Lethal Exposure (10 page)

CHAPTER 13

Wednesday, 6:15 A.M.

Fox River Medical Center

Intensive Care Ward

Craig slouched in an orange plastic chair, half asleep outside Goldfarb’s hospital room.

While the inhabitants of Aurora, Illinois, began to stir for the work day, he sat weary and lost in his thoughts, going over the events that had brought him to this point, sleepless outside Intensive Care where his partner might live or die.

The doctor had finally taken the time to explain Goldfarb’s condition and his prognosis. The other agent lay in a coma, shot twice with his own handgun. The first bullet had entered the upper right chest at an oblique angle, fracturing a rib and damaging the right lung. The second shot, more serious, had struck the left chest, contusing and lacerating the lung, causing what the doctor called a “hemopneumothorax.” A tube had been inserted into the chest to drain blood and release trapped air. The delay in rushing Goldfarb to the hospital had nearly cost him his life.

The good-natured agent remained sedated to keep him from tearing at the respiratory tubes, and he had grown no stronger through the night. The surgeons refused to bring him around so he could identify his assailant.

Earlier, Craig had driven to the Fermilab blockhouse where Goldfarb had been shot. Agent Schultz took him through the scene, but Craig had been unable to come up with any clues, any insights. Schultz and his own team were stumped as well, and he seemed more than willing to let Craig have his hand on this case. The Chicago agent had plenty of other pending cases back in his main office.

In another part of the medical center, Trish hovered around Georg Dumenco hour after hour, witnessing each step of his degeneration. It would be an ironic twist of fate, Craig thought grimly, if Goldfarb slipped away before the Ukrainian did.

Before the rest of the hospital began its bustle, Trish LeCroix stopped in front of him, crossing her arms over her chest. He looked up, seeing that she had pinned her dark hair back with a pair of coral barrettes. In the open front of her white lab coat she wore a thin gold chain around her neck. Craig dimly recalled that he had given her that chain for their . . . was it their six-month anniversary? He couldn’t remember.

Now Trish feigned a smile, her lips were a deep red, a color of lipstick that set off her pale skin and dark hair to good effect. Even during the long night’s vigil, she had found time to touch up her appearance. “Let’s try not to fill up any more rooms in the ICU, understand?” she said. “Take care of yourself.”

“Don’t you chew me out, too,” he said with a hint of harshness brought on by fatigue. “My boss already did that last night.”

She reached forward to squeeze his shoulder, then meticulously brushed wrinkles from his rumpled suit jacket. “I didn’t mean it as criticism, Craig, but as concern. I don’t want you to end up in one of these hospital beds because of this case.”

Without another word, she hurried back toward Dumenco’s room. Once again Trish had left before Craig could think of the right thing to say. His mind was too befuddled with weariness and worry. He glanced at his watch. This time yesterday, Goldfarb had been handing him a cup of Starbucks coffee as he got off the red-eye flight from San Francisco.

Down the hall, with a quiet chime of a bell, the elevator opened. Craig lifted his head sluggishly, ashamed at himself for wallowing in guilt. Disbelieving, he saw the tall dark form of Randall Jackson emerge wearing his dark FBI suit and tie, his expression grave.

Beside him came a much shorter woman with two small girls in tow, each holding one of their mother’s hands. Craig recognized Julene Goldfarb, as well as the curly-haired agent’s two daughters Megan and Gwendolyn, ages six and four.

He stood out of respect, once again finding his vocal chords empty of comforting words or phrases. “Julene,” he finally whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

She hurried forward and let him fold her awkwardly in his arms. Julene had used rubber bands to pull her pale brown hair into long pigtails; she wore no makeup, scrubbing her face clean because she had been crying. He had never seen her look so disheveled. A well-mannered daughter from a large Southern family, Julene maintained her personal appearance as if it were a uniform—now, though, she must have thrown a simple bag together, grabbed the kids, and rushed to the airport.

