J.T. Ellison - Edge of Black

Interesting.

She thought about how the situation must have gone down. The attack would have started small. Staying calm and not hyperventilating is the key to keeping a mild asthma attack from becoming a major event. The congressman might have breathed into a paper bag, or something equally calming. But that didn’t work, so he brought out the defenses—his inhaler, maybe a nebulizer. Perhaps even popped a bit of prednisone, knowing the anti-inflammatory would help. Toxicology would tell what medications he’d taken. A witness would be of help, too, especially since the tox screen wouldn’t show the corticosteroid.

When none of the usual treatments worked, he should have called 911 and broken out his EpiPen. Jammed the lifesaving medicine into his thigh and gotten his ass to the hospital.

But he didn’t have a mark on him.

But he did have massive pulmonary edema. His lungs were yellowish and heavy, and the fluid in the chest cavity was bloody. Significant airway wall thickening showed evidence of a hyperacute pulmonary attack and fulminant pneumonia.

All signs pointed to a massive asthma attack, of that Sam was sure.

But what had triggered it? Without knowing Leighton’s schedule, without knowing if he’d been exposed this morning, she couldn’t say for sure that his death was related to the others.

Tracking down Leighton’s every move was Fletcher’s job. For the meantime, all Sam could do was send the samples to the lab and have them tested, and begin the long wait. But there was something more present in the congressman’s system. An irritant, something that caused the blood to froth.

She’d never seen a ricin poisoning up close and personal, but this certainly looked like what she’d read about. But the tests so far had been negative for ricin. That was very strange.

Sam made quick work of the rest of Leighton’s organs, dictated her findings to Murphy, then stripped off her gloves and mask and tossed them in the trash. She desperately wanted to wash her hands, and it wasn’t just the OCD talking. Posting the congressman had solidified her feeling that there was more than met the eye about the attacks this morning.

She left Murphy behind to close the body and sought out Dr. Nocek. He was in his office, writing up his findings from the earlier autopsies.

She took a seat across from him and smiled. “Good thing you talked me into getting licensed here in D.C. This is becoming a regular event for us.”

“My dear Samantha, I wish that it would be a daily occurrence. Your talents are not wasted teaching our young doctors the skills they need to succeed in pathology, but they could certainly be put to advantageous use with us. It was kind of you to indulge the detective’s wish for a completely unbiased postmortem. Perhaps you’d like to rethink your current path and join us?”

Nocek smiled at her. He was an odd man, cadaverously thin, with thick glasses and a long beak of a nose. He was called Lurch behind his back, or The Fly. He did bear an uncanny resemblance to a winged insect. But he was unfailingly kind, intelligent, intuitive and unafraid to ask for help when he felt it was needed. Sam liked him a great deal.

“I’ll think about it. How many are ill?”

“At this point, reported illnesses have topped two hundred. But still only the three deaths. If this is a biological agent, it could be several days before we are in the clear on mortality rates. It is entirely possible people have been exposed and are simply not showing symptoms yet.”

“I was thinking it could be ricin despite the negative field finding. But it’s not textbook, that’s for sure. What were your findings on the two dead?”

“Internal bleeding, pulmonary edema and hemorrhage. Perhaps anthrax. Do you recall the case in 2001? Five died, seventeen survived. I worked on two of the victims. The findings had some similarities.”

“Similarities, but not exact, right?”

“Yes. I did not witness the external pustules that were apparent in the 2001 cases.”

“We won’t know until the toxicology comes back, so there’s no sense in speculating. But just between us, it looked very much like ricin poisoning to me.”

“Detective Fletcher is not going to want to hear you say that.”

Sam played with the stress ball Nocek kept on his desk. Squish, roll, squish, roll. “Fletch will live. I will tell you this. The congressman had a massive, acute asthma attack, and that was what killed him. He had pneumonia, too, which didn’t look like it was being treated. Until the tests are back on the tissue and blood, I won’t know if he inhaled what everyone else did. But it is feasible his death is unrelated to the attack. Just a matter of bad timing.”

Nocek steepled his considerably long fingers in front of him.

“Do you believe this is the case?”

“I don’t know. Something isn’t right. If he was in acute respiratory distress, there were steps he would have taken. He’d been asthmatic for a very long time, surely this wouldn’t have been his first pulmonary event. I didn’t find any evidence he used an EpiPen. So either things progressed normally and he stupidly forgot his pen today, or...”

“Or?”

She shifted in her seat. “The possibilities are endless. Let’s see what Fletch has to say first. Now, why don’t you show me the bodies of the other two DOAs.”

Chapter 8

Washington, D.C.

Detective Darren Fletcher

Detective Darren Fletcher was getting incredibly frustrated. He had been left sitting in the antechamber of Congressman Leighton’s stuffy office for over half an hour now. He was about to start banging on the door to the great man’s inner sanctum and demand to be seen.

To kill just a bit more time, he checked his phone and saw the new message from the head of his division, Captain Armstrong, who had some semi-interesting news. Fletcher was being assigned to the Joint Terrorism Task Force that was investigating the subway attack. And three different Middle Eastern terror groups had stepped forward to claim responsibility. Fletcher was to report to the JTTF offices as soon as possible to get briefed.

He knew he should be honored, but all he could think about was the other cases he’d been working on that would have to be reassigned. And damn his partner, Lonnie Hart, who was on an island somewhere in the Pacific taking his first vacation in five years. He was still on disability after the shooting three months earlier, and honestly, Fletcher was wondering if he’d ever come back from it.

He didn’t like working alone, true, but the JTTF? All of their open cases would be given away. Fletcher wondered if he could fight to keep on one or two of them but knew that was probably wishful thinking.

His phone began to vibrate. Sam. Finally.

“What’s up?”

“Leighton’s official COD is an asthma attack.”

“I didn’t know he had asthma.”

“You do now. He didn’t have his inhaler on him, so if you could ask around and see if they know what he was taking, it would be a help. Save us the time while we wait for a subpoena of his medical records. Have you found out whether he rode the Metro this morning?”

“I don’t know yet. They’ve kept me waiting.”

“Well, this is just between us then. All signs are pointing to a ricin-like toxin. It looks and acts like it, but it’s not exactly right. It could be some sort of hybrid. I’ve given the samples to Amado for him to run through their lab, so we won’t know anything conclusive until those come back. I’m going to keep hunting to see if I can narrow it down even further. But if you can get a picture of his day, that would help.”

“I’m trying. Thanks, Sam. I’ll pick you up and get you home in just a bit.”

“No hurry. I only had a peek at the other bodies, I’d like to go over them more thoroughly.”