Tampered (3 page)

Zol pulled open the door of the Nitty Gritty Café, his office-away-from-the-office, across the street from the health unit on Concession Street. He stamped the March slush from his shoes on the way in.

In the back corner, Natasha Sharma and Hamish Wakefield were already at the table permanently reserved for health-unit staff. Here, amid the Andean décor — Machu Picchu travel posters and woven blankets — Zol and his closest colleagues did their best brainstorming and troubleshooting.

Natasha was skimming the froth from her latte. The young epidemiologist put down her spoon and rose from her chair as Zol approached. Her engaging manner and obvious skills made her the cornerstone of the health unit's Communicable Disease Division. She had an uncanny knack for finding the one smidgen of evidence that explained an outbreak of food poisoning or a cluster of unexplained deaths. She always smelled deliciously of sandalwood, and Zol knew she had a morbid fear of foam clinging to the down on her upper lip.

Hamish was frowning at his hands and rubbing them with a paper serviette. A sticky spoon protruded from the honey jar beside his mug of green tea. Hamish hated unresolved stickiness and tolerated it neither on his fingers nor in his clinical cases. He'd confided to Zol that things were sticky on the home front as well. Boyfriend trouble. Hamish had been out of the closet for only a few months, and the bloom was off the rose of his first love affair.

Zol greeted his associates and thanked them for coming at short notice on a Sunday evening, then settled in a chair and pulled out the loonie he always kept in the pocket of his blazer. The one-dollar coin was not for spending but for fingering whenever life's tensions mounted. It was much cleaner than his father's chewing tobacco and didn't cause cancer.

“We can't let this go on any longer,” Zol told them. “Dozens of diarrhea cases in the past two months, and three deaths in the past two weeks, the latest one this afternoon. We have to give Camelot our full attention. Hamish, I need you in on this.”

“Old people do die, Zol,” Hamish said, passing his hand over his perfectly squared blond flat-top. “How bad is the gastro? Are you sure the deaths are related to it?”

“When the Prime Minister's favourite aunt dies during an unresolved epidemic, everything is related.”

“Her death is more important than any other?” Hamish said.

“I didn't mean that,” Zol said. “But it's turned on the heat. The Prime Minister now knows my name. I can't tell you how creepy that feels. At least the boss is giving me carte blanche to get this solved as soon as possible. And that means bringing you in as my number-one consultant.”

“Whatever you need, just say the word. Only you've got to keep Peter Trinnock away from me. His eyes give me the creeps. Why are they always bloodshot? Anyone ever check his thyroid? Maybe he's got Grave's, or is it Sjogren's?”

Zol and Natasha exchanged glances but said nothing. Trinnock's two-martini lunches were an open secret at the health unit. And Hamish Wakefield's skills at spot diagnosis were legendary. Trinnock did indeed have Sjogren's, a syndrome that dried out his eyes and mouth. The discomfort made him permanently cranky.

“These are active, healthy seniors we're talking about,” Zol said. “And their illnesses fit a pattern. Fever, vomiting, crampy abdominal pain, and diarrhea. After three to five days, the infection either resolves or results in shock and rapid death.”

“Each of the deaths was preceded by two days of severe headache,” Natasha said. “Including Nellie Brownlow, the woman who died today. I spoke with her family doctor this afternoon.”

“Sounds like stroke,” Hamish said.

“Not according to Dr. Jamieson, the family doctor who takes care of Camelot Lodge.” Natasha said. “He filled out Nellie's death certificate, identified gastroenteritis as the cause of her death. And hasn't mentioned stroke on any of the other certificates.”

“Any similar outbreaks in any other retirement residences or nursing homes in our region?” Hamish asked.

“Nothing this sustained or severe,” Natasha told him. “Short-lived outbreaks of gastro, mostly viral. No increased death rates.”

“I'm familiar with that Camelot place. Remember the bat-bite fiasco?”

Zol didn't need reminding. About a year ago, a bat got loose in the sitting room while Art was playing the piano for a singalong. Five or six of the residents and a couple of the staff got bitten. Hamish waded into the frenzy, calmed everyone down, and conducted a series of rabies vaccine clinics on site. It was ultimately determined that the bat was rabies-free, but by then the incident had caused an unholy commotion.

Hamish rolled his eyes. “The managers, a Portuguese couple, Gus and Gloria. They were hysterical. And totally disorganized.”

“There's hysteria of some sort in their food-handling practices,” Zol said. “But we can't pinpoint what it is.”

