Capitol Reflections (16 page)
“Hey!” Gwen said enthusiastically into the phone. “Tell me what you’ve got.” She turned off the range and looked at Jack, mouthing the words, “Going to check the mail.”
Jack nodded and continued scanning the Sports section.
Outside, Gwen spoke more freely. “Sorry, Jan. Jack would think I’m a little nuts to be pursuing this, so I had to move outside. He was just a few feet away.”
“Well, he wouldn’t think you’re nuts if he could see the data that I’m looking at now.”
“That’s debatable,” Gwen said, “but more to the point, tell me what BioNet found.”
“BioNet shows definite seizure spikes in New York City during an extremely short period of time. Keep in mind that our system has been running for less than a year, but the data is pretty conclusive. What it means is another matter altogether.”
“Give me some specifics, Jan, before I go out of my mind.”
“Okay. Here goes. The week Marci Newman died, three other New Yorkers died in emergency rooms, all having suffered seizures. Furthermore, from the second week in May to the first week in June, BioNet registers four, three, six, and five deaths per week, respectively, for a total of eighteen in New York City.”
Gwen let out a low whistle under her breath. “That’s incredible.”
“It gets scarier. During that same time period, 126 people were admitted to ERs with seizures that didn’t prove fatal. The patients were discharged uneventfully.”
“What other symptoms did the fatalities present?”
“I can only give you info for fifteen. According to BioNet, no postmortem exam was conducted for three of the deceased. Their families were probably very well-placed and pulled some strings since most people would rather not think of their loved ones lying on an autopsy table. Of the fifteen, however, one had diabetes and one had seriously occluded coronary arteries. The rest had no prior medical history to speak of.”
“Toxicology reports?”
“I’ll give you the overview so we won’t talk for the next four hours and cause poor Jack to think you’re having an affair. I can e-mail the specifics to your office later. Here’s a quick breakdown of substances identified by labwork and how many of the fifteen had them in their systems at the time of death. Marijuana, three. Sudafed, one. Antibiotics, four, tetracycline and Bactrim. Blood thinners, one. All fifteen had either aspirin, ibuprofen, or Tylenol. Caffeine, fourteen. Thirteen were smokers, which is a bit high since people are cutting back these days, but young professionals in big cities still have a higher incidence of tobacco use.”
“Young professionals?” asked Gwen.
“The stats are definitely skewed toward young adults. Eleven of the fifteen were under thirty-five. Most had high-powered jobs. Turns out age is a part of this bizarre trend after all.”
It was time for the million-dollar question. “What does BioNet say about the statistical probability of this kind of seizure activity in a city as large as New York?”
“Factoring in the 126 patients who were discharged—and 74 percent of them were fairly young, too, by the way—BioNet The All-Knowing says that there’s only a 4 percent chance of such an occurrence during the four-week period. That’s low by anyone’s standards. Seizures happen for various reasons in the general population across all age groups, but for a total of 144 patients to be treated at medical facilities for seizures in that short a time is pretty unusual. Hell, you know that better than anyone, Gwen. But we can refine the stats even further. Factoring out the one person who had occluded arteries, and assuming the other three for which no data was available were healthy, BioNet calculates a probability of only 3.7 percent that seventeen seizure fatalities would be recorded in predominately young patients without known complications or serious preexisting conditions, with a margin of error of 0.2 percent.”
“So what the hell went wrong in New York back in May?” asked Gwen. “This sure as hell sounds like a health hazard to me. Does BioNet have any predictions as to possible causes?”
“Whoa there, Captain. I’ve only given you the tip of the iceberg. The phenomenon isn’t confined to New York City.”
There was a long silence on both ends of the line.
“That’s right,” Jan continued. “In 2004, eighty-six seizure patients were admitted to emergency rooms in Denver between October 3rd and December 10th, with twelve of those reported as fatal. Seizure spikes also occurred briefly within the past year in the metro areas of Boston, Chicago, Kansas City, Trenton, Miami, Detroit, Los Angeles, Milwaukee, St. Louis, Phoenix, and numerous smaller cities that have a large enough population for which data was fed to BioNet.”
“Without chapter and verse, what’s the general story in these cities?” asked Gwen, whose mind was in computer crash mode.
“The scenario is pretty much analogous to New York in every single city. A few people were older or had some recognizable medical condition, but not many. Most were treated and released, with a certain percentage of those admitted—5 to 15 percent—listed as fatalities. According to BioNet, the statistical probability of the New York scenario playing out again in so many other places is about one in a trillion. It’s just not in the realm of possibility. The odds are about the same as a meteor hitting the Earth tomorrow morning. We’ve got ourselves a mystery, Dr. Maulder.”
“Any similarities in toxicology reports?”
“It runs the gamut, Gwen. There were a lot of legal and illegal drugs in people’s systems, including both OTC and prescription medicines. Almost all patients were caffeine users—big surprise—but a whopping 78.8 percent of these people smoked. That’s way above the national average, even for younger people who still think it’s cool to smoke or that there’s time to quit before their lungs are charred.”
“What’s the protocol, Jan? This is big. The CDC is surely going to send out field investigators to start interviewing ER doctors, survivors, and relatives of the deceased, right? Maybe start taking air, water, and soil samples?”
Jan took a deep breath. “I submitted the findings to my superiors, and the official response was ‘collect more data and regard the findings as highly confidential.’ The CDC obviously doesn’t want to start a panic, but I would think some pretty thorough investigations should be forthcoming.”
“Simply incredible,” said Gwen. “I need to get back inside before Jack thinks I’ve gone missing, but let me know if BioNet comes up with anything else. Thanks for everything, Jan.”
