Toxin (18 page)

“How are you going to find out?” Tracy asked. “Kim, you have to calm down.”

“Kathleen told me the E. coli problem is mainly a problem with ground meat,” Kim said.

“Everybody knows that,” Tracy said.

“Yeah, well, I guess I didn't,” Kim said. “And remember when I told you that a week ago I took Becky to the Onion Ring on Prairie Highway? She had a burger, and it was rare. That had to have been when she got sick.”

“So you mean to tell me you're going to the Onion Ring restaurant now?” Tracy asked incredulously.

“Obviously,” Kim said. “If that's where Becky got sick, that's where I'm going.”

“Right now, it doesn't matter where Becky got sick,” Tracy said. “What matters is she is sick. We can worry about the how and the why some other time.”

“It might not matter to you,” Kim said. “But it matters to me.”

“Kim, you're out of control,” Tracy said with exasperation. “Just once can't you think of someone else besides yourself?”

“What the hell do you mean?” Kim snapped, feeling even more enraged.

“This is about you, not about Becky. It's about you and your doctor ego.”

“The hell it is,” Kim growled. “I'm in no mood to listen to any of your psychological nonsense. Not now!”

“You're not helping anyone by running off like this,” Tracy said. “You're a threat even to yourself. If you have to go, at least wait until you have calmed down.”

“I'm going in hopes it can calm me down,” Kim said. “And maybe even give me an ounce of satisfaction.”

The elevator arrived, and Kim boarded.

“But you haven't even changed out of your scrub clothes,” Tracy said, hoping to find some way to delay him for his own good.

“I'm going,” Kim said. “Right now. Nobody's going to stop me!”

 

K
im pulled into the Onion Ring parking lot fast enough to bottom out on the lip of the driveway. There was a muffled thump, and a shudder went through the car. Kim didn't care. He took the first parking spot he came to.

After putting on the emergency brake and turning off the ignition, Kim sat in the car for a moment and looked out the windshield at the restaurant. It was as crowded as it had been a week earlier.

The drive from the hospital had blunted the edge of his anger but not his determination. He thought about what he'd do once he was inside and then got out of the car. Passing through the main entrance, he found the lines at the cash
registers stretched almost to the door. Unwilling to wait, he pushed his way to the front. Some of the customers complained. Kim ignored them.

Once at the counter, Kim got the attention of one of the cash-register girls whose name tag said:
HI
,
I
'
M DEBBIE
. She was a nondescript teenager with bleached hair and mild acne. Her facial features were frozen into an expression of absolute boredom.

“Excuse me,” Kim said, forcing himself to sound calm even though it was apparent he was not. “I'd like to speak to the manager.”

“You have to wait in line to order,” Debbie said. She glanced briefly at Kim but was completely insensitive to his state of mind.

“I don't want to order,” Kim said slowly and deliberately. “I want to speak to the manager.”

“He's like really busy right now,” Debbie said. She turned her attention back to the person standing at the head of her line and asked that the order be repeated.

Kim slammed his open palm down on the countertop with such force that it caused several napkin holders to vibrate off and fall with a clatter to the floor. The sound was like a shotgun blast. In an instant the entire restaurant went silent like a freeze-frame in a movie. Debbie turned pearl white.

“I don't want to have to ask again,” Kim said. “I want the manager.”

A man stepped forward from a position next to the central island behind the row of cash registers. He was dressed in a two-tone Onion Ring uniform. His name tag said:
HI
,
I
'
M ROGER
.

“I'm the manager,” he said. His head twitched nervously. “What's the problem?”

“It's my daughter,” Kim said. “She happens to be in a
coma at the moment, fighting for her life, all from eating a hamburger here one week ago.”

Kim was loud enough to make himself heard throughout the restaurant. Those customers who were eating burgers eyed them suspiciously.

“I'm sorry to hear about your daughter,” Roger said, “but there's no way she could have gotten sick here, least of all from one of our burgers.”

“This is the only place she had ground meat,” Kim said. “And she's sick with E. coli and that comes from hamburger.”

“Well, I'm sorry,” Roger said emphatically. “But our burgers are all cooked well-done, and we've got strict rules about cleanliness. We're inspected regularly by the department of health.”

As abruptly as the restaurant had gone silent, it returned to its high level of background noise. Conversations recommenced as if the collective judgment was that whatever Kim's problem was, it didn't concern them.

“Her burger wasn't well-done,” Kim said. “It was rare.”

“Impossible,” Roger contended, with a roll of his eyes.

“I saw it myself,” Kim said. “It was pink in the middle. What I'd like to ask . . .”

“It couldn't have been pink,” Roger interjected, with a dismissive wave. “It's out of the question. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”

Roger began to turn away from the counter. Kim responded by lashing out and grabbing a handful of Roger's Onion Ring shirt. With his powerful arms, Kim pulled the startled manager over the counter so that his face was inches from Kim's. Instantly it began to empurple. Kim's ironlike grip was restricting blood flow in Roger's neck.

“A little remorse might be appropriate,” Kim snarled. “Certainly not uninformed blanket denial.”

Roger gurgled incomprehensibly while he ineffectually grappled with Kim's locked fingers.

Kim rudely pushed Roger back over the counter and let go of him, sending him to the floor. The cashiers, the rest of the kitchen staff, and the people waiting in line gasped but stood rooted in shocked immobility.

Kim rounded the end of the counter, intending to talk directly with the chef.