“Well, it's obvious,” Hamish said. “They're doing
something
wrong.” He paused and looked into the unseen distance as if conjuring a recollection. “Of course . . . you
are
aware of the case I had last month.” He paused again and lifted an eyebrow, then raised his slim, professorial forefinger. “An elderly Portuguese woman with listeria in her bloodstream — septic shock, intensive care, the whole bit. After the bat thing, I couldn't help noticing her high-class address. Camelot Lodge on Eaglescliffe Avenue. When her daughter stormed into our ICU, all tears and bluster, I recognized the woman immediately — Camelot's manager, Gloria Oliveira. In the end, the old lady did fine and returned home to the Lodge.”

Hamish's eyes darkened and he continued, “We'd had another listeria a month before that, which was a bit strange. We usually see just one case a year. The earlier case had meningitis. He was a much younger man from a different demographic entirely.”

Hamish shuddered, then massaged his neck and looked away. Zol knew that a delirious patient had grabbed Hamish by the throat a couple of months ago and gripped him in a choke hold until Hamish nearly passed out. Had that attacker been Hamish's listeria patient, deranged by meningitis?

After several moments, Hamish collected himself and coughed into a tissue, which he folded and tucked into his jacket pocket. He shot Zol a look that said
I know what you're thinking and don't ask,
then squared his shoulders and turned to Natasha.

“Listeria is a bacterium, of course,” Hamish told her in his professorial voice. “It lives harmlessly in the gut until it sneaks into the bloodstream of anyone with a depressed immune system and causes —”

“It's okay, Hamish. Natasha knows all about listeria.”

It bothered Zol that Hamish patronized Natasha because she wasn't a physician. In many ways she was better than an MD. She was committed to the job without pretence or ego. Since starting at the health unit two years ago, she'd proven herself repeatedly, but Hamish didn't get it.

“In fact,” Zol continued, “your hospital lab reported both those cases to us.” Doctors, hospitals, and laboratories were required by law to report every listeria case to their local health unit. “And with all that diarrhea going on at Camelot, we looked into them carefully.”

“There'd been no reports of listeria at Camelot Lodge in the previous five years,” Natasha added, her face the picture of sincerity. “And we verified that Gus and Gloria were following Ministry of Health guidelines about not serving deli meats to seniors.”

Listeria was notorious for contaminating cold cuts then infecting the frail, the pregnant, and the elderly. It was one of those quirks of clinical medicine, a food-borne illness that didn't cause vomiting or diarrhea. The germ went in for the big kill — bloodstream infection complicated by shock, meningitis, and organ failure.

Hamish swept the crumbs from the scone he had ordered into his napkin and folded the paper into a perfect square. He placed it on his plate. “So what's the explanation for all that food-borne illness at the Lodge if there's nothing wrong with the food? Is it the water? The staff? The cutlery? The china? A faulty dishwasher? A wonky fridge? A resident with a grudge? You've got to check out everything.”

“Okay, okay,” said Zol, exchanging glances with Natasha. “We know the drill. Been through it already.” Hamish's input had been disappointing. No new ideas to chew on. “We'll go in again. Find what we've missed, one way or another.”

“Try going in unannounced,” said Hamish. “Catch them before they have time to clean up their indiscretions.” He paused, as though struck by an idea. “You know, when I was there giving all those rabies shots, the old folks were always dunking their doughnuts in their coffee. I thought it had something to do with their teeth. But I tried a couple of honey glazed. Darn things were hard as rocks.”

“Art Greenwood says the doughnuts at Camelot must have fallen off an ox cart, back in biblical times,” Zol said. “He and his pal Earl only eat them when they're desperate. Usually, they send their friend Phyllis Wedderspoon out to Tim's for fresh ones. In her Lincoln.”

Zol had told Art to ask Gloria to bring in fresher doughnuts, but Art was afraid of upsetting her. Beneath Gloria's smarmy smile was a tyrant. Zol could see how the residents wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of her, not when she lived on site and was watching them twenty-four hours a day. Gloria's husband, Gus, was another matter. He always seemed to have a genuinely happy grin on his face. Nothing was too much trouble for him, and he appeared incapable of passing judgment. Art said the residents loved the way he always called them Mister and Miss. A few times Zol had seen Gus look uneasily at Gloria, as if he knew the consequences of provoking her fury. Surely, he would stand up to her if he thought she were placing the residents at risk.

“Gus and Gloria are definitely getting their baked goods on the cheap,” Hamish said. “Through a back door someplace. If they were younger and dressed like hippies, I might think they were freegans.”

“Freegans? What's a freegan?” Zol said. “Is it a coincidence that it rhymes with vegan?”

Hamish smiled and nodded. “You'd never believe me. Look up it up on the Internet. Wikipedia.”

Natasha frowned, then fingered the dark curls that draped the nape of her neck. “I never found any outdated items in Camelot's fridges. But it sounds like those doughnuts were past their expiry dates.”