“No problem, Doc.”
Gwen pressed a button to end the call and walked up the driveway.
The grilled cheese sandwiches had gone cold. Jack was still reading the paper and hadn’t bothered to touch the one she’d already set before him when the phone rang.
Down in the basement of the Maulder home, Jack occupied himself by measuring the wall studs for Gwen’s new office, while his brain continued to cycle over a confusing set of developments. Gwen was being secretive. She’d come back inside with no mail, looking pale as a ghost. When he asked her what was wrong, she said she’d been talking to someone from the CDC about a report that Chinese passengers arriving at U.S. airports were complaining of high fevers. Jack knew that Gwen would never discuss serious business in her shorts out by the mailbox on Saturdays.
She was obviously hiding something. But what the hell was it?
21
Mark Stern strolled down Pennsylvania Avenue after meeting with an old friend, United States representative Rick Mecklenberg, a thirty-eight-year-old Democrat from Denver, Colorado. Both Rick and Mark had attended the Columbia School of Journalism, but Rick’s righteous indignation had grown with each passing scandal until he could no longer sit on the sidelines. “I’ve decided to stop covering the news and become the news,” he told Mark years earlier, sitting at a corner bar in Greenwich Village.
Rick had been one of Mark’s best confidential sources for the past five years, although representative Mecklenberg’s services had not been in much demand when Mark was profiling aristocrats for the
Journal
. Mark was in Washington now, however, and wanted to check in with his old classmate and colleague to find out if anything juicy was currently traveling the political grapevine.
Journal
. Mark was in Washington now, however, and wanted to check in with his old classmate and colleague to find out if anything juicy was currently traveling the political grapevine.
“Nothing terribly unusual at present,” Rick told Mark over lunch. “A prominent senator will quietly check himself into rehab next week for prescription drug abuse. He’s the third one this month, by the way. Technodyne Systems will be investigated by the Appropriations Committee for kickbacks regarding the hang fire missile it’s producing for the army. Just routine stuff that’s normal for this town.”
The two men laughed as they devoured turkey club sandwiches.
“But keep an eye on Senator Henry Broome,” continued Rick.
“There are those in the GOP who think Broome may be the party’s presidential nominee in 2012, depending on what happens in 2008. Some observers think Broome might even get the nod for Veep next time around. The guy steamrolls his competition. He’s charming, suave, and absolutely ruthless. Also a ladies’ man—which could be his undoing if he’s not careful.”
On the way out of the restaurant, Rick turned to Mark and said, “Hey, are you seeing anyone? Wendy has this friend, met her during a fundraiser a few years back. Really politically active, with legs that don’t quit—”
“Thanks,” Mark replied. “I’m still settling in. Maybe in a few months.”
“Okay, pal, but you’re not getting younger.”
“Thanks, you bastard,” Mark said jokingly. “Keep in touch.”
“Give ’em hell in your column,” Rick said as he got in his car.
Mark decided to walk around a bit. He’d been in Washington often before, but he wanted to take some extra time to wander the streets, maybe even stroll down the Mall to get a whiff of the intangible life of the city.
But first, he needed to assuage his thirst. The restaurant only served Pepsi, and Mark was an unmitigated Coke-a-holic. Coca-Cola was, in fact, the only stock in which he’d invested since he was convinced that people were never going to stop drinking “the real thing.” Coke was a proven winner on Wall Street and as conservative an investment as one could make. The rest of his money, including what remained of his million-dollar termination bonanza after the taxman had cometh, was in CDs and T-bills. His lawyer had once remarked, “You must be the only employee of the
Journal
to be thoroughly bored by the subject of investment strategies and portfolios.”
Journal
to be thoroughly bored by the subject of investment strategies and portfolios.”
He came across a soda machine one block away. Feeding it a dollar bill, he jabbed the Coke button—classic red with caffeine and a ton of sugar, no diet please—but the machine stiffed him. Mark engaged in the great American reflex of hitting the machine, following the gesture with a swift kick to the plastic casing. The large machine, cold to the touch and humming with electricity, maintained its mechanical aloofness and withheld Mark’s Coke.
“
C’est la vie,
” the reporter sighed, only to have his aimless wandering arrested by a Pequod’s sign in his peripheral vision.
C’est la vie,
” the reporter sighed, only to have his aimless wandering arrested by a Pequod’s sign in his peripheral vision.
Pequod’s. Mark wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, but it was time to head on back to the office, and he needed a jump-start since his digestive system was claiming his brain’s much-needed blood supply.
Reluctantly, he went into the store and ordered one of their espresso-caramel-whipped cream concoctions. He felt like a yuppie, but sometimes necessity caused you to do things. If only Gwen could see him in a Pequod’s store, she would—
“Not gonna go there,” he said aloud, censoring his thought process. Mark made his way to the long table opposite the coffee bar to get a napkin and a spoon. He stopped, his attention snared by a photograph on the wall a few feet away. Billy Hamlin, chairman and CEO of Pequod’s, smiled confidently from the picture, causing Mark to speculate that Billy boy was also smiling from the walls of several thousand other Pequod’s stores. It was dangerous to judge people by appearances, but Mark prided himself on his ability to size people up very quickly, and Hamlin seemed like a decent fellow. Odd, thought Mark, that such a young man had been able to make Pequod’s coffee America’s premier eye-opener.
He left the restaurant, took three sips of the coffee concoction, and pitched the cup into the first wire trash receptacle he saw.
The ads were right. Coke was the real thing.
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