Boldt 03 - No Witnesses Read online

  “I’ll need the names of everyone who has access to the lab,” Boldt informed him.

  “One of my people?” Mann asked defensively. “That strain is marked clear as day.”

  “But a person can’t just walk in and take it,” Boldt suggested.

  “Why not?”

  “You’re kidding, I hope.”

  “Not a bit. This is a university lab. Dozens of people pass through every day, many of them complete strangers to one another. Students. Grad students. Researchers. We get visitors from all over the world. Every walk of life. Every look you can imagine. It’s a teaching hospital. Men, women, young, old, black, white, Asian, Hispanic, African, Middle Eastern, you name it. Every week of the year. Sometimes there are a half-dozen techs working in that lab, sometimes one or even none.”

  “Just walk in and take it?” Boldt asked, astonished.

  “If you know what you’re looking for.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Try it.”

  “What?”

  “Go ahead and try it.” Mann pushed back his chair and came to his feet. He eyed Boldt as would a haberdasher. “Not bad. That’s the look you need: the run-down professor thing. I’m telling you, just go ahead and try it.” The doctor clearly said this as his chance to remove his lab workers from suspicion.

  He grabbed his lab coat from a hook on the back of the door and offered it to Boldt, and Boldt put it on. It was a little snug. Mann said, “If you look like you know what you’re doing, you’re in. Confidence is everything. It’s in a half-size refrigerator on the right. If I’m your man, I go in at lunchtime, because the place is deserted at lunch. It’s a little late for that—but that’s all the better for your test. Straight to the fridge. You’re looking for a petri dish.” He scrambled and found an empty dish by the computer that was filled with paper clips. “Like this, but containing a tan gelatin with florid spots. You’re looking for one marked cholera or V. cholerae, INABA strain, and a number.

  “Anyone asks you a question, you say you’re working the third floor. You’re looking for some vibrio cholera. You watch: They’ll hand it to you if you’re polite.”

  “I gotta see this,” Boldt said.

  “Out through this lab, down the hall, first door on your right.”

  By the time Boldt was in the hall, he could once again feel himself as the would-be thief. With each step he felt a little more nervous. There were three people perched on metal stools working at the lab counter. Wearing goggles and plastic gloves, they appeared focused on their work. The place was littered with hundreds of glass flasks, plastic petri dishes, test tubes, and other lab equipment. A mess. He headed directly to the small refrigerator, stooped, and pulled open the door. No one said a word. He caught himself expecting it, but it never happened. The refrigerator shelves were crammed with petri dishes. He picked one up, inspected it, and dropped it as it came apart.

  The woman nearest him glanced over at him. An attractive Asian woman in her midtwenties. She smiled at him and returned to her work. He returned the fallen dish and sorted through the others. Way in the back he found it, marked with a black grease pen: V cholerae-395. He took it, shut the refrigerator door, and walked out.

  Just like that.

  His heartbeat was back to normal by the time he reached Dr. Mann.

  “Well?”

  “You’re right: If I hadn’t done that myself, I never would have believed it.” He handed Mann the petri dish.

  Mann studied the dish, spinning it in his hand.

  “And once he has it?” Boldt asked, removing the uncomfortable lab coat, taking notes again.

  “Not much to it. He probably has some microbiology under his belt—early college level. Some agar—a petri dish containing a protein base; some broth—the book would have a recipe; an incubator—but could build something—a light box might work. Doesn’t need much, I’m afraid. It’s all pretty easy. It looks real complex and the language is fairly complex, but the actual mechanics of growing a culture are relatively simple. It’s covered in both high school and college chemistry.”

  “Anything else I should know?” Boldt tried. “Limited shelf life?”

  “Not terribly. Cholera’s a pretty good choice. Salmonella would have been obvious to whoever opened the can because of gases—bacterial odor. But cholera? No odor or gases to speak of. And if it isn’t someone at the university, someone who knows specifically about cholera-395—and there couldn’t be more than a handful who do—then this guy probably didn’t know what a powerful punch it packed. Three ninety-five is a resistant strain. Probably didn’t know what he was getting. And unless and until you do put this in the press, he may not even be aware he may kill people with it.”

  Boldt felt the wind knocked out of him. “Kill?”

  “It’s a research strain, 395. It doesn’t react to the more common antibiotics. That’s why these kids became so ill. It’s in the material,” he said, indicating Boldt’s pile of literature. “Their youth may help them—we’re lucky there.”

