Exposed (48 page)

Maggie left at the same time Platt did. Both of them on a mission to find the killer.

After breakfast he’d given her the shot, his fingers gentle, his eyes comforting. With him so close and without the glass between them Maggie found herself thinking about his conditions of release from the Slammer. No swapping body fluids, not even a kiss. She was surprised to find her mind wondering what might happen without those restrictions.

Now on her way to Quantico, Maggie pulled into a gas-and-shop parking lot. She flipped through the personal phone directory she kept in her briefcase. She punched in the number, expecting to leave a voice message and surprised when he picked up.

“Yeah?”

“Professor Sloane? It’s Agent Maggie O’Dell.”

“Agent O’Dell? What can I do for you?”

“I understand you talked to Agent Tully and Keith Ganza on Saturday about the note we found.”

There was a pause, then a gruff, “Yes, that’s right.”

“I found some things on my own that I’d like to run by you and see if they make a difference in your assessment.”

“What things?”

He sounded defensive. From what Maggie remembered of her brief encounters with the professor, being defensive was nothing unusual.

“You had mentioned that there were some similarities to the anthrax case. I think I may have made some connections to a couple of other cases.”

“Good for you.” There was the George Sloane she knew. “I can’t be racing up to Quantico every time you people have something you want to run by me.”

“Of course, I understand. It’s just that you mentioned the anthrax case. I believe I’ve made a connection to the Tylenol murders in 1982, the Beltway Snipers in 2002 and the Unabomber.”

“All of that? Well, you hardly need me, Agent O’Dell. Sounds like you have it all figured out.”

She ignored his sarcasm. “Except I’m not sure of the significance of any of it other than to show off.”

“To show off?” He sounded angry now rather than defensive. “You think he’s gone through all this trouble just to show off what he knows about a few famous criminals? And tell me, Agent O’Dell, when you find this
show-off
, will he be wearing a double-breasted suit and living with his two elderly sisters?”

Sloane was referring to the Mad Bomber in New York during the 1950s and Dr. James Brussel’s on-target profile.

“You either need my help, Agent O’Dell, or you already have it all figured out.” He was back to his mocking self. “You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.”

She was growing impatient with him. He was playing with her. The cake reference was from the Unabomber’s manifesto. She was on the verge of saying to hell with talking to him but she knew Cunningham had respect for the man’s work. The note and the mailing envelopes were all the evidence they had right now.

“Look, Professor Sloane, I’m just hoping you might be able to help us connect more dots here. Perhaps I could stop in at the university later. I understand it’s fall break this week.”

“Christ,” she heard him mumble. She wondered if he was surprised she had already checked out his schedule. “If it’s that important. I suppose I can make time. Meet me in forty minutes. My office is in the basement of the Old Medical School Building.”

He hung up before she could tell him whether or not that worked. She checked her wristwatch. It would take her at least forty minutes to get to the university.

She leaned back in her car seat. She had a backache. Probably from her morning run. Not true about her headache. It had started before the run. When she’d called Gwen earlier, her friend had told her she shouldn’t go back to work so soon.

“Kiddo, stay home and relax for a couple of days. Or at least work from home.”

Maggie had tried to explain that the best thing for her right now was routine. She didn’t need more time alone to think. She’d had plenty of that in the Slammer.

She punched in another phone number. It went over immediately to voice mail.

“Hey, Tully, it’s Maggie. Sloane agreed to meet at his office in forty minutes. It’s almost noon. I’m heading over to UVA now. I’ll see you over there.”

She sat back up. They didn’t have much to go on. She kept trying to think what Cunningham would advise.
Sometimes the ordinary becomes the invisible.
What wasn’t she seeing here?

That’s when she felt something drip down her chin. On the steering wheel was a drop of blood.

She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. Just the sight of blood dripping from her nose stirred up a panic. She grabbed for a tissue.
This wasn’t happening.
And just as quickly she tried to calm herself.
It didn’t mean anything. It was just a nosebleed.

She held the tissue to her nose and leaned her head back against the car’s headrest. She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing.

