scribbled pages of her legal pad, “a Roger Bix, told me that he put in a request with us two days ago about another contamination in a Norfolk, Virginia, high school. He was told that we would have to assess the situation and get back to him. I don’t remember getting this request and I know I didn’t talk to this man. I would certainly remember such a condescending voice.”
Mary Ellen kept her hands still when her first impulse was to wring them in her lap.
“Did you talk to Roger Bix?” her boss asked.
Mary Ellen fielded dozens of calls and even more emails every day: requests, applications, complaints. Many of them were taken by her secretary. How could she be expected to remember every single one without first checking? But she remembered Bix.
“Yes, and I highly recommended that he speak to Undersecretary Eisler. His department oversees the NSLP.” She stopped, but then, because she knew Baldwin hated acronyms, quickly added, “The National School Lunch Program. I also forwarded him the paperwork necessary to determine whether or not this particular situation warranted an assessment by the Strategic Partnership Program Agroterrorism.”
“Agroterrorism? He called it an act of terrorism?”
“He insinuated that the contamination might be intentional.”
“So he called requesting our assistance for what he believed to be an intentional contamination in a public high school and you sent him forms to fill out?”
“It’s standard procedure for an assessment to be made. I also referred him to Undersecretary Eisler.”
Baldwin shook her head and Mary Ellen steeled herself for a lecture. Instead her boss said, “Can we simply pull the inspection records for these two schools? See if any of them have been cited or warned? Cross-check to see if they’ve used the same supplier?”
“We’d need to request the inspection records from the state of Virginia and the District of Columbia.”
“Isn’t the USDA responsible for inspecting school cafeterias and kitchens?”
“We oversee the NSLP, but we don’t actually have those records.”
“Okay, what do we
It was late. Mary Ellen didn’t have the patience for another round of her boss’s sarcastic remarks. She just wanted to go home to her beautiful baby and doting husband. That schoolkids had gotten sick was unfortunate but it happened. Kids were notorious virus magnets. Roger Bix sounded like a condescending prick. Even Baldwin thought so. Mary Ellen got tired of the CDC pushing their weight around, thinking they were superior to any other government agency.
“Wychulis?”
Mary Ellen realized she had waited too long to explain. It was a complex procedure, one she already knew her boss would not appreciate.
“The state keeps track of every district,” Mary Ellen began. “We require each school, in order to comply with the NSLP and be a part of the program, to have their facilities inspected twice a year. The states report the number of schools inspected but they don’t report the school names.”
Baldwin stared at her, for once speechless.
“I believe the undersecretary for food and nutrition is directly responsible for the NSLP,” Mary Ellen repeated, losing count of how many times she had already said this. “I’m sure Mr. Eisler would be able to explain the process much more accurately.”
Then she pursed her lips, trying to confine her irritation. She folded her hands in her lap and stopped herself from adding that this should be Eisler’s mess.
“I’ve offered our conference room,” Baldwin said, “for a task force strategy and information center. I’m hoping Mr. Bix will agree to use it, so we can maintain some control. He already has personnel from the FBI, DHS, the District police department, and USAMRIID on the case.”
“USAMRIID? That seems a bit reactionary, doesn’t it?”
“Considering he believes it might be intentional, I’d say it’s rather smart. I get the impression Mr. Bix is good at dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s. Speaking of which, we’ll need to have a meeting first thing in the morning with our people. Please contact the necessary members. I would prefer we keep this confined to essential personnel only.”
“Yes, of course. What about the media?” Mary Ellen asked.
“Mr. Bix has agreed that no one talks to anyone until we know what’s going on.” She flipped the pages of her
