Stephen Cannell - The Devil_s Workshop

"Bob Matthews said it before he died," Fannon lectured. These last few days, Dexter had been hearing a lot about Bob Matthews, the martyred White separatist who went down in a hail of government gunfire. "Matthews said it, and remember his words," Fannon ordered. " 'The only thing I know of that does not die is the fame in dead men's dreams.' " All of them sat quietly in the rumbling freight and thought about their own death and fame as martyrs to the Cause. All, that is, except Dexter, who was only thinking about escape. But with Randall Rader never more than a few feet away, it seemed increasingly impossible.

It was already dark, and Buddy was still waiting for Gary Iverson in the overlit waiting room of the morgue. In the twilight afterglow, out the third-floor windows, he could just barely see the surf hitting the moonlit ribbon of beach south of the Santa Monica Pier. Paranoid thoughts still followed him, like refugees trailing a defeated army. He was fighting the urge to scoot down and retrieve his stash from the Porsche spare tire, which had a hole cut in the underside for easy access. He knew that would be a mistake. When he was snapping paranoid, cocaine put him in a despair so deep he would sometimes be blighted for days.

He began to think more seriously about rehab.

Only occasionally did his mind drift to his dead son lying in frosty silence somewhere in the overlit morgue.

The elevator doors opened, and Gary Iverson stepped off, his bloodshot eyes blinking rapidly in hollow sockets. He had a two-day stubble, and was wearing his Malibu chic grunge attire. He moved to Buddy, dragging visibly.

"You don't look like a doctor, you look like fucking afterbirth," Buddy complained.

"It's the nineties, man," Gary sighed. "I'm not okay, you're not okay, but that's okay. What's going on?"

"These guys are talking about doing an autopsy with some County Medical guy, some dipshit supervisor. They got Mike's body in bio-containment, whatever the fuck that is. Why would they do that?" Gary shrugged. "I want Mike's body released to Mount Sinai now/"

"God, why's my head killing me," Gary said, rubbing his eyes.

"Your head's killing you 'cause that whore Ginger hooked you to a G. H. B. ride. I told you not to shoot that stuff. Heidi promised me Ginger was off it." When Gary didn't answer, Buddy went on, "That shit's lethal. That's what gonked River Phoenix."

"Ginger's a whore?" Gary asked, dumbfounded. "She's one of Heidi's girls? You told me she was an actress."

"Whores are actresses," Buddy backtracked. "Listen, Gary, you gotta get down there and stop that autopsy. Somethin' ain't right," he said, paranoia driving suspicion.

"Ginger's a fucking whore?" Gary repeated. "All that time I thought she was enjoying it and getting off."

"Who gives a shit?" Buddy riled. "You don't pay whores to come, you pay them to leave. Now will ya please go find out why they got Mike in bio-containment. They won't let anybody but doctors in there."

In the second-floor autopsy section of the morgue, a heated argument was taking place between two M. E. S and Colonel Laurence Chittick, who had just flown in from Fort Detrick. All of them were in a sterile hallway that fronted four autopsy rooms.

"Excuse me," Iverson said softly as he approached, "I'm here to make arrangements to transport the body of Michael Brazil to the mortuary at Mount Sinai."

Nobody paid any attention to him, or maybe they hadn't heard him, because his voice was a low drugged whisper. Colonel Chittick was arguing loudly with Dr. Ernest Welsh, the Santa Monica Coroner, who was tall, with a hairline shaped like a laurel wreath.

"You don't seem to understand. I don't care who at Fort Detrick authorized it," Dr. Welsh said. "My chain of command is municipal. This body isn't leaving here without the correct authorization, period."

"I'm Dr. Iverson, the Brazil family physician," Gary stated more forcefully. They both turned.

His ripped-at-the-knee jeans, flip-flops, and fatigued appearance argued with this statement. "Sorry, I've been up forty-eight hours," he alibied, reading their disbelief. "Camping trip. Got here as soon as I could. I'd like to make arrangements to have Mike's body delivered to Mount Sinai-"

"He's not going to Mount Sinai. He's going air-express to the bio-containment facility at Fort Detrick," the Colonel said.

"Who are you?" Gary Iverson demanded.

"I'm Colonel Chittick, with the E. I. S. at the Centers for Disease Control."

"E. I. S.?" Gary asked.

"Epidemic Intelligence Service," Chittick said.

The Santa Monica M. E. turned back to Colonel Chittick.

"The only way to accomplish what you want is to supply me with the proper paperwork," he said. "I need a written request that states E. I. S.'s reasons why this body should be transported to Fort Detrick. Without that I can't let it go. My ass will get sued by his family." He turned to Iverson. "Right, Doctor?"

"Count on it," Gary said, with over-the-top conviction.

"Where will the body be kept?" Chittick asked.

"We'll keep it right here. The autopsy is scheduled for nine this evening. You should be able to get the correct paperwork to me by then. Have the EPS duty officer frame the request, then submit it with the C. D. C.'s recommendation and copy it to the State Health Department in Berkeley. Fax it to me and the body will be turned over to you. Otherwise we're going to do this procedure as scheduled."

Colonel Chittick nodded and moved out of the morgue, using the side elevator. He went down to a rented windowless van parked around the corner from the County Medical Building. Once inside, he turned to face Lieutenant Nino DeSilva. The Lieutenant was only twenty-two, but his dark Latino looks burned with a fierce intensity that made him seem older.

"They want a paper from E. I. S. or they won't turn the body loose."

"Then let's get the paper," DeSilva said.

"We go through channels on this and C. D. C. will demand delivery on the body," Chittick explained. "They're gonna find the brain disintegration and see the spongiform encephalitis. Once that happens, they're gonna run more tests, take some C. S. F., and eventually discover the Pale Horse Prion. They'll turn it over to the FBI, who will notify Congress, and we're fucked." He paused and rubbed his forehead. "We have to contain this ourselves. They are doing the autopsy at nine. We've got to stop it," Colonel Chittick said darkly.

"This was the original Bob's Big Boy," Wendell told Stacy and Cris as they pulled up in front. "I haven't been here in ages."

It was a large, old-fashioned fifties-style restaurant. The huge plate-glass windows looked out on Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena. Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham had gone directly home from Forest Lawn. Cris and Stacy got out of Wendell's station wagon. She leaned back in the passenger window and winked at the ever rumpled doctor, who was still seated behind the wheel.

"You sure this is okay? I could stick around," he said.

"It's better if you go over and witness the autopsy in Santa Monica. They did us a big favor by moving it up, and doing it on Sunday night." She looked at her wristwatch; it was eight-fifteen. "You'll just about make it. I'll catch a cab, drop Cris, and meet you at my place around eleven."

He hesitated, so she gave him a subtle head movement that said, "Get outta here." She wanted to talk to Cris Cunningham, and she thought she would get more out of him alone.

Wendell blew her a kiss and pulled the station wagon away from the curb, leaving them standing in front of the restaurant. They moved inside and were greeted by the chill of too-cold air-conditioning, and a hostess who led them to a table by a window overlooking the parking lot.