The two little girls stood concerned by their mother’s side. Megan, the older, went to the door of the intensive care hallway and peeked through the narrow wire-mesh window. “Is Daddy in there?” Her voice trembled.

“He’s hurt, Megan. The doctors are trying to make him better,” Jackson answered. His face grew stormy.

Julene drew a gulp of air. Her words were muffled in the breast of Craig’s jacket. “I always knew he was going to get shot. I knew it! I warned him about every assignment he went on.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t with him at the time, Julene,” Craig said.

She pulled away and looked up at him, angry. “Why? So you could have been shot too?” Her Southern drawl extended with her stress, blurring her words. She shook her head, flopping the pigtails from side to side.

“Ben is passionate about his job. He loves running out on cases like a cowboy. And he loves working with
you
, Craig. He never shuts up about all the good times you have together, all the excitement.” She blinked furiously, refusing to let more tears spill. “If I put my foot down and forced him to a desk job, I know he’d do it for me—” She swallowed another lungful of air. “But if I forced him to make that decision, then I would lose him as sure as by a gunshot. He’d be dead to me, unhappy and bored.”

She swallowed hard, then finally forced herself to look through the window and down the hall.

“It’ll be all right, Julene,” Craig said, grasping her by the elbows and looking into her greenish-blue eyes. “Ben’s going to pull through this.” He hoped she believed his optimism better than he did.

A doctor walked down the hall and came through the swinging door. Dressed in green scrubs, he had been the ER trauma team leader when Goldfarb was admitted. Craig introduced Julene, and the doctor looked weary as he nodded. “I’ll take you on back. But please don’t disturb the nurses. Your husband’s in critical condition, and we’re doing everything we can.” Julene and the girls followed him to Goldfarb’s room, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Craig remained in the hall with Jackson. The tall agent kept his face set in a grim mask, but his eyes were bright and icy. “So what have you found out so far, Craig? Who’s the bastard that did this?”

“No clues yet,” Craig answered. “No motive, no evidence. But Ben stumbled upon something—I don’t know much else, except that Trish must have been right about foul play in Dumenco’s so-called accident. There’s too much involved here. Someone intentionally caused his lethal exposure, someone was responsible for that substation explosion, and someone shot Ben.”

Craig shook his head, running his fingers through his chestnut hair. “This was supposed to be just a quick little favor for an old girlfriend, to poke around and see if we could uncover something the accident investigators had missed. June chewed me out for it, and now Ben might die.”

Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. “But now that it’s an official case, we can bring the full resources of a federal investigation to bear. And even better—
I’m
on the case with you.” He met Craig’s eyes with a hard stare. “You and I aren’t going to let anyone get away with doing this to Ben, are we?”

Craig saw Julene and the two girls standing down the hall outside Goldfarb’s room. The doctor spoke quietly to them, but no one seemed to be listening.

Craig’s heart pounded, the anger pulsing in his own temples. “No Randall,” he said. “No, we’re not.”

CHAPTER 14

Wednesday, 7:21 A.M.

Fox River Medical Center

It was time to work, time to continue the investigation. Jackson’s presence was just the incentive Craig needed to dive into the case. The other agent didn’t want to waste a moment.

After introductions, Craig and Jackson stood beside Georg Dumenco as he lay back on the bleach-scented white sheets. Jackson retained his composure with a discernible effort. The dying Ukrainian had finally settled in, as if in defeat. Craig wondered if he would ever get up again.

The old scientist’s skin had reddened with overall swelling, but also dried in patches in a strange rash, worsening to sores that stood out on his arms and his cheeks. The macerated flesh covering his knuckles and fingers was cracked, oozing blood-tinged fluid. His hands were so swollen and stiff he could barely hold a pencil—and this seemed to frustrate Dumenco more than the pain.

Craig was astonished at how quickly the physicist had begun failing, his body crashing out, everything compounded as one bodily function collapsed, then another, like an avalanche. It had been three days since his massive exposure. Trish had said in a quiet voice that Dumenco probably wouldn’t last three more.