Oh, God, a nosebleed.

USAMRIID

Platt stood in front of Commander Janklow’s desk, unflinching and prepared for an attack.

“You were out of line, Colonel Platt,” Janklow told him. “I didn’t authorize you to release the vaccine to anyone.”

“I had no direct orders that forbid it, sir. And as the head of this mission—”

“Cut the crap, Platt.”

Janklow surprised him. His voice was impatient, bordering on not just anger but something else. There was an edge to it.

Platt waited, not sure how to respond. Not sure how far to push. This morning the man looked shredded, though his uniform was pressed as usual and his office tidy. His stance slouched a bit at the shoulders. His face creased in places Platt had never noticed before. His eyes were bloodshot. And when he showed his hands, Platt could see a slight tremor in the fingers.

“At some point in your career, Dr. Platt—if you still have a career available—you will need to choose between being a soldier, a doctor or a politician. The three contradict each other on many levels. They cannot coexist for long. Today you’re choosing to be a doctor. That’s fine. You probably think that’s noble. I’m here to tell you, it’s not noble. It’s foolish.”

He turned away from Platt to stare out his window, and for a minute Platt thought he was dismissing him. Platt decided he had to push.

“Sir, I think I know why you did it.”

Janklow turned slowly, eyebrows raised but his face still angry.

“What is it, Dr. Platt, that you
think
I did?”

“I considered it myself. That the Ebola may have come from our own labs. You want to protect USAMRIID. After the anthrax debacle I can understand—”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sir, I just know—”

“Did you find any Ebola samples missing?”

“No, sir, I did not, but it would be difficult—”

The hand went up to stop him. Palm facing out. A definite tremor.

“There are no Ebola samples missing from USAMRIID.”

Platt kept his shoulders back, his stance tall, his face impassive.

“Let me ask you this, Dr. Platt…” Janklow’s voice leveled to normal. “Do you have any idea how much the vaccine for Ebola brings on the black market?”

Platt stared at him and he could see it wasn’t a question Janklow expected an answer to.

“I better find out that you have no clue,” Janklow warned. “Because although there are no Ebola tissue samples missing from this facility there is vaccine missing.”

USAMRIID

Platt stood in front of Commander Janklow’s desk, unflinching and prepared for an attack.

“You were out of line, Colonel Platt,” Janklow told him. “I didn’t authorize you to release the vaccine to anyone.”

“I had no direct orders that forbid it, sir. And as the head of this mission—”

“Cut the crap, Platt.”

Janklow surprised him. His voice was impatient, bordering on not just anger but something else. There was an edge to it.

Platt waited, not sure how to respond. Not sure how far to push. This morning the man looked shredded, though his uniform was pressed as usual and his office tidy. His stance slouched a bit at the shoulders. His face creased in places Platt had never noticed before. His eyes were bloodshot. And when he showed his hands, Platt could see a slight tremor in the fingers.

“At some point in your career, Dr. Platt—if you still have a career available—you will need to choose between being a soldier, a doctor or a politician. The three contradict each other on many levels. They cannot coexist for long. Today you’re choosing to be a doctor. That’s fine. You probably think that’s noble. I’m here to tell you, it’s not noble. It’s foolish.”

He turned away from Platt to stare out his window, and for a minute Platt thought he was dismissing him. Platt decided he had to push.

“Sir, I think I know why you did it.”

Janklow turned slowly, eyebrows raised but his face still angry.

“What is it, Dr. Platt, that you
think
I did?”

“I considered it myself. That the Ebola may have come from our own labs. You want to protect USAMRIID. After the anthrax debacle I can understand—”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sir, I just know—”

“Did you find any Ebola samples missing?”

“No, sir, I did not, but it would be difficult—”

The hand went up to stop him. Palm facing out. A definite tremor.

“There are no Ebola samples missing from USAMRIID.”

Platt kept his shoulders back, his stance tall, his face impassive.

“Let me ask you this, Dr. Platt…” Janklow’s voice leveled to normal. “Do you have any idea how much the vaccine for Ebola brings on the black market?”