Roger scrambled to his feet, and seeing Kim coming into the kitchen area, he tried to confront him. “You can't come back here,” he said gamely. “Only employees are allowed . . .”

Kim didn't give him time to finish. He simply shoved him out of the way, slamming the manager into the counter. The collision displaced a plastic juice machine which crashed to the tiles. Juice sloshed out in a wide arc across the floor. Those nearest jumped out of the way. The restaurant again quieted. A few of the patrons left hurriedly, taking their food with them.

“Call the police!” Roger croaked to the nearest cashier as he scrambled to his feet.

Kim continued around the central island to confront the wizened Paul. Kim took in the leathered face and the tattooed arm and wondered about the man's personal hygiene.

Like everyone else in the kitchen, Paul hadn't moved from the moment Kim had pounded the counter. Some of the burgers on the grill in front of him were smoking.

“My daughter had a rare burger here just about this time a week ago,” Kim growled. “I want to know how that could have happened.”

Roger came up behind Kim and tapped him on the shoulder. “You're going to have to leave,” he said.

Kim spun around. He'd had quite enough of the pesky manager.

Roger wisely backed up. He raised his palms. “Okay, okay,” he mumbled.

Kim turned back to Paul. “Any ideas?” he asked.

“No,” Paul said. He'd seen people go crazy on oil rigs, and the look in Kim's eyes reminded him of these men.

“Come on,” Kim snarled. “You must have been the cook. You have to have some idea.”

“Like Roger said,” Paul asserted. “It couldn't have been rare. I cook all the burgers well-done. It's policy.”

“You people are really starting to piss me off,” Kim snapped. “I'm telling you it was rare. I didn't get this secondhand. I was here with my daughter. I saw it.”

“But I time them,” Paul said. He pointed with his spatula to the smoking patties on the grill.

Kim grabbed one of a half-dozen completed burgers that Paul had put on the shelf above the grill for Roger to place on order trays. Kim rudely broke the burger open and examined the inside of the meat patty. It was well-done. He repeated this three more times, slapping the broken hamburgers back onto the plates.

“You see,” Roger said. “They're all well-done. Now, if you'll step out of the kitchen area, we can discuss this more calmly.”

“We cook them to an inside temperature higher than the one proposed by the FDA,” Paul said.

“How do you know the inside temperature?” Kim asked.

“We gauge it with a special five-pronged thermometer,” Roger said. “We take the temperature randomly several times a day, and it's always the same: above a hundred and seventy degrees.”

Paul put down his spatula and rummaged in a drawer below the grill. He produced the instrument and offered it to Kim.

Kim ignored the thermometer. He took another hamburger and broke it open. It too was well-done. “Where do you store the patties before they're cooked?”

Paul turned around and opened the refrigerator. Kim bent over and peered inside. He knew he was only looking at a small portion of the meat the Onion Ring had to have on hand.

“Where's the bulk of them?” Kim questioned.

“In the walk-in freezer,” Paul said.

“Show me!” Kim commanded.

Paul looked at Roger.

“No way,” Roger said. “The walk-in is off limits.”

Kim gave Paul a shove in the chest with both hands, propelling the man toward the back of the kitchen. Paul stumbled backward. Then turned and started to walk. Kim followed.

“No you don't,” Roger said. He'd caught up to Kim and pulled on his arm. “Only employees are allowed in the freezer.”

Kim tried to shake Roger off his arm, but Roger hung on. Frustrated, Kim backhanded the manager across the face with significantly more force than he'd intended. The power of the blow snapped Roger's head around, split his upper lip and sent him crashing to the floor for the second time.

Without even a glance at the fallen manager, Kim followed after Paul who now had the freezer door open. Kim stepped inside.

Fearful of Kim's size and impulsiveness, Paul gave him a wide berth. Paul looked back at his manager, who
was now sitting on the rubber kitchen mat dabbing at his bloodied lip. Unsure of what to do, he followed Kim into the freezer.

Kim was looking at the cartons lined up on the left side of the walk-in. Only the first was open. The labels read:
MERCER MEATS
:
REG
. 0.1
LB HAMBURGER PATTIES
,
EXTRA LEAN
.
LOT
2
BATCH
1-5.
PRODUCTION
:
DEC
. 29.
USE BY MARCH
29.

“Would a hamburger last Friday night have come from this carton?” Kim asked.

Paul shrugged. “Probably, or one similar.”

Kim stepped back into the depths of the freezer and saw another open carton nestled among the sealed ones. He opened it and looked in. He could see that the wrapping was also broken on one of the inner boxes. “How come this carton is open?” he asked.

“It was a mistake,” Paul said. “We're supposed to use the oldest patties first so we never have to worry about the ‘use by' date.”

Kim looked at the label. It was similar to the previous one except for the production date. This one said “Jan. 12” instead of “Dec. 29.” “Could a patty have come from this one last Friday?” he asked.

“Possibly,” Paul said. “I don't remember the day it was mistakenly opened.”

Slipping a pen and piece of paper from the pocket of his white coat, Kim wrote down the information on the labels of the two open cartons. Then he took a single patty from each. This wasn't easy because the patties were frozen in stacks separated by sheets of waxed paper. He pocketed the patties and the paper.

As Kim exited the freezer, he was vaguely aware of the muffled sound of a siren whining down. In his
preoccupied state, he ignored it. “What's Mercer Meats?” he asked Paul.

Paul closed the freezer door. “It's a meat-processing company that supplies us with hamburger patties,” he said. “In fact, they supply the entire Onion Ring chain.”