Dumenco reluctantly pushed aside the data-output sheets and computer printouts he had been studying and focused his attention on the two FBI agents. He tried to set down his pencil, but it fell awkwardly and rolled off the bedside table to land on the floor.

Jackson bent over to pick it up. Seeing that the lead had broken off, he reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a silver-plated mechanical pencil. “Here, you can have this,” he said. The physicist nodded in gratitude.

“Have you found anything in your experimental data that might help us?” Craig asked. “Any ideas?”

Dumenco didn’t mind talking about his work. “Only that something is very wrong with my experiment. The p-bar production rate is nine orders of magnitude lower than I had calculated.” He coughed. “Nine orders! This makes no sense. I must talk to Bretti, but he is away on vacation. He hasn’t even called.”

“Then we should find him on vacation,” Jackson said. “Maybe he can give us some leads.”

Dumenco shook his head disparagingly. “My grad student works well, but has no initiative. After seven years, he is no closer to completing his doctorate than when he started. I wouldn’t expect him to come to any conclusions on his own.” He sighed. “Perhaps I can talk to Nels Piter. . . .”

Then Dumenco looked up, suddenly alert. “I understand Agent Goldfarb was shot yesterday. Another ‘accident,’ I suppose, or do they believe me now?”

Craig nodded. “Oh, they believe you,” he said. “I’ve managed to get this classified as a major case with the Bureau. Things will happen faster, with more resources.”

Now that he himself was the agent in charge, the case had grown more extensive, with tangents and connections sprawling ever-wider. Agent Schultz was continuing his focused study of the crater explosion, but kept running into dead-ends. No known explosive could have caused the damage pattern exhibited, and no chemical residue had been found. Craig and Jackson would investigate from the other end, trying to determine how Dumenco was the focal point of these events.

Jackson stepped forward, all business. “As part of this investigation, we’d like to go into your apartment, sir. Agent Kreident has already been to the accelerator site, the beam-sampling substation, and your offices, but we need more background. Perhaps something in your personal life might open another door for us. We’ll start by having a team of agents check on Bretti.”

The Ukrainian toyed with the mechanical pencil Jackson had given him. “By all means, you may search my apartment—but I rarely spend time at home. I have some work there, some files, but nothing important. In fact, if you see anything you like, just let me know. I haven’t quite had the time to make out a will.” With a wistful look back at his data, he glanced over at Craig. “You’ll have to get my keys from Dr. LeCroix. She confiscated them last time I went to my office at Fermilab.”

He frowned, then looked up again as a thought occurred to him. “You may have to watch out for news reporters. They came to the hospital yesterday, but dear Dr. LeCroix got rid of them. It seems she is at odds with her partners at the Physicians for Responsible Radiation Research. They want to use me as a martyr to gain attention for their cause.” His laugh turned into a phlegmy cough. “I wouldn’t want to cross Dr. LeCroix. She’s a dynamo when she gets angry.”

“You’re telling me,” Craig muttered. Jackson looked sidelong at him.

Dumenco blinked his red, gummy eyes, trying to focus. “I fear that media reports could put me in . . . extreme danger. When your enemy is aware that your death is fast approaching, he has many things to fear. Someone may still try to kill me before I can reveal anything that should remain a secret.”

“And what would that be?” Craig asked. “And who is your enemy?”

Dumenco feigned a smile. “Come now, Agent Kreident, that would be tempting fate. Others may suffer retribution for my indiscretions. Innocents. I would rather die without having to atone for that guilt.”

Craig drew a breath, frustrated. Was the man hiding something, and who was he protecting? “Do you want us to solve this case, Dr. Dumenco?”

“Indeed, I do. But I also want to understand why my final experiment seems critically flawed. And I don’t wish for anyone else to get hurt. Perhaps these goals are mutually incompatible.”

