“May I see him?”
“I don’t think you should, until we’ve found out exactly what’s wrong with him, and I’d like to take a blood sample from you before you go home.”
“You think he might be contagious?”
“I really don’t know yet, but we’re working on it.”
“I’ll be glad to give you a blood sample,” she said. “Will you please tell Tim that I’ll be back in the morning to see him?”
“Of course I will,” the doctor said.
TED POINTED THE RV south on I-95 and headed for Virginia. He’d find an RV park along the way and get some sleep.
17
BOB KINNEY STOPPED at a pancake house for breakfast and opened his Washington Post. He was presented with a large photograph of the Arlington arson inspector accompanied by an interview about the facts surrounding the death of Van Vandervelt, including an extensive description of the bomb, some of which had to have come from the FBI people on the crime scene.
Kinney was an advocate of the Bureau being as open as possible with local law enforcement, but it seemed that every time they opened up, some local guy would jump in and either take credit for the investigation or reveal a great deal more than he should about it. Now the killer knew most of what the FBI knew about his technique of bomb building.
He finished his breakfast and went to the office. Helen was waiting for him with a notebook in her hand. “Have you been watching TV this morning?” she asked.
“No, I hate those shrieking tourists outside the morning shows.”
“Something has happened you may be interested in.”
“Not another murder of a right-winger.”
“A death, yes. Who knows if it’s murder?” She consulted her notebook. “This is what I gleaned on three channels: Tim Brennan, who is half the Broadside program on CNN, came home from work last night feeling ill, and in the middle of his dinner started throwing up. His wife got him to an emergency room where doctors found he had symptoms of a bacterial infection, which they were unable to identify.”
“Oh, my God,” Kinney half-moaned.
“What?”
“Go on.”
“He died at five o’clock this morning. That’s it.”
“Where did he die?”
“At a hospital in New Jersey.”
“Get me the head of pathology at that hospital.”
Helen returned to her desk and, a moment later, buzzed him. “Dr. Mendelson on the line.”
“Dr. Mendelson?”
“Yes?”
“This is Robert Kinney, deputy director for investigations at the FBI.”
“Good morning, Mr. Kinney.”
“Do you have the remains of Tim Brennan at your facility?”
“Yes, he’s on ice in my morgue.”
“Have you performed an autopsy yet?”
“No, I was about to go and attend to that myself.”
“Please don’t do that, Doctor, at least not yet. I want to send an FBI forensic pathologist and some special equipment up there to work with you on the postmortem.”
“Why?”
“Do you have Brennan’s medical record handy?”
“Right here. What would you like to know?”
“Cause of death.”
Mendelson shuffled some papers. “Bacterial infection, unidentified.”
“Doctor, the unidentified nature of the infection is a red flag for a possible biological or chemical assault.”
“Assault?”
“Whatever Mr. Brennan had may have been induced.”
“That’s very disturbing, but it’s not the first time we’ve had trouble identifying the cause of an infection, Mr. Kinney. What causes you to believe that Mr. Kinney may have suffered an assault?”
“There are other factors surrounding this death that tend to support such a conclusion. I can’t go into it now, but until our pathologist arrives I strongly suggest that you quarantine your morgue and keep anyone involved in Mr. Brennan’s treatment before his death under close observation for symptoms resembling his. I also suggest that you keep this as quiet as you can, under the circumstances, and that, in particular, you issue no statements to the press, except a statement announcing the time and supposed cause of death and say that an autopsy will be conducted in due course, but that’s all.”
“All right, Mr. Kinney,” the doctor replied, sounding worried.
“I should be able to have my people with you by mid-afternoon. Please call me if you have any questions between now and then.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kinney. I’ll certainly look forward to seeing your people here.”
Kinney hung up, then called the lab and gave instructions to assemble a team and get them to New Jersey, then he called the Trenton FBI office and instructed them to send an agent to interview Brennan’s wife. “I want to know if Brennan told her about any sort of encounter with a stranger in the hours between the time he left his office and arrived home, especially any sort of physical contact. I’m thinking about a fan who may have shaken his hand, a panhandler, a drunk-anybody at all.”
He hung up and called the New York City office and instructed them to send agents to interview anyone at CNN with whom Brennan had had contact during the hours between his arrival at and departure from CNN, with particular attention paid to any illness among them. “Tell your agents to remember that they’re talking to newspeople and to take care not to alarm them. Just see if any of them called in sick today.”
Helen came back into his office. “Have we got another victim?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, “but, given the circumstances, I hope not.”
KINNEY REMAINED at his desk, waiting to hear from his pathologist. The call came shortly after seven o’clock.
“You want a summary, or all the details?” the doctor asked.
“Let’s start with a summary.”
“We conducted a full-blown antibiological field autopsy, complete with all the gear-sealed suits, the works. None of Brennan’s blood work or tissue samples revealed any pathogen, biological or chemical. Everything came back normal. None of the people who came into contact with Brennan at the hospital have exhibited any symptoms of infection.”
“Cause of death?”
“Complete collapse of the cardiopulmonary system, with no apparent underlying cause.”
“Jesus.”
“Exactly. I’m bringing blood and tissue samples back to D.C. with me, and I’ll run further tests and issue a report in a day or two.”
“Did you find any sign of external injury?”
“He had a shaving cut, apparently inflicted yesterday sometime, and there was a small puncture mark on the left calf muscle, just below the knee. I examined his trousers at that location and found a tiny trace of xylocaine present.”
“That’s a local anesthetic, isn’t it? The sort of thing you get at the dentist’s?”
“Or in the emergency room, if you’re, say, getting a cut stitched. You want my best guess?”
“Please.”
“By some unknown means he was injected with a fluid containing an unknown pathogen and xylocaine. The anesthetic would relieve any pain from the puncture almost immediately, so Brennan would get over it quickly. I think the pathogen was chemical, rather than biological.”
“So he was poisoned?”
“That’s what it amounts to, but so far, there is absolutely no trace of the poison, not even on the clothing where I found the xylocaine. And that is very disturbing.”
“An unanalyzable poison?”
“Yes. Such things do exist. A poison can be made by combining two common household cleaning agents in the right proportions. When ingested, it causes death within twenty-four hours, and it cannot be analyzed. Also, if some stranger injected the poison, it would have to have been done very quickly, so as not to arouse Brennan’s suspicions, so the amount would have to have been very small, certainly much less than a cubic centimeter.”