Robin Cook - Vector

“Hey, I forgot to tell you about the show at the Met,” Chet said. “There’s a Claude Monet exhibition that Colleen is dying to see. We got tickets for Thursday night.”

Chet had been dating Colleen Anderson on and off for three years. She was an art director for Willow and Heath, a Madison Avenue advertising firm. Jack was acquainted with both Colleen and Willow and Heath, having come into contact with them through the course of tracking the infectious disease case that spawned his reputation.

“How about you and Laurie coming along to see the show?” Chet continued. “Then we could all go out to dinner afterward.”

Jack cringed at the thought of not having Laurie around to join him for trips to the museum. And that would be nothing compared to how much he would miss seeing her every day. Not that Chet could have known the feelings that his invitation had provoked.

“I’ll ask her,” Jack said. He picked up the phone and dialed Clint Abelard’s number.

“Let me know what she says,” Chet added. “If it’s a go, I’ll have Colleen get extra tickets. As a member of the museum, she won’t have any trouble.”

“I’ll be seeing Laurie tonight,” Jack said as his call went through. “I have a number of things to talk to her about. I’ll ask her then.”

“Did you see that skinhead case she was doing this morning?” Chet questioned. “Talk about gruesome; that one deserves a prize. It’s sickening what one human can do to another.”

Jack asked for the city epidemiologist and was put on hold.

“Unfortunately I did see it,” Jack said. He covered the phone’s mouthpiece with his hand. “The FBI agent thought that the perpetrators were fellow skinheads.”

“Those kids are nuts,” Chet said.

“Do you know if Laurie found anything that was helpful for the police?” Jack asked.

“I’ve no idea,” Chet said.

When Dr. Clint Abelard finally came on the line, Jack made an effort to be friendly and upbeat. Unfortunately, his overture was not reciprocated.

“Of course I remember you,” Clint said dryly. “How could I forget?” Thank God it’s not every day a coroner makes my job harder.”

Jack bit his tongue. In the past, when Jack had first met Clint, Jack had carefully explained the difference between a coroner and a medical examiner. As a medical examiner, Jack was a physician with training in pathology and training in a subspecialty, forensics. In contrast, a coroner could be merely a bureaucratic appointee with no medical training whatsoever.

“We medical examiners always aim to please,” Jack said.

“Why are you calling me?” Clint asked.

“We had a case of inhalational anthrax this morning,” Jack said. “We thought you’d like to know. The patient was brought in from the Bronx General Hospital.”

“Just one case?”

“That’s right,” Jack said.

“Thank you,” Clint said.

“Aren’t you going to ask anything about its origins?” Jack asked.

“Finding out its origins is our job,” Clint said flatly.

“That might be so,” Jack said. “But just for the record, let me tell you what we’ve learned.”

Jack went on to explain about the Corinthian Rug Company, about how a recent shipment of Turkish rugs and hides was locked up in the warehouse in Queens, that Jason Papparis was the only employee, and that he’d never taken any of the rugs home.

“Thank you,” Clint said without emotion. “You’re so very astute. If I have any epidemiological mysteries, I’ll be sure to give you a call for your assistance.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Jack said, ignoring Clint’s sarcasm, “I’d like to know what you plan to do about this current anthrax episode?”

“I’ll have one of my assistants go out to Queens and seal the warehouse,” Clint said.

“Is that all?” Jack questioned.

“We’ve got a major cyclospora outbreak that’s-taxing our manpower at the moment,” Clint said. “One case of a containable occupational illness doesn’t comprise an epidemiological emergency. We’ll get to it when we can, provided, of course, there are no more cases.”

“I suppose you know your business,” Jack said, “but it’s my feeling...”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” Clint interrupted. Then, without warning, he hung up.

Jack replaced the receiver. “Hell’s bells,” he said to Chet, who’d twisted around in his chair as the conversation progressed. “So much for intra-agency cooperation. That guy’s more sarcastic than I am.”

“You must have mortally wounded his ego when you dealt with him during that plague episode,” Chet said.

“Well, let’s see if I have any better luck with the director of the Mayor’s office of Emergency Management,” Jack said.

“Why on earth are you calling him?” Chet asked.

“It’s a courtesy call,” Jack said. “Strict orders from our deputy chief.”

A secretary answered, and Jack asked for Stan Thornton.

“Is that the guy who lectured to us on weapons of mass destruction?” Chet asked.

Jack nodded. To his surprise the director himself came on the line immediately. Jack explained who he was and why he was calling.

“Anthrax!” Stan exclaimed. It was obvious the man was impressed. In sharp contrast to Clint Abelard, he bombarded Jack with questions. Only after he learned that the probable cause was contained and that there was only one case did his voice lose its urgency.

“Just to be on the safe side,” Stan said, “I’ll use my contacts with the Department of Health to make sure there are no other inpatients in the city with suspicious symptoms.”

“Good idea,” Jack said.

“And I’ll have that warehouse quarantined,” Stan added.

“That’s already in the works,” Jack said. He related to Stan his conversation with Clint Abelard.

“Perfect!” Stan said. “Clint Abelard would have been high on my list to contact. I’ll coordinate with him.”

Good luck! Jack thought to himself.

“Thanks for your quick response,” Stan continued. “As I mentioned in my lecture, you medical people might be the first to see the effects of a bioterrorism event. The faster the response, the higher the possibility the event could be contained.”

“We’ll certainly keep that in mind,” Jack said before winding up the conversation and hanging up.

“Congratulations,” Chet said. “That was a very civilized conversation.”

“My intra-agency diplomatic skills must be improving,” Jack quipped. “I didn’t irritate the guy in the slightest.”

Jack gathered up the papers from Jason Papparis’s file and stuffed them into the folder. He pushed it aside and redirected his attention to the prisoner-in-custody case.

For a few minutes, peace reigned in the cluttered office. The two medical examiners bent over their respective desks and went back to work. Chet glued his eyes to his microscope while he diligently scanned a section of liver from a case of fatal hepatitis. Jack began to outline the significant pathology on the prisoner case.

Unfortunately, the tranquillity didn’t last long. A sound similar to a gunshot reverberated around the tiny room. Chet sat bolt upright. Jack uttered a string of expletives, making Chet even more anxious. But, then Chet realized that they weren’t in jeopardy of becoming their office’s next two cases. The sudden noise had come from Jack’s slamming his ballpoint pen down onto the desk’s metal surface.

“Damn! You scared the hell out of me,” Chet complained.

“I can’t concentrate,” Jack said.

“What’s the matter now?”

“A lot of things,” Jack said vaguely. He didn’t want to get into a discussion about Laurie.