Plum Island

Stevens then handed out blue clip-on passes, which we dutifully affixed to our clothing. He asked us, "Are any of you armed?"

I replied, "I believe we all are, but you'd be well advised not to ask for our guns."

Stevens looked at me and replied, "That's exactly what I'm going to ask for. Firearms are absolutely prohibited on the island." He added, "I have a lock box here where your pistols will be safe."

I said, "My pistol is safe where it is now."

Max added, " Plum Island is within the jurisdiction of Southold Township. I am the law on Plum Island."

Stevens considered a long moment, then said, "I suppose the prohibition doesn't apply to law officers."

Beth said, "You can be sure it doesn't."

Stevens, his little power play foiled, accepted defeat with good grace and smiled. It was, however, the kind of smile that, in the movies, the creepy villain gives before saying, "You have won this battle, sir, but I assure you, we will meet again." Click heels, turn, stomp off.

But Mr. Stevens was stuck with us for the time being, and he said, "Why don't we go on the top deck?"

We followed our host up the stairs, through the cabin, and outside to a staircase that led to a nice deck above the cabin. No one else was on the deck.

Mr. Stevens indicated a grouping of seats. The boat was making about fifteen miles an hour, which I think is about two hundred knots. Maybe a little less. It was a bit breezy up top, but quieter away from the engines. The mist was burning off and sunlight suddenly broke through.

I could see into the glass-enclosed bridge where the captain stood at the steering wheel, aka helm, talking to the mate. From the stern below flew an American flag, snapping in the wind.

I sat facing the bow, with Beth to my right, Max to my left, Stevens across from me, and Nash and Foster on either side of him. Stevens remarked, "The scientists who work in biocontainment always ride up here unless the weather is really foul. You know, they don't see the sun for eight to ten hours." He added, "I asked that we have some privacy this morning."

To my left, I saw the Orient Point Lighthouse, which is not one of the old-fashioned stone towers built on a headland, but a modern steel structure built on rocks. Its nickname is "The Coffeepot" because it's supposed to look like one, but I don't get it. You know, sailors mistake sea cows for mermaids, porpoises for sea serpents, clouds for ghost ships, and on and on. If you spend enough time at sea, you get a little batty, I think.

I looked at Stevens and our eyes met. The man really had one of those rare, never forgotten wax faces. I mean, nothing moved but the mouth, and the eyes bored right into you.

Paul Stevens addressed his guests and said, "Well, let me begin by saying that I knew Tom and Judy Gordon. They were well regarded by everyone on Plum — staff, scientists, animal handlers, lab people, maintenance people, security people — everyone. They treated all their fellow workers with courtesy and respect." His mouth made a sort of weird smile. "We'll sure miss them."

I had the sudden notion that this guy could be a government assassin. Yeah. What if it was the government who whacked Tom and Judy? Jeez, it just hit me that maybe the Gordons knew something or saw something, or were going to blow the whistle on something… As my partner, Dom Fanelli, would say, "Mama mia!" This was a whole new possibility. I looked at Stevens and tried to read something in those icy eyes, but he was a cool actor, as he'd shown on the gangplank.

Stevens was going on, "As soon as I heard about the deaths last night, I called my security sergeant on the island and tried to determine if anything was missing from the labs — not that I would suspect the Gordons of such a thing, but the way the murder was reported to me… well, we have standard operating procedures here."

I looked at Beth and our eyes met. I hadn't had a chance to say a word to her this morning, so I winked at her. She apparently couldn't trust her emotions so she turned away.

Stevens went on, "I had one of my security patrol boats take me to Plum very early this morning, and I did a preliminary investigation. As far as I can determine at this point in time, there is nothing missing from any of the stored micro-organisms or any stored samples of tissue, blood, or any other organic or biological material."

This statement was so patently self-serving and idiotic that no one even bothered to laugh. But Max did glance at me and shake his head. Messrs. Nash and Foster, however, were nodding as if they were buying Stevens' baloney. Thus encouraged, Mr. Stevens, aware that he was among fellow government-employed friends, continued to put out the line of official crap.

You can imagine how much bullshit I have to listen to in my professional life — suspects, witnesses, informants, and even my own team, like ADAs, brass, incompetent subordinates, low pols, and so forth. Bullshit and cowshit, the former being a gross and aggressive distortion of the truth, while the latter is a milder, more passive crock of crap. And that's the way it is with police work. Bullshit and cow-shit. No one's going to tell you the truth. Especially if you're trying to send them to the electric chair, or whatever they're using these days.

I listened awhile as Mr. Paul Stevens explained why no one could get a single virus or bacteria off the island, not even a case of crotch itch, if we were to believe Pinocchio Stevens.

I gripped my right ear and twisted, which is how I tune out idiots. With Stevens' voice now far away, I looked out at the beautiful blue morning. The New London ferry was inbound and passed us off our left side, which I happen to know is called the port side. The one and a half miles of water between Orient Point and Plum Island is known as Plum Gut, another nautical term. There are a lot of nautical terms out here, and they give me a headache sometimes. I mean, what's wrong with regular English?

Anyway, I know that the Gut is a place where the currents get bad because the Long Island Sound and the open Atlantic sort of smack together in the Gut. I was with the Gordons once, in their speedboat, when we got into a situation right about here with the wind, the tide, and the currents slapping the boat around. I really don't need a day like that on the water, if you know what I mean.

But today was okay, and the Gut was calm and the boat was big. There was a little rocking, but I guess that can't be helped on the water, which is basically liquid and nowhere near as reliable as blacktop.

Well, it was a nice view from out here, and while Mr. Stevens was flapping his gums, I watched a big osprey circling. These things are weird, I mean totally crazy birds. I watched this guy circling, looking for breakfast, then he spotted it, and began this insane kamikaze dive into the water, shrieking like his balls were on fire, then he hit the water, disappeared, then shot up and out like he had a rocket up his ass. In his talons was a silver fish who'd been just paddling along down there, chomping minnows or something, and whoosh, he's airborne, about to slide down the gullet of this crazy bird. I mean, the silver fish maybe has a wife, kids, and whatever, and he goes out for a little breakfast and before he can bat an eye, he is breakfast. Survival of the fittest and all that. Awesome. Totally.

We were about a quarter mile from Plum Island when a strange but familiar noise caught our attention. Then we saw it — a big white helicopter with red Coast Guard markings passed us off our starboard side. The guy was going low and slow, and leaning out the door of the helicopter was a man, secured by straps or something. The man was wearing a uniform, a radio helmet, and was carrying a rifle.

Mr. Stevens commented, "That's the deer patrol." He explained, "As a purely precautionary measure, we look for deer that might swim to or from Plum Island."