  “It’s lethal, and it’s just sitting in there in a refrigerator?”

  “I know. I know. But it’s true of much of what’s in there: This is Infectious Diseases. We’re working to cure people here.”

  “Am I the only one who sees irony in that?”

  “The Lowry boy went critical a couple hours ago,” Mann informed him.

  Again, Boldt couldn’t catch his breath. He could picture the boy as clear as day: the sunken eyes, the strange color to his skin. It made him sick to his stomach. He put down the tea.

  “Sorry,” Mann said.

  “I’ve got a two-year-old,” Boldt explained.

  “Me, a boy five, a girl three,” Mann said, pointing to color photographs by the computer.

  “We’re on the back side of the curve, I’m afraid, even with the research work on 395. I’d like to tell you that they will be okay, but I can’t because it isn’t necessarily true.”

  Boldt said, “The girl is doing better.”

  Mann said, “We get lucky now and then.” He hesitated, “There’s something else you should know—your lab people should be aware of this, but in case they are not: Vibrio cholerae degrades rather rapidly. At room temperature, it will die on the shelf inside these soup cans. With a high enough inoculum, there should be sufficient organisms to cause disease for the first five to seven days. After that, the organisms will die, which means they may go undetected by your lab. Just so you know.”

  “You’re telling me these are time bombs with a shelf life. We won’t be able to prove they were contaminated?”

  “Not after the first five to seven days. After that, the bug is dead and your tests will return negative.” The doctor added, “The bright side is that after a week on the shelf it won’t harm anyone.”

  Boldt was devastated by this. Providing evidence of the contamination in a court of law might prove difficult if not impossible. He thanked the man for his time and they shook hands.

  On his way out, Boldt leaned his head into the lab and looked down at the half-refrigerator, unlocked and available for the killer.

  This triggered a thought, and he returned to Mann, who hung up the phone. He said, “Will you lock that refrigerator for me?”

  “Just arranging that.” He pointed to the phone.

  As Boldt passed the lab, a woman’s voice called out: “Did you get what you need?” It was the young Asian woman, her eyes stretched open by the clear safety goggles, a wire loop held in her hand and sparking in the flames of a Bunsen burner.

  “Yes,” he said with a slightly raised voice, loud enough to carry above the whine of a centrifuge.

  “Good,” she said brightly.

  “Not really,” Boldt replied. He turned and left, negotiating his way through a labyrinth of hospital corridors so similar in appearance that someone had painted color bars on the floor to direct you—only Boldt didn’t know which colors led where. Like this case. He finally reached the main lobby, and
then headed off at a run out into the parking lot, out into the unexpected rain, pouring rain, buckets of rain, out without an umbrella or even a newspaper to hold over his head. Sometimes he hated this city.

  SEVEN

  The meeting with Owen Adler was due to begin promptly at three. For the sake of security and privacy, it was to take place aboard Adler’s yacht. Earlier that Friday morning, Boldt had assigned Detective John LaMoia to obtain a list of Mann’s students and faculty who had regular access to the Infectious Diseases lab. He also asked for employee lists from Foodland, Shop-Alert Security, and Wagner Wholesale, the distributor that supplied Lee Hyundai’s Foodland store. In an attempt to link motive with opportunity, these lists would be cross-checked with that of Adler’s employees.

  Shilshole Marina was a clutter of masts alive with the clanging slap of nylon line on hollow-core aluminum. Wind whistled across the steel stays. Stinging rain struck the launch’s Plexiglas shield and drummed on the blue canvas awning as the craft carried Boldt and Daphne through choppy water to the waiting motor cruiser. It was temporarily moored in the lee of the gray stone boulders that created the breakwater protecting the man-made inlet from the sound. The multidecked, fifty-five-foot cruiser could have made a landing at the dock, but Adler was taking no chances that he or any of his passengers might be seen meeting with the police.

  “It looked so nice earlier,” she called across the noise of the twin engines. She was not herself. Nervous, perhaps to see Adler professionally and in the company of others.

  “Is he crazy?” Boldt shouted.

  Her eyebrows danced. She knew whom he meant. She hollered back, “He’s disturbed.” She reached up and took hold of her hair, keeping it from whipping her face. “We want to look for suicides when we get this employee list—a spouse, a relative. And bankruptcy. Those are his immediate demands.”

  “It’s personal?” he asked.

  “Love, money, and revenge,” she said, quoting the three most common reasons humans killed each other. “We may have a possible paranoid schizophrenic on our hands,