He turned back to his papers, finished with the agents. “I am finding it difficult to think straight. What if the Nobel committee hears about the flaws in these results? It calls into question my previous work.”

In frustration he pounded his fist against his forehead and left an astonishingly clear bruise. He seemed to be battling a growing terror and helplessness as moments slipped away from him. “I need every minute remaining, Agent Kreident. Just make sure no one steals any more hours from me. The person who did this may be impatient to let me die on my own time . . . though I am doing it as fast as I can.”

Dumenco spat again into his hospital cup. “Let me know what you find in my apartment,” he said, “but please, I have to think. So little time . . . so little time.”

Batavia was one of numerous suburbs that spread out from Chicago like ripples in a pond. The sprawling suburbs exhibited the Midwestern elbow room so different from the crackerbox California houses with their micro-yards. Even the low-rent districts had grassy yards and long driveways.

With his Fermilab salary, Dumenco could easily have afforded one of the spacious ranch homes complete with a lush green lawn and a brick pedestal around the mailbox out by the road—but for some reason the physicist had chosen to live near the center of town in an apartment building four stories high, faced with red brick. Perhaps, Craig thought, the older structure reminded Dumenco of community barracks housing he had lived in back in Kiev under Soviet rule.

“Repeat after me,” Craig said. “No comment. No comment. No comment. Good, now we’re ready for any reporters.”

“None standing outside at least,” Jackson said as they climbed out of the gold rental Taurus. Jackson had driven, pushing the seat back as far as it would go. Goldfarb, much shorter, had been the previous driver.

“By now they must have realized nobody’s home,” Craig said. “Dumenco lived alone—who would be there to talk to? He was a workaholic, so the neighbors wouldn’t know him well.” Craig withdrew the key from his pocket. “Third floor,” he said, “Apartment 316.”

They hadn’t been able to find Trish again that morning, but Craig supposed she needed to sleep occasionally, too, especially after her long vigil with Dumenco. He had retrieved the keys himself from the hospital’s personal possessions lockers.

They climbed the stairs rather than taking the elevator and emerged onto the landing, looking down a carpeted hall of closed identical doors. As they walked along, Craig heard the reverberations of televisions behind some doors, children crying or playing, mothers yelling.

When they reached 316, Craig was relieved to find no reporters there either, although the business card of someone from the
Chicago Sun Times
lay on the floor as if it had been stuck between the crack but then fallen loose.

Jackson bent down to scrutinize the lock in the door. “Have a look at this,” he said, keeping his voice low. Small wiry scratches made a faint starburst around the keyhole. “Looks like not everyone uses a key to get in.”

Craig frowned. “That might not be fresh, but watch it.” He slid the key into the lock, and the door swung easily inward to a large apartment suite. Craig stepped inside, feeling dust motes stir around him. He could always tell when a place had been sealed and abandoned, as if time had stopped.

Soft sunlight drifted through drawn ivory blinds onto dark green carpeting. Shelves full of knick-knacks, painted Russian eggs, and gilt-edged religious icon paintings adorned the walls next to framed photos of onion-domed Ukrainian cathedrals. A gilded cross stood atop a small old-model color TV set. The extended rabbit-ear antennas were canted at an odd angle.

He drew in a breath and called out, “FBI—don’t move.” Silence answered him. Nothing stirred inside. Maybe he was being over cautious. . . .

Craig smelled an odd, exotic cinnamony smell, cuisine he’d never before tasted. But deeper and sharper, overlying the spices he smelled an acrid tang . . . smoke, smoldering plastic. He looked around curious and quiet. The dim apartment seemed to be holding its breath.

They walked carefully across the spacious living room, sniffing, searching for the source of the odor. Moving in tandem, they turned right, following the acrid smell down a short hallway, past a bathroom and a musty guest room, then to Dumenco’s small bedroom.

His computer had suffered a violent internal meltdown. The plastic slumped in on itself. Curls of brown-orange smoke oozed from the interior. His entire box of diskettes had likewise been slagged. Blackened and bubbly, melted polymers oozed across the desk, steaming on the surface.

