Robin Cook: Vector

“Well, if it turns out to be anthrax, let me know sooner rather than later,” Calvin said. “I’m sure the Commissioner of Health would be interested. As for your next case, you’ve been informed that I want you to do it.”

“Yes,” Jack said. “But why me? You and the chief are always complaining about my lack of diplomacy. A police custody case usually stirs up a beehive of political turmoil. You sure you want me involved?”

“Your services were specifically requested by people outside the department,” Calvin said. “Apparently your lack of diplomacy has been taken for a positive trait by the African-American community. You might be a headache to the chief and me, but you’ve managed to develop a reputation of professional integrity with certain community leaders.”

“Probably from my exploits on the neighborhood basketball court,” Jack said. “I rarely cheat.”

“Why do you always have to denigrate a compliment?” Calvin questioned irritably.

“Maybe because they make me feel uncomfortable,” Jack said. “I prefer criticism.”

“Lord give me patience,” Calvin commented. “Listen, by having you do the post we might be able to avoid any potential contention that this office is involved in any sort of cover-up.”

“The victim is an African-American?” Jack asked.

“Obviously,” Calvin said. “And the officer is white. Get the picture?”

“I get it,” Jack said.

“Good,” Calvin said. “Give a yell when you’re ready to start. I’ll lend a hand. In fact, we’ll do it together.”

Calvin left. Jack looked at Vinnie and groaned. “That post will take three hours! Calvin might be thorough, but he’s slower than molasses.”

“How communicable is anthrax?” Vinnie asked.

“Relax!” Jack said. “You’re not going to come down with anything. As I recall, anthrax doesn’t spread person to person.”

“I never know when to believe you or not,” Vinnie said.

“Sometimes I don’t believe myself,” Jack said self-mockingly. “But in this instance you can trust me.”

With no more conversation Jack and Vinnie finished the Papparis case. As Jack was getting the lab specimens together to take upstairs, Laurie came into the pit. Jack recognized her by her characteristic laugh; her face was hidden by her bioprotective hood. She was apparently in a buoyant mood. She was accompanied by two others who Jack guessed were Lou and the FBI agent. All were dressed in moon suits.

As soon as he could, Jack stepped over to the table where the newcomers had grouped. By that time there was no more laughter.

“You’re telling me this boy was crucified?” Laurie asked. She was holding up the corpse’s right hand. Jack could see a large sixteen-penny spike protruding from the palm.

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Lou said. “And that was just the start. They’d nailed a cross to a telephone pole and then nailed the kid to it.”

“Good grief,” Laurie said.

“Then they tried to skin him,” Lou said. “At least the front of him.”

“How awful,” Laurie said.

“Do you think he was alive when they were doing that?” Gordon asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Laurie said. “You can see by the amount of bleeding involved. There’s no doubt he was alive.”

Jack stepped closer with the intention of getting Laurie’s attention for a quick chat, but then he caught sight of the body. As jaded as he thought he’d become to the image of death, Brad Cassidy’s corpse made Jack catch his breath. The young man had been crucified, partially skinned, his eyes gouged, and his genitals cut off. There were multiple superficial stab wounds all over his body. The skin of the thorax that had been removed was draped over his legs. On it was a large tattoo of a Viking. A small Nazi swastika was tattooed in the center of his forehead.

“Why a Viking?” Jack asked.

“Hello, Jack, dear,” Laurie said brightly. “Have you finished your first case already? Have you met Agent Gordon Tyrrell? How was your ride in this morning?”

“Just fine,” Jack said. Since the questions had come so quickly he only responded to the last.

“Jack insists on riding a bike around the city,” Laurie explained. “He says it clears his mind.”

“I wouldn’t think that would be particularly safe,” Gordon said.

“It’s not,” Lou agreed. “Yet with the crosstown traffic, there are times I wish I had a bike myself.”

“Oh, come on, Lou!” Laurie exclaimed. “You can’t be serious.”

Jack experienced a distinct feeling of unreality as the conversation continued. It seemed absurd to be engaging in social banter dressed up in biocontainment moon suits in front of a mutilated corpse. Jack interrupted the discussion about bicycling by returning to his initial question about the Viking tattoo.

“It’s from the Aryan myth,” Gordon explained. “Like the style of the clothing and the boots, the Viking image is borrowed from the skinhead movement in England, where the whole thing started.”

“But why specifically a Viking?” Jack repeated. “I thought they were into all the Nazi emblems.”

“Their interest in the Vikings comes from a very revisionist view of history,” Gordon said. “The skinheads think the marauding, murderous Vikings epitomized self-reliant masculine honor.”

“That’s why Gordon thinks he got skinned,” Lou said. “Whoever killed him didn’t think he deserved to die with an image of a Viking still attached.”

“I thought this kind of torture went out with the Middle Ages,” Jack said.

“I’ve seen a number of cases just as bad,” Gordon said. “These are violent kids.”

“And scary,” Lou said. “They’re true psychopaths.”

“Pardon me, Laurie,” Jack said. “Could I have a quick word with you? Alone.”

“Of course,” Laurie said. She excused herself from the others and stepped to the side of the room with Jack.

“Did you just get here?” Jack asked in a whisper.

“A few minutes ago,” Laurie admitted. “What’s up?”

“You’re asking me what’s up?” Jack questioned. “You’re the one acting weird, and I’ll tell you, the mystery is driving me crazy. What’s going on? What is it that you want to talk to me and Lou about?”

Jack could see Laurie’s smile despite her face mask.

“My goodness,” she commented. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this interested. I’m flattered.”

“Come on, Laurie! Quit stalling. Out with it!”

“It would take too long,” Laurie said.

“Just give me a quick synopsis,” Jack said. “We can save the gory details for later.”

“No! Jack,” Laurie said forcibly. “You’ll just have to wait until tonight, provided I’m still on my feet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Jack! I can’t talk now. I’ll talk to you tonight like we decided.”

“You decided,” Jack said.

“I have to get to work,” Laurie said. She turned away and went back to her table.

Jack felt frustrated and irritable. He could not believe Laurie was doing this to him. Grumbling under his breath, he pushed off the wall and went back to get Papparis’s specimens. He wanted to get them up to Agnes Finn so that she could run a fluorescein antibody test for anthrax.

Monday, October 18

9:30 a.m.

“Chert! Chert! Chert!” Yuri Davydov shouted. He beat the top edge of the steering wheel of his yellow Chevy Caprice taxi with the base of his right fist. Particularly when he was angry, Yuri reverted to his Russian mother tongue, and at the moment he was furious. He was stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic and surrounded by a cacophony of automobile horns. Ahead of him was a stalled blur of yellow cabs with activated red brake lights. Worse yet, the next intersection was jammed with cars going perpendicular to his, so despite the green light, Yuri was stuck in hopeless gridlock.