Stephen Cannell - The Devil_s Workshop

"Yep," he said. "We're testing pyridostigmine bromide with some of the Gulf War insect repellent we used. I think, by mistake, there was a bad chemical cocktail over there. The father of this baby chimp is a carrier and seems fine, but his little girl here really got hammered. It resembles a condition we're studying in children of Gulf War vets." He turned off the lamp and peeled off his gloves. "I guess I can get that report for you before I do the brain. I gotta get the rubber apron anyway. The cerebral cut is gonna be a mess." He moved to a file cabinet and pulled it open.

"Richardson… Richardson…" He rifled through folders.

"Here we go… You're in luck. Autopsy is still down here and I have an extra in the folder, so I won't need to make you wait for a copy." He handed it over.

"Thanks a heap," she said, and took the ten-page report. She was out the door before Dr. Due turned the light back on over the table.

They were in Unit Six of the Lakeview Motel, which was a quarter of a mile from Lake Frederick with no view of water. While Joanne watched the end of the five o'clock news, Stacy went through Max's autopsy.

His blood work was normal, no trace of drugs, stimulants, or depressants. She paged slowly through, reading everything.

The shotgun had obliterated the palatoglossal arch at the back of Max's throat. The pattern of buckshot had traveled up, taking with it his entire brain stem, blowing a hole out the back of his head the size of an open hand.

She choked back tears as she read.

The big surprise came on page six.

"I don't believe it," Stacy said softly as she finished reading. "The sons-of-bitches actually murdered him."

Stacy had been unable to sleep. Her mind was crowded with thoughts about the autopsy report and memories of Max. At six A. M. she finally gave up pounding her pillow and snuck quietly into the bathroom, so as not to awaken Joanne in the other bed. She showered, blow-dried her hair, and did a repair job on her sleep-deprived face. She was back in the bedroom sitting in the small, uncomfortable wooden chair next to the desk trying to plan her next move when the phone rang, partially waking her sister-in-law. Stacy got the call on the second ring.

"It's Wendell," her old friend said.

She told him just a minute and pulled the phone as far across the room as she could, then took the receiver the rest of the way into the bathroom and closed the door so as not to disturb Joanne.

"Some guy at Fort Detrick has been calling. They left a message at Max's University office and Ruth at the Chancellor's office picked it up."

"Colonel Chittick?"

"Bingo," Wendell said.

"That's the asshole who tried to tell me Max killed himself because he was using drugs. And, can you believe this? They cremated the body without my permission." She had decided not to tell Wendell what she'd found in the autopsy report. She wasn't sure yet what she wanted to do about it, and she didn't want Wendell, sweet as he was, to start laying down conditions.

"They want to see you," he went on. "According to Ruth, the Colonel was very apologetic about your meeting yesterday, said he thought you might have left angry."

"How perceptive."

"You want his number?" he asked.

Stacy was hurt that Wendell hadn't commented on the bullshit drug abuse accusation or the illegal burning of Max's body.

"Okay, lemme get a pencil." Stacy laid down the receiver, scooted out into the bedroom, picked up the motel pad and pen, then moved back, closing the bathroom door.

After Wendell gave her the number, he asked, "Are you guys okay? I'm worried about you."

"We're as okay as we can be." Then she told him she loved him and rang off. She dialed and sat on the bathroom floor as Colonel Chittick's office answered.

"Army Medical Battalion, Colonel Chittick's office," the voice said.

Stacy pictured the red-haired Army Captain from yesterday. "This is Mrs. Richardson. I understand Colonel Chittick is trying to get in touch with me…"

"Oh, thank God you called, ma'am," the fresh-faced Captain said. "The Colonel was wondering if he could arrange an appointment with you at your earliest convenience to better define his remarks of yesterday."

"It's okay. I understood him perfectly."

"I think it would really be worth your while to see him as soon as possible," the Captain persisted.

"How's an hour from now," she suggested, anger suddenly flaring, drawing her closer to this inevitable conflict.

"We can send a car if you like."

"That's okay. I can get there," Stacy said, and hung up without saying good-bye.

She shook Joanne awake, and her sister-in-law propped herself up on her elbow and looked at Stacy through tangled hair.

"We really shook 'em up, kid. They want to talk to me again, try and put a better face on it."

"Geeze, you aren't going back there?"

"You bet your ass," Stacy said. "If they have caller I. D. they could probably trace the call I just made and find this motel. Remember that Holiday Inn, right out of Frederick? We passed it coming in."

"I'll find it."

"Check in there, and if I don't call you or show up in four hours, call Wendell. Drop the whole package on him."

"You sure you should do this?"

"Yeah. I'm going to leave you the autopsy report. Hide it somewhere."

"Won't you need it?"

"Believe me, they know what it says."

Stacy took another cab to the Fort. When she got to the main gate on Military Road, the M. P. was already expecting her. "Mrs. Richardson?" he said, after she identified herself. "The Admiral was wondering if you would meet him over in Area B, Building 1425."

"Who?" she asked.

"The Base Commander, Rear Admiral James G. Zoll." His awe for the man was unmistakable. "Building 1425 is the Company A, First SATCOM Battalion Headquarters," he continued.

"Communications?" she asked, surprising him with that; her father had been career military and she had a good grasp of the lingo.

"Yes ma'am. He's working there this morning. It's not on the regular part of the base. You go through the gate, take a right on Potter Road." He had a map and was showing the cab driver. "Go along Frontage Road for about two miles. You'll see the satellite uplinks out by the duck pond. It's the big windowless building right next to B-14, the Antenna Farm." Then he politely touched the brim of his white helmet.

"Okay, let's go," she said to the driver.

He drove past the main gate, made the right, and headed along Frontage Road. They left the base area and low buildings behind and drove along a narrowing, rutted road, across hilly green farmland. There were miles of perimeter fencing where the road skirted the edge of the base. The fence was ten feet high with ugly razor wire on top. She noticed a few places where the rusty razor loops had been knocked down and were being replaced with shiny new wire. After going for about two miles, they could see the satellite uplinks by a pond, and beyond that, half a dozen hundred-foot-tall radio antennas beside a huge, windowless building, as described. They neared the building, and she could see two officers standing in front, smoking cigarettes, waiting for her. As the cab pulled up they flipped the butts away and opened the door. Both were Naval Captains.

"Mrs. Richardson, I'm Captain Wilcox," the older one said. "This is Captain Carpenter."

They both gave her touch-of-the-visor greetings as she climbed out of the cab.

"Why don't you wait for me," she said to the cab driver, beginning to feel slightly cut off. But Captain Carpenter had already pulled a wad of twenties out of his pocket and was paying the driver.

"We'll arrange to get you back," he said, waving the driver off. Before she could protest, the taxi was rolling and Captain Wilcox had his hand on her arm, leading her firmly away from the departing cab.