“Respirator,” she corrected Zehra. “But you’re right. Here. You can take it out.” She pushed the container closer to them.
Zehra lifted up the small object. “This isn’t a mask?”
“A layman would call it that. But this is better, more effective than a mask.”
Zehra turned it over. The white cup had 3M 8000 stamped across the top and to the side. She read it-N95. It had a pliable metal strap inside the cotton for a nose clip and four yellow elastic straps around the edges. Looked like a typical face mask, to her. She handed it to BJ.
“What would you use this for?” Zehra asked.
“Oh … if you were doing a home project, like sanding and wanted the best filtering protection, this is it. They’re routinely used in hospitals. It’s designed to fit tightly around the face and has an electrostatic charge in the micro fibers to enhance the filtration.”
“Wow. This is top drawer, huh?” BJ whistled quietly.
“It’s the best you can get without using a full head mask,” Dr. McWhorter said.
“Plus, it fits tightly around the face, so it won’t fall off when you’re killing someone violently,” BJ said. “And, it covers up almost everything. Look …” He held it in front of his face without touching his skin.
Zehra agreed it hid most of his face-perfect for a disguise. “But BJ, you’ll have to shave your goatee before you become a serial killer.” She laughed, and then turned back to the doctor. “I know this is a dumb question, but are you certain about your testing?”
The doctor smiled and dropped her eyes for a moment. “DNA identification is the gold standard, my dear.”
“Yeah, I know, but do you think the criminal justice system is relying on this testing too much?”
Dr. McWhorter stood and placed the mask into the box. She taped it shut and cradled it in her arm. With her other arm, she opened the door for them. “We should rely on it-it’s foolproof.”
Thirteen
The day rains had ended in November. The plains to the west of Mogadishu remained green and offered a few more weeks of grazing land before the driest of seasons descended in December. As the land dried out and the vegetation shriveled, the two shepherds were forced to work their goats further and further from the camps.
The trick was to feed them as much as possible, get through the drought, and make it to the
They both wrapped themselves in long cloths to protect themselves. It wasn’t particularly hot, but the wind could do damage quickly.
Most of the days were boring and monotonous. The shepherds didn’t mind because tending the goats was their work as it had been for their fathers and the fathers before them. At least they could provide for the clan.
The ground rolled in long, flat scrubland. Flowers that only a few weeks earlier had decorated the hills with color drooped in anticipation of no more water. The goats spread out further than the men could see. That was all right with them, since there wasn’t anywhere for the goats to get lost.
Ismir, the younger herder, volunteered this afternoon to round-up the stragglers before they made their camp for the evening. In the desert, night fell quickly and with cold winds. They wanted to have the fire and dinner ready before then.
Ismir scuffed over the worn paths that led to the west. The last of the rain clouds scudded out toward the ocean behind him. He searched into the setting sun to the horizon for the small clumps in the distance that would be the remains of the herd. Far to his left, he noticed something flash.
Unusual. He didn’t think there was anything out there. Ismir trudged over the hill to get a better look.
He saw the stragglers from the herd. But to his astonishment, just beyond them, he spied a series of low mud huts. Surrounded by a wire fence, the compound had a more permanent wooden building at one end. This was very unusual. Wood was so scarce out here, no one could afford to use it for something as mundane as shelter.
The flash came from a silver bus. Dust curled around the back end of it, so the bus must have just arrived. From where?
Ismir continued toward the goats and the bus. Scrub brush hid his presence from anyone in the compound, and he moved closer. He knelt down. Who would be way out here? He wondered.
On his stomach, he wiggled almost to within hearing range. The door of the bus opened, and two men got out. They wore white masks.
As they stood aside, several young men, boys really, followed them out of the bus. The boys staggered as if very tired. About ten of them. Ismir didn’t recognize any of the people which was odd. He knew everyone in the clan that occupied this area of Somalia. These were strangers.
He inched closer in the long shadows of evening, trying to hear something.
He saw that some were speaking, but the cool wind blew away the words. It appeared they were ordering the boys into the huts.
Suddenly, Ismir felt sad. The boys were black skinned like himself and Somalis, but he could tell they weren’t local. They looked foreign. Maybe from Europe. They looked frightened. And for some reason, they had a drooped look to them, like the flowers around him.
He peered closer and was startled. In spite of the rising chill in the wind, he saw many of the young men were sweating heavily. They looked sick.
Fourteen
Mears Park in the lowertown area of St. Paul is one of the most beautiful urban parks in the country. It occupies an entire city block and is surrounded by restaurants, jazz clubs, and theatres. The buildings above the sidewalks date back to before the turn of the century, updated with modern touches and facilities.
Through the middle of the park, a stream of fresh water bounces over small waterfalls, twisting its way down under the streets to empty into the Mississippi River at the foot of the bluffs below St. Paul, where tugboats groan to push heavy barges south to New Orleans.
A gray bank of rain clouds hovered above the park, and the air smelled metallic with ozone. A storm was coming for sure.
Paul remembered to grab his umbrella, because a May rain in Minnesota could be a gusher. He cut across the park to find the coffee shop Joan had recommended. At the door, two hanging baskets bent low, full of flowers that gushed over the edges.
Knowing about the intense competition that existed between government agencies, he was sure that any work or investigation he did with Joan would never get back to Conway. Whichever agency solved this case, would reap the rewards: bigger budgets, promotions and higher salaries. He needed her help badly.
Still, he knew he’d have to be extremely careful. Just that morning, Paul had walked by his secretary’s vacant desk. He’d glanced at her computer screen to find his emails on the screen. Conway must have ordered her to shadow his mail. That scared him.
Ten minutes later, Joan interrupted his thoughts as she walked in the door, blinked at the bright lights, and spotted him. Although she had a Latin name, she was pure Scandinavian all the way. A tight red dress clung to her shapely body as she wobbled toward him on high heels.
“I’m like, never getting used to these damn things,” she complained. “Gotta wear ’em for the office.”
“You look great, Joan.” Paul stood and hugged her a little too long. She didn’t seem to mind.
“I need something stronger than coffee,” she wheezed as she plopped into the chair next to him. “Talk about pressure! These disappearing kids have got all of us on high alert.”
“I know.”
