Robin Cook - Fever

“Pardon me,” said Charles.

The man eased the stack of pamphlets onto his desk and acknowledged Charles. Charles went through his now-automatic routine. The man straightened the pile of pamphlets while he thought, then turned to Charles. “This isn’t the right department for reporting that kind of thing.”

“Jesus Christ!” Charles exploded. “This is the Water Department. I want to report a poisoning of water.”

“Hey, don’t get mad at me,” defended the man. “We’re only tasked with monitoring water treatment facilities and sewerage disposal facilities.”

“I’m sorry,” said Charles with little sympathy. “You have no idea how frustrating this is. I have a simple complaint. I know a factory that’s dumping benzene into a river.”

“Maybe you should try the Hazardous Substance department,” said the man.

“I already did.”

“Oh,” said the man, still thinking. “Why don’t you try the Enforcement Division up on twenty-three?”

Charles eyed the man for a moment, dumbfounded. “Enforcement Division?” echoed Charles. “Why hasn’t someone suggested that before?”

“Beats me,” said the man.

Charles muttered obscenities under his breath as he found another stairwell and climbed to the twenty-third floor. He passed the Financial Management Branch, the Personnel Branch, and the Program Planning and Development Branch. Just beyond the men’s room was the Enforcement Division. Charles stepped inside.

A black girl with large, purple-shaded glasses looked up from the latest Sidney Sheldon novel. She must have been at a good part because she didn’t hide her irritation at being bothered.

Charles told her what he wanted.

“I don’t know anything about that,” said the girl.

“Whom should I talk to?” said Charles slowly.

“I don’t know,” said the girl, going back to her book.

Charles leaned on the desk with his left hand, and with his right snatched away the paperback. He slammed it down on the desk so that the girl jumped back.

“Sorry I lost your place,” said Charles. “But I’d like to speak to your supervisor.”

“Miss Stevens?” asked the girl, unsure of what Charles might do next.

“Miss Stevens will be fine.”

“She’s not in today.”

Charles drummed his fingers on the desk, resisting the temptation to reach over and give the girl a shake.

“All right,” he said. “How about the next person in command who is here.”

“Mrs. Amendola?” suggested the girl.

“I don’t care what her name is.”

Keeping a wary eye on Charles, the young woman got to her feet and disappeared.

When she reappeared, five minutes later, she had a concerned woman in tow who looked about thirty-five.

“I’m Mrs. Amendola, assistant supervisor here. Can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so,” said Charles. “I’m Dr. Charles Martel and I’m trying to report a factory that is dumping poisonous chemicals into a river. I have been sent from one department to another until someone suggested there was an Enforcement Division. But when I arrived here the receptionist was somewhat less than cooperative, so I demanded to speak to a supervisor.”

“I told him that I didn’t know anything about dumping chemicals,” explained the young black girl.

Mrs. Amendola considered the situation for a moment, then invited Charles to follow her.

After passing a dozen cubicles, they entered a tiny and windowless office enlivened with travel posters. Mrs. Amendola motioned toward a lounge chair and squeezed herself behind the desk.

“You must understand,” said Mrs. Amendola, “we don’t have people walking in off the street with your kind of complaint. But of course, that doesn’t excuse rudeness.”

“What the hell do you people enforce if it’s not fouling the environment,” said Charles with hostility. After leading him to her office to placate him, Charles had the feeling that she was just going to refer him to another department.

“Our main job,” explained the woman, “is to make sure that factories handling hazardous waste have filed for all the proper permits and licenses. It’s a law that they do this and we enforce the law. Sometimes we have to take businesses to court and fine them.”

Charles lowered his face into his hands and massaged his scalp. Apparently the absurdity that Mrs. Amendola was describing was not apparent to her.

“Are you all right?” Mrs. Amendola tilted forward in her chair.

“Let me be sure I understand what you’re saying,” said Charles. “The primary task of the Enforcement Division of the EPA is to make sure that paperwork gets done. It has nothing to do with enforcing the Clean Water Act or anything like that?”

“That’s not entirely correct,” said Mrs. Amendola. “You must remember that the whole concern for the environment is relatively new. Regulations are still being formulated. The first step is registering all users of hazardous materials and informing them of the rules. Then and only then will we be in a position to go after the violators.”

“So, for now, unscrupulous factories can do what they want,” said Charles.

“That’s not entirely correct either,” said Mrs. Amendola. “We do have a surveillance branch which is part of our analytical laboratory. Under the present administration our budget has been cut and unfortunately that branch is quite small, but that’s the place your complaint should go. After they document a violation, they turn it over to us and we assign the case to one of the EPA lawyers. Tell me, Dr. Martel. What is the name of the factory you are concerned about?”

“Recycle, Ltd. in Shaftesbury,” said Charles.

“Why don’t we check their paperwork?” said Mrs. Amendola rising from her desk.

Charles followed the woman out of her tiny office and down a long corridor. She paused at a secured door and inserted a plastic card in a slot.

“We’re going on-line with a pretty sophisticated data processor,” said Mrs. Amendola, holding the door open for Charles, “so we’re having to tighten security.”

Inside the room the air was cooler and cleaner. There was no odor of cigarette smoke. Apparently the computer terminal’s well-being was more important than employee health. Mrs. Amendola sat down in front of a free terminal and typed in

There was a ten-second delay after which the cathode ray tube blinked to life. Recycle, Ltd. was described in computer shorthand, including the fact that it was wholly owned by Breur Chemicals of New Jersey. Then all the hazardous chemicals involved with the plant were listed, followed by the date applications for permit or license were filed and the date they were granted.

“What chemicals are you interested in?” said Mrs. Amendola.

“Benzene, mostly.”

“Here it is, here. EPA hazardous chemical number U019. Everything seems to be in order. I guess they’re not breaking any laws.”

“But they’re dumping the stuff directly in the river!” exclaimed Charles. “I know that’s against the law.”

The other occupants of the room looked up from their work, shocked at Charles’s outburst. Churchlike speech was the unwritten law in the computer terminal room.

Charles lowered his voice. “Can we go back to your office?”

Mrs. Amendola nodded.

Back in the tiny office, Charles moved forward to the edge of the chair. “Mrs. Amendola, I’m going to tell you the whole story because I think you might be able to help me.”

Charles went on to tell about Michelle’s leukemia, Tad Schonhauser’s death from aplastic anemia, his discovery and confirmation of the benzene in the pond, and his visit to Recycle, Ltd.