Now, if I could just find Linda…
I was just getting back to the PD when Hester came out, looked around, saw me, and waved for me to hurry. I got all hopeful that she’d gotten some key bit of information. No such luck.
“We’ve got to get back to the office; the Public Health people are here and we need to go to the briefing.”
“How soon?”
“Noon. Let’s go.”
I looked at my watch. Eleven thirty-four. Damn. “Any word on Linda?”
“It’s only been an hour or so, Houseman. Patience. You find Hector?”
“Yeah,” I said, and told her what I’d learned.
“This just gets stranger and stranger,” she said. “Before he died, huh?”
“That’s what he said, and that he heard about it last Saturday already.”
“Couldn’t you get him to say more? “She had her car door open. “He’s got to know more.”
“I was surrounded by munchkins,” I said across the top of my car as I opened my own door. “Tell you about that later.”
We hit the office at about five to noon. The parking lot was jammed with vehicles, including all our officers, on duty or off. Three unmarked cop-type cars, four smaller cars with the white decals of the State of Iowa on the side, the County Health nurses’ Bronco, Doc Zimmer’s car, and three or four I didn’t recognize.
Hester and I had to drive around the back and park in the prisoner-unloading area.
“Jesus,” I said as we got out of our cars. “It looks like a football game or something.”
“It’s getting worse,” she said, pointing to the street below the jail hill. “Look who’s here.”
Judy Mercer, her cameraman, and their white and blue KNUG four-wheel-drive were backing down from the main jail parking lot.
“Well, this time she’s not our problem,” I said. But we hustled into the jail anyway, just to be sure we weren’t caught on camera again.
Once inside, we were crammed into the kitchen with all the drivers of those cars we’d seen, plus the county attorney, two people from the state attorney general’s office, and three DCI agents. I recognized the oldest of them: Art Meyerman, an ex-Nation County deputy, and a royal pain in the butt. I waved at him across the room. He barely acknowledged me. Crap. Art was an obstructionist martinet by temperament and choice. What the hell was he doing here?
“I see they sent Art,” said Hester.
“Yeah. Whoopee.” I glanced around the kitchen. “Why him?”
“Beats me,” she said. “Last I knew he’d been transferred out of Intel. Don’t know where he went, but I thought he’d been pretty much moved out of useful.”
I could buy that.
Lamar gave a general introduction that lasted about fifteen seconds. More or less, a “listen up and take notes” word to the wise. He then turned it over to an assistant attorney general, whose name eluded me when the compressor for the kitchen refrigerator kicked in. He apparently concentrated on health and safety issues. He was brief, and only told us how important it was for everybody to cooperate.
Next, we got Iowa’s Deputy Director of Emergency Preparedness, who outlined the pecking order for conducting the investigation. She also gave us a good five minutes on keeping our mouths shut, and measures in place for preventing panic. Good stuff. She had handouts, which I also like.
Next, the Iowa Department of Health people briefed everybody on ricin, its effects, and its methods of transmission. I had one moment during that part of the briefing, when the speaker asked if anybody knew what a mechanical vector was. Hester and I were the only two cops who raised our hands. That scored points for us, even if I’d only known for five or six hours.
From that point on, it was emphasized about every five minutes that what we were dealing with was not “catching.” One of the Health folks, a Dr. McWhirter from Iowa City, also briefed us on prophylactic measures.
“Basically,” he said, “all you have to do is wear a decent filter mask, like this one.” He held up something that looked like a simple dust mask for working in a shop. “This is a very fine filter system; you can’t pick them up in a hardware store, but you can buy them at your local pharmacy. And,” he said, “remember to wash your hands. That’s it. That’s all it takes.” He paused. “Oh, also,” he added, “if you come across some contaminated food, just don’t eat it.”
It sounded like an afterthought, but I thought that was a pretty key point. So, apparently, did Lamar.
“You hear that, Carl? No lunch!”
There were a couple of laughs. There would have been more, but lots of the people in the room had no idea who I was.
After that little tension-breaker, I felt a bit silly, but I raised my hand, getting a dark look from Art. He was the sort who thought any question was a matter of showboating. That went a long way toward explaining why he never seemed to get completely with a program.
“Yes?”
“Would cooking decontaminate food?”
“Protein is pretty tough stuff,” McWhirter said. “Might. I wouldn’t want to rely on that, though. Iffy at best.”
“So we get this stuff,” asked Lamar. “Then what? You haven’t said anything about an antidote.”
“That’s right,” said Dr. McWhirter. “There is no antidote.”
That sank in for a second.
“The treatment is supportive. That means we do what we can for the symptoms and let things take their course.” Dr. McWhirter looked out on the unhappy faces. “I wouldn’t be too concerned; the LD50 levels are really high for this substance.”
“What’s LD50?” asked Lamar.
“LD50 is shorthand for what would constitute a lethal dosage for fifty percent of the exposed population.”
“Oh.”
“Any more questions? Okay then, let’s get on here…”
The Health briefing continued, with them handing out the same sheet of questions we’d gotten from Henry that morning. They then went over each question, explaining why it was being asked, why it was important, and how that answer would be used to further the investigation. It seemed to take forever.
When that segment was over, the assistant attorney general got back up and outlined the approach to the groups of people to be questioned.
“Since we are starting off with the supposition that Gonzales was exposed at his place of work,” he said, “we’ll begin with his coworkers.”
My hand shot up.
“Yes? “He seemed irritated.
“Most of them are unavailable at this time,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“Most of them are Hispanics who worked with Gonzales at the plant. Most of them are here illegally. There was a murder Tuesday up here, and it involved a member of the Hispanic community. The illegals all went missing. They’re afraid we’re going to find them and deport them.” I paused. “We’re looking for them right now, but so far, no luck.”
“Just how many people are we talking here?”
“As many as a couple hundred,” I said. “They had to close the plant on Wednesday, and it’s not back up in operation yet.”
I had to give him a lot of credit. He didn’t miss a beat. “So, we talk to the plant management first. I assume they’re not illegal aliens, too?”
“Absolutely not,” I said.
“Excellent. We’ll assign a team to interview them, along with health and safety inspectors to go over the plant, and you can let us know when you find the missing people.”
“Okay,” I said.
