Dirty Martini

O’Loughlin grunted, then said, “Botulism cases are monitored by the CDC, right?”

“They keep track of all reported cases, and hospitals are required by law to report them.”

“Is it possible the Chemist contracted botulism at some point? We could track past cases to find him.”

Rick nodded. “Good thinking, but there are fewer than one hundred cases of botulism reported every year in North America, and all have highly detailed patient histories. I’m guessing the Chemist hasn’t been infected with botulism. He’s probably being extremely careful. You don’t develop an immunity to BT, even if you’ve been exposed before.”

“I thought we all got vaccines,” Bains said.

“Those are experimental, and it’s unlikely that the Chemist has access to the vaccines. So far the public sector can’t obtain them.”

“What if he works for the government?” I asked.

“It doesn’t really matter. The only vaccines in production are for type A and type C strains.”

A little alarm went off in my head.

“You said we’re dealing with type E.”

“Correct.”

“So these vaccines won’t protect us from this illness?”

I watched Rick’s confidence slip a notch. “They may offer some protection.”

“Really?”

Rick frowned. “No.”

“How about antibiotics?” Bains asked.

“Works on the bacteria, not the toxin. The toxin is what kills you.”

Herb asked, “How about that antitoxin you mentioned?”

“That can halt advancing symptoms, but can’t reverse them. Once the nerve ending is paralyzed, it’s paralyzed forever. Which is why recovery takes so long-you have to grow new neurological junctions. But right now we’ve got two pharmaceutical companies working nonstop to supply Chicago with more doses. They should be able to provide us with a thousand by the week’s end.”

“We’ve already had three thousand reported cases,” I said, my stomach clenching. “What are we supposed to do?”

Rick looked at O’Loughlin.

“The federal government doesn’t make deals with terrorists,” he said, just as my cell phone buzzed. “But if I were you, I’d give the guy his two million dollars.”

I excused myself and answered the phone.

“Hi, Lieut. Hajek here. We’ve traced a print. It’s strange, though.”

“Cut the drama and spill.”

“Jason Alger, sixty-three years old, lives in Humboldt Park.”

“Record?”

“No. He’s one of ours. CPD, retired. I’d ask if maybe he came into contact with the envelope somehow, maybe visiting the station. But except for the super’s secretary, all of the prints are his, and one is beneath the adhesive stamp. He has to be the one that sent the letter.”

“Good work, Officer.”

I explained the situation to the room, and we were out the door thirty seconds later, off to interview one of our own.

CHAPTER 4

Four Hours Earlier

HE CALLS HIMSELF the Chemist, but he isn’t a chemist. He isn’t a botanist either, although the extensive greenhouse that takes up his entire backyard makes his neighbors think otherwise.

He’s just a simple government employee, unhappy with the system. But unlike the thousands of other government employees, punching their clocks, hating their lives, he’s devised a way to make the system pay.

The Plan is still in the first phase. He’s been working on it, refining it, modifying it, for six years, three months, and eleven days. Though he is not perfect, the Plan is. In four days, nine hours, and sixteen minutes, it will all be over. He’ll be rich, on a bus to Mexico. And Chicago, along with the entire Midwest, will be permanently crippled.

People will die. Many more than anyone could possibly expect. Thousands more.

The apartment is all set. Has been, for over a week. A baited trap, waiting for the mice. It will make the TV news tonight for sure. Possibly even national. He considers setting the TiVo, but quickly dismisses the thought. He isn’t going to miss anything. They’ll repeat the footage.

The summer air is cool and crisp. It’s night, so activity will be minimal, but he puts on the netting just in case. It’s in a sealed plastic bin next to the greenhouse door. He places it over his head, then reaches for the gloves. They’re made of neoprene, chemical resistant, and he’s careful not to touch the outside of them as he slips them on.

The greenhouse door is locked with an electronic keypad beneath the knob. This high-tech addition was relatively cheap, and circumvents having to mess around with keys while wearing the gloves. It won’t deter someone serious-after all, the greenhouse is made entirely out of glass and plastic-but it will keep the neighborhood kids out.

That kind of attention would be most unwelcome, after the years of pla

He punches the code and opens the door. The thermometer on the wall reads 102 degrees Fahrenheit. Part of this is due to the gas heaters. Part is due to the towering compost heap in the back, which recently received a particularly large infusion of organic matter.

The Chemist loves being in the greenhouse. An untrained eye would only see the beauty of nature expressed by the ranks and files of growing, thriving plant life. A keener eye would be able to spot the cruelty beneath the veneer.

It’s the cruelty that the Chemist adores.

He checks the hydroponics on a castor oil plant. Castors resemble hemp, but with six leaves rather than five. Next to it is a pallet of short green plants sporting delicate white flowers-lily of the valley. Behind them, oleander, the majestic flowers yawning open in the artificial light like pink fireworks. To their right, azaleas, with their startling bloodred buds, surrounded by netting much like his pith helmet, so the bees can’t get to them.

The Chemist steps over a tank of nitrox, navigates around several stacks of fertilizer, past piles of piping and boxes of roofing nails, and approaches a ten-gallon saltwater aquarium. Roaming along the bottom, among the sand and bits of dead coral, are over a dozen brilliantly colored cone snails, none longer than two inches. In the tank behind them, next to the cockroach pen, are fingerling goldfish. He takes the small net off its suction-cup hook, scoops up several feeders, and drops them into the snail tank.

Normally he’d stay to watch the feast, but he has other things to do tonight.

Near the rear of the greenhouse, between the nightshade and the jimsonweed, is his workbench. Assorted beakers, petri dishes, test tubes, flasks, stoppers, swabs, eyedroppers, and a variety of tools are arranged carefully in the six foam-lined drawers. He drags a large plastic garbage can over to his stool, then bends down and lifts a case of premium vodka onto the bench. Removing a fresh bottle by the neck, he holds it over the can and shatters it with a hammer, glass and vodka spilling onto his gloved hands.

He picks through the mess, finds what he wants, and sets it on a place mat atop the bench, next to half a box of shotgun shells. A pair of garden clippers catches his eye, its blades stained with dirt and dried blood.

The Chemist smiles at the memory they invoke.

He picks up the shears and carries them to the large industrial sink, between the refrigerator and the autoclave, near the rear of the greenhouse. He turns on the faucet and scrubs the shears with antibacterial soap. He also scrubs the remaining vomit from the ball-gag and the handcuffs, and then drops all three items into a bucket with a twenty-percent bleach solution.

When everything is rub-a-dub-dub clean, he glances at the clock and decides to head over to police headquarters on Thirty-fifth and Michigan.

He doesn’t want to be late.