Like a few more of Camelot's residents, Zol couldn't help thinking, if he didn't get that place cleaned up in a hurry.

The next morning, Art Greenwood dipped a fossilized doughnut, a sour-cream glazed, into his tea. He had always loved Mondays. During his thirty-seven years at Northern Electric, Mondays had promised a fresh start and the chance that a simple idea would spark a blaze of innovation. His role in the invention of touch-tone service had been exciting at the time, but the Princess phone was nothing compared to the BlackBerry. Now
that
was an impressive device, though altogether too intrusive. Too bad he was past needing one. At his stage of life it would be merely an affectation.

Twenty-one years into his retirement, Mondays held another sort of excitement — an afternoon of bridge with Betty, Phyllis, and Earl. They never missed, except when struck so badly by that gastro thing that they couldn't make it through a hand without rushing to the toilet. Last night, his belly had churned like a cement mixer. He lay there terrified he was going to be up and down again, soiling his bed, messing the floor, getting poop on his scooter. But nothing came of it. He'd managed toast and a bowl of the chef's lukewarm soup for lunch. One day, Art hoped, Nick would get it together and serve his soup piping hot.

He glanced out the windows at the ice and snow pushed into grimy piles at the edge of the parking lot. He rubbed his burning shins and shifted his feet on the footrest of his scooter. Winter made him wistful about his curling-club days, before he turned seventy and his knees went bad. He'd loved the heart-stopping strategy on the rink, the cold beers afterwards in the cozy bar. Too bad his local club had never taken up wheelchair curling. He'd love to try it. But not among strangers.

“Arthur? Arthur, stop daydreaming,” said Phyllis in her best Latin teacher voice. “Are you going to answer my three hearts?”

“Ah . . .” Art sat up straight and studied his hand. He added up his points again. Not enough to counter with four hearts. It would be safer to let Phyllis stay at three. Yes, she could probably make three hearts. Not enough for game, but better to be safe than sorry when Phyllis was your bridge partner. “I'll pass.”

Phyllis fixed Earl with her uncompromising gaze. “What about you, Crabtree?”

“I'll pass, too,” said Earl.

Earl must have a pretty weak hand. He usually enticed Phyllis, who was competitive to the end, to bid higher than she should. Then he'd laugh when she started swearing, in Latin of course, at not making her contract.

A high-pitched screech pierced the air. Then another, then the jerky, low-pitched moans of uncontrolled sobbing. Art dropped his cards face down on the table. He didn't need to look to know what was happening at the far side of the common room. Melvin's outbursts were becoming more frequent these days.

The poor soul, his face black and blue from falling out of his wheelchair last week, was shouting through his sobs. Once he got started there was no stopping him. Always the same words, over and over, like a mantra. “Never saw them. Never saw them. I tell you, I never saw them.”

Two aides rushed to Melvin's side. They shushed him, patted his hands, and smoothed his wild hair. The more they patted, the louder his mantra. The pair glanced nervously around the room. They must be watching for Gloria, expecting her to sweep in and escalate Melvin's sobbing with her nursery-school patter. Her high-pitched prattle never settled anyone, just made them feel angry at being coddled. Art often wondered how Gloria ever got into this business in the first place. She had neither the temperament nor the organizational skills. She should have stuck with cleaning houses and keeping books. Her husband, Gus, was okay. His smile was genuine and he was an imaginative handyman. He could fix anything with a piece of wire and a roll of duct tape. Problem was, his low-cost repairs never lasted longer than a week.

One aide plopped Melvin's tartan blanket on his lap while the other wheeled him briskly around the corner toward the elevator and the seclusion of his room behind the Mountain Wing's locked door, one floor up. Art seldom went up there. The place was as bleak as a hospital ward and always smelled of poop. Its eight beds reminded everyone in the cozy Belvedere Wing that the next stage of the life cycle was waiting for them on the other side of the door — a linoleum-tiled purgatory at the brink of eternity.

“Poor Melvin,” said Earl. “It rips me apart to see him that way.” The look on Earl's face said,
We're all going to end up like that.
“Dementia is so demeaning. Maybe it's just as well they rarely let him out of his room.”

Betty looked shocked at the remark. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then pursed her lips in diplomatic silence. During her thirty years as personal assistant to a prime minister and a string of federal cabinet ministers, she'd perfected the art of holding her tongue. In the close quarters of a retirement residence, diplomacy was a valuable skill. And, as far as Art was concerned, it added greatly to her charm. But still, she was no pushover.

Earl drew his hands to his vest and squared his shoulders. He read Betty's discomfort and his face softened. “Forgive my candour. But don't you think it would be awful if one of his former students stumbled in here and saw him raving like that? If it were me, I'd want to be kept well out of sight.”

