Dr. McWhirter cleared his throat. “I helped with the autopsy, and the subsequent testing,” he said. “We had a wide variety of symptoms, from gastrointestinal chaos to virtual drowning from pulmonary edema. That perplexed us. It appeared to us that we had a case involving both aspiration and ingestion.”
“Really? “said Hester. “Both?”
“Yes. And in highly concentrated doses in both methods. Highly. In my opinion, he was as good as dead after the exposure. No amount of care would have come close to saving him.” He paused again. “We were wondering just where he could have been to acquire that heavy dosage.”
“His last day of work was Monday,” said Hester. “We know that. He worked the late shift. We found him on Wednesday, about 18:00 or so. He’d been dead, what, Carl? You thought about twelve hours?”
“From the rigor, yeah. About that.”
“Makes the time of death about six A.M. Wednesday,” said Hester. “Infection at thirty-six hours puts it at six P.M. on Monday. End of his shift at the plant, or thereabouts.”
“So, it happened at the plant, then? Could it be an accidental exposure? An informant claims it was ‘something they did to him.’ But the informant wasn’t a witness,” I said. “Could we be talking accidental here, after all?”
“I’d expect a broader contamination, if that were the case,” said Dr. McWhirter. “We only have one victim here. That’s a pretty narrow exposure.”
We decided that Hester would accompany Dr. McWhirter to the Gonzales apartment, along with two techs, to recover any dirty laundry he might have had and to test the shower and washbasins. Everything would be tested for contaminants.
Bligh and I were to go to the packing plant and get the ball rolling. Two health and safety inspectors came along.
Bligh suggested that the county attorney, Carson Hilgenberg, go with Hester and her team so we had a legal presence at both locations. Hester rolled her eyes, but accepted it.
Bligh and Hilgenberg did a fast application for a search warrant, and I went with them to a local magistrate’s office, where I signed as affiant. At that point, even though we’d lost most of a day, we were finally getting back on track.
Bligh and I got to the plant at 16:21, according to my watch. I’d called ahead for Ben, and he’d agreed to wait for us. I hadn’t told him much, but I’d made it clear that this was very, very important.
We were ushered immediately to Ben’s office. When the door opened, I saw a very familiar face with Ben.
“Hey, George!”
“Carl.” He didn’t look at all happy.
“Who’s that?” asked Bligh.
“That’s Special Agent George Pollard, FBI,” I said to Bligh. “We know each other from way back. How ya doin? “I said, sticking my hand out to George.
“Wonderful,” said George, flatly. “Just wonderful.”
“This is Mr. Bligh,” I said, unable to remember his first name. “Iowa AG’s office.”
“Call me Mort,” said Bligh.
“Glad to meet you,” said George.
“And this,” I said to Bligh, “is Mr. Chaim B. Hurwitz.”
“Call me Ben.” When he spoke, I looked at him more closely. Ben looked terrible. My first thought was that he was sick.
“So, what brings the FBI to Nation County?” asked Bligh.
Now, that was a truly good question. FBI anywhere in Iowa these days was a rare event all by itself. It was another example of the effect of 9/11 on everybody. On September 10, 2001, there were tweny-six FBI agents working in Iowa. By September 15, about twenty-four of them had been assigned to terrorism investigations. You didn’t even expect to see one at a bank robbery anymore. To spend one on a meatpacking plant was most unusual. What was more unusual was that I knew for a fact that George had been assigned to counterterrorism.
“I’m afraid it’s an aspect of what brings you two here,” said George, reaching behind us and closing the door. He stepped back toward Ben’s desk and picked up a file. “I assume you’re here about the ricin?”
“We are,” I said. “You, too, huh?”
“Yes.”
“What’s up?” I found it kind of difficult to believe that the Bureau was concerned with the death of one illegal immigrant.
“We were notified by CDC in Atlanta that there had been a case of ricin ingestion in Nation County,” said George. “Maybe you two should sit down,” he said to Bligh and me.
We two did.
“Like I just finished telling Ben here, CDC found themselves working two separate but contemporaneous cases involving ricin poisoning,” said George. “Yours, and an outbreak in New York City.”
“New York?” I was surprised, to say the least.
“This is terrible,” said Ben. “Terrible.”
“We have four dead people in New York,” said George. “All from ricin. We have fifty-seven who are ill, with at least one more who is not expected to survive.” He checked his file. “The lab people say that they think many of the ill are psychosomatic reactions, because several are good friends of deceased, but didn’t eat the same things. Not all of them, though. It takes time for this stuff to finish its job. They started getting sick enough to need medical attention on the fifteenth. Three cases. Eight more on the sixteenth, twenty-two on the seventeenth, twenty-nine on the eighteenth. One of the first three died on the seventeenth. He was a deli employee, by the way. Three of the cases from the sixteenth were also fatal. They’re all older people, so far.”
“Holy shit.”
“It gets worse,” said George. “All the victims except two are Jews. We have a vector of three specific delis in the city. Everybody who was infected either worked at those delis or ate meat purchased there. Everybody.”
“Oh, crap,” I said. I saw what was coming.
“During Hanukkah,” said Ben softly. “They got sick eating our meat during Hanukkah.”
George nodded. “Right. As luck would have it, those three delis get most of their beef products from this plant.” He looked at Bligh and me. “What we have here is very possibly a hate crime. Regardless of the motive, we suspect an act of terrorism. Domestic or otherwise.”
George shut his file. “Carl, could we meet at the local PD, or your office, when you’re done here?”
“You bet.” I looked at Bligh. “Why don’t you get your information from Ben here, and George and I’ll go over to the PD. Call over there when you’re done; I’ll come get you.” I was really anxious to hear more from George, and I was sure he didn’t want to talk in front of Bligh and Ben.
George and I were in the Battenberg PD within five minutes. The chief wasn’t there, but the city clerk let us in just as she closed up.
“Jesus, George. What’s up?”
“We’re considering this a terrorism case, Carl.”
“Okay. Sure. Domestic, though, I assume?”
“Not necessarily.”
“You’re kidding?”
He wasn’t. As it turned out, several known terrorist groups, including Osama bin Laden’s Al Qaeda network, were known to have recruited the services of non-Muslim terrorists to do some of their dirty work. The “recruits” were readily available through the terrorists’ established drug connections, and came equipped with at least some expertise in the required areas.
“Most important,” said George, “these individuals aren’t tagged as extremist Muslim terrorists. Some Thais, some Laotians, some Colombians, Mexicans, and…you know, Carl. Anywhere there’s a foreign importer of illegal drugs, they have a connection. France, Afghanistan, they use those connections to recruit. Lots easier to conceal their activities that way. And,” he added, “they’re always overseen by the faithful. Well, ‘the fanatical’ would be more accurate. The radical, fundamentalist Muslims are always in control.”
“Recruiting unemployed muscle from the cartels…”
“Yep. That’s one source.”