Platt stared at him and he could see it wasn’t a question Janklow expected an answer to.

“I better find out that you have no clue,” Janklow warned. “Because although there are no Ebola tissue samples missing from this facility there is vaccine missing.”

Reston, Virginia

Tully found Emma in her usual lounge spot, in the living room on the floor and in front of a blaring TV. He was relieved to see no packages. Just the regular teenage mess of magazines and junk food.

A news brief interrupted her television show. She muted the sound, but Tully asked her to turn it back on when he saw that it was a press conference at Saint Francis Hospital in Chicago. There wasn’t anything he didn’t already know. Two doctors and a CDC guy fielding questions and keeping to the basics. In the corner of the screen was a picture of Markus Schroder. It looked like a wedding shot and included his wife. The guy looked like an ordinary joe. An accountant, they were saying, for a Chicago firm. Tully didn’t recognize him. He’d batted the name around his brain all morning and couldn’t place it. Even now as he studied the photo there was nothing he recognized about the man. Then Tully glanced at the wife. There was something familiar about the eyes. Did he know her?

“It’s so sad,” Emma was saying.

“Did they say the wife’s name?”

“Yeah, something with a
V
. Vera, maybe.”

Vera Schroder. No, the name didn’t mean anything to Tully, either.

“Gotta go, sweet pea. Remember everything I said, okay?”

He was back on the road again. He got Maggie’s message and revised his route. It would take him more than forty minutes to UVA. He was looking for a radio station with more news from Chicago when his cell phone rang.

“This is Agent Tully.”

“Conrad’s mom got one of those cute little packages filled with money, too.” It was Caroline again and even more angry. “What the hell’s going on, Tully?”

The realization hit him and it felt as if Caroline’s words had injected ice water into his veins. He could see everything so clearly.

He had recognized Vera Schroder. And now he remembered where. It was a photo from a newspaper clipping that his roommate had insisted he keep tacked on their bulletin board to motivate him. A distraught young woman, devastated at finding her parents dead in their home after taking cyanide-laced Tylenol. Only, her name wasn’t Schroder then. It was Vera Sloane. She was George Sloane’s sister.

Reston, Virginia

Tully found Emma in her usual lounge spot, in the living room on the floor and in front of a blaring TV. He was relieved to see no packages. Just the regular teenage mess of magazines and junk food.

A news brief interrupted her television show. She muted the sound, but Tully asked her to turn it back on when he saw that it was a press conference at Saint Francis Hospital in Chicago. There wasn’t anything he didn’t already know. Two doctors and a CDC guy fielding questions and keeping to the basics. In the corner of the screen was a picture of Markus Schroder. It looked like a wedding shot and included his wife. The guy looked like an ordinary joe. An accountant, they were saying, for a Chicago firm. Tully didn’t recognize him. He’d batted the name around his brain all morning and couldn’t place it. Even now as he studied the photo there was nothing he recognized about the man. Then Tully glanced at the wife. There was something familiar about the eyes. Did he know her?

“It’s so sad,” Emma was saying.

“Did they say the wife’s name?”

“Yeah, something with a
V
. Vera, maybe.”

Vera Schroder. No, the name didn’t mean anything to Tully, either.

“Gotta go, sweet pea. Remember everything I said, okay?”

He was back on the road again. He got Maggie’s message and revised his route. It would take him more than forty minutes to UVA. He was looking for a radio station with more news from Chicago when his cell phone rang.

“This is Agent Tully.”

“Conrad’s mom got one of those cute little packages filled with money, too.” It was Caroline again and even more angry. “What the hell’s going on, Tully?”

The realization hit him and it felt as if Caroline’s words had injected ice water into his veins. He could see everything so clearly.

He had recognized Vera Schroder. And now he remembered where. It was a photo from a newspaper clipping that his roommate had insisted he keep tacked on their bulletin board to motivate him. A distraught young woman, devastated at finding her parents dead in their home after taking cyanide-laced Tylenol. Only, her name wasn’t Schroder then. It was Vera Sloane. She was George Sloane’s sister.