Art looked at Earl and nodded his agreement. For years Earl and Melvin, both professors, had offices in the same building at Caledonian University. Earl's specialty was European history. Melvin's had been the impact of war on civilian populations. The three of them, Art, Earl, and Melvin, had seen action together in World War Two. North Africa. Of course, everyone at Camelot had lived through the war — as combatants or munitions workers, wireless operators or distressed civilians. The conflict still stalked the halls like a permanent resident.

Phyllis studied the cards in her hand, too preoccupied with making her three hearts to voice an opinion. Bridge was the only thing that kept her quiet.

Betty lifted the spoon from her saucer. It tinkled against the china as she stirred her milky tea. “Shall we start? It's my lead.” As soon as she'd placed her six of diamonds on the table, Art laid his dummy hand face up and left it to Phyllis to make their contracted tricks. He reversed his scooter and headed for the piano.

The keyboard was locked. Damn. It was supposed to be open every afternoon. Why did Gloria insist on locking it? It wasn't as though anyone would steal the ivories.

“Has anyone seen Gloria?” Art called to any of the dozen souls in the common room who might listen.

A few heads lifted from their jigsaws and knitting, but most eyes stayed closed in afternoon slumber. “What'd he say?” was the general answer from a few puzzled faces squinting from the sofas and wingback chairs.

A woman named Gertie, with fat red cheeks and an even fatter bottom, dropped her needles to her lap and said, “Honoria? She's gone, poor thing. Died last year.”

The elevator pinged and Gloria appeared, leading two men in white shirts and black business suits. Art stiffened at the thought of what they'd be wheeling behind them. Earl had dubbed it running the final gauntlet: being wheeled out of the elevator, past the tall windows lining the far wall of the common room, and out the side exit. All in full view of your friends.

Gloria tugged at the lapels of her suit jacket as she strode to the middle of the room. Her lips formed a fake smile while her eyes scanned the faces as if looking for trouble. Then came that damn nursery-room whine. “I'm afraid, my dears, I am having some bad news.”

Art scooted to the bridge table. It was better to be sitting close to your friends when Gloria made one of her pronouncements.

Phyllis put down her cards. “Are you going to tell us who that was on their way to Craig & Lafferty?”

“You know I'm not allowed to say, Miss Wedderspoon. It's our policy that —”

Phyllis rolled her eyes and muttered, “Of course,
res arcana.
” She turned to Art. “As always, the matter is confidential. We'll have to read about it ourselves in the obits.”

Gloria crossed the room and stood beside Gertie. She never got any flack from Gertie, who'd been knitting the same purple scarf for the three years Art had been at Camelot.

Phyllis leaned into the bridge table and cupped her hand to her mouth. “Did you see that pair of legs dangling off the stretcher? It must be poor Judge Nesbitt in that bag. He was one long drink of water, and I know he had the runs. And a headache.”

Betty shivered. When she clasped her hands together they looked like a pair of sparrows trembling on the table. In a deliberate motion, as if directing Phyllis to do the same, she set her jaw, turned intently toward Gloria, and awaited the announcement.

“As I was trying to tell to you,” Gloria continued, “I need you to return to your suites. The health department informs me that we are now in a contact-isolation situation.”

“Not again,” said a tiny woman dwarfed by the cabbage roses of the loveseat.

“Is it influenza or gastroenteritis?” Art asked. Zol made sure he knew the difference between one type of flu and another.

Gloria hesitated as if wondering how much information was appropriate to divulge. “Gastroenteritis.”

“I hope it's just in the Mountain Wing,” said someone.

“How many cases so far?” Phyllis asked.

Gloria glared at her.

“I know,” Phyllis replied. “You're
not at liberty to say.
”

“We have a right to know. How many people are sick?” Earl called above the hubbub.

“My dears, my dears.” Gloria's nursery voice was gone, and with it all pretence of a smile. “Please. Calm yourselves. The situation, we have it under control.”

“We'd better do as she asks,” said Betty.

Earl put up his hand. “What about our supper?”

The same thought had occurred to Art.

“The staff, they are gonna serve dinner at four-thirty, as usual. Till then, please go to your rooms. No visitors in your suites. No outside guests, and —” Gloria pierced Art with her gaze, then turned it on Betty “— no fellow residents.” She pointed at the dining-room entrance. “We're gonna have a hand-wash station over there. And don't forget to pump.”

Art heard a noise at the rear door and turned to see the two men from Craig & Lafferty pushing an empty gurney toward the elevator. The taller of the two strode ahead, his eyes furtively sweeping the sitting room. He was trying to hide it, but there was no mistaking the black object folded under his arm. Body bag number two.