Craig ran forward, waving his hands to clear the pungent smell from the air. “That’s acid. I remember that stink from chemistry class,” he said, covering his nose. It was already too late to prevent further damage. “Whoever sabotaged this wasn’t taking any chances.” The FBI had ways to find ghost phrasings from even the most carefully erased disk drives; but to Craig, though, it looked beyond hope.

“This was very recent,” Jackson said quietly. He suddenly stood up straight, listening. With his other hand he flapped his fingers together in a gesture for Craig to continue talking.

The tall dark agent crept out of the room, following the noise he had heard. Feigning nonchalance, Craig spoke out loud as if Jackson were still beside him, “I’ll check out the dresser. Dumenco could have hidden secret notes in the underwear drawer. Here, you take those over there.”

Pulling out his weapon, Jackson remained outside the door, poised and ready to spring.

Craig opened the drawers, ruffling around in the clothes to provide a diversion for Jackson. Someone with very unorthodox methods had been here in the past hour, and they might not have finished their job.

Jackson inched down the hall, past the small bath and guest room. Still buying time for his partner, Craig opened another drawer and looked down into it. Under a spare set of bed sheets he found a framed photograph.

Curious, Craig pulled out a small, old snapshot of a young woman in her late twenties and two young children, both girls. Another photo showed a young man with the aquiline nose and facial features of Dumenco himself but subtly different—a son, perhaps?

Craig pocketed the photos, sure they might give him some lead to Dumenco’s mysterious past. Jackson inched further down the hall. Craig slammed another dresser drawer. “Nothing in that one.” Without another word, he trailed after Jackson.

Now he also heard a stealthy movement from the kitchen. Reaching into his pancake holster, Craig withdrew his handgun, wishing he still had his smaller caliber Beretta for these close quarters. They moved forward together in silence.

Sliding around the corner, he bumped one of the low pictures of an onion-domed cathedral. The frame smashed to the floor with a loud noise.

Knowing they had blown their ploy, he and Jackson sprinted for the kitchen. “FBI!” he shouted. “Remain where you are.”

Instead, they heard a loud splashing noise, something dumped into a bucket of water, then breaking glass in the kitchen window.

Both agents burst into the room, handguns drawn and looking for targets. “Don’t move!” Jackson shouted.

Craig saw a figure duck through the smashed open window and land with a loud clang on the fire escape. “There he goes!” Craig said.

But before he could turn, they encountered a thick, billowing wall of greenish-yellow smoke gushing into the small room. Noxious fumes belched from a bucket on the kitchen floor like deadly exhaust.

Without thinking, Craig gasped a deep breath and inhaled the gas. It felt as if someone had exploded firecrackers in his lungs. His eyes were on fire; his nostrils burned. He choked, staggering back. “Jackson, get—” He coughed and spluttered.

Enveloped by the greenish-yellow smoke, Jackson fell to his knees. Craig knew it was home-made chlorine gas, the kind used against American troops in World War I. Any first-year chemistry student knew how to make such a weapon from household chemicals. In the confined kitchen area, the gas was strong enough to overwhelm both men instantly.

Unable to breathe, Craig dropped to the floor himself, seeking cleaner air. Jackson collapsed beside him, wheezing. Like a distant hallucination he heard footsteps clanging down the fire escape and running away.

Desperately, Craig dragged himself toward the broken window and fresh air. He gulped in gasps that still reeked of chlorine but at least caused no further damage to his seared lungs.

The gas clouds clustered at the ceiling, making the paint blister.

Jackson wasn’t moving, though, and so Craig turned back, grabbing his partner’s collar, dragging him by the arms toward the air. Reaching out with one spasming hand, Craig fumbled with the back door, trying to turn the deadbolt. Finally, he succeeded in cracking open the porch door, which let out onto the wrought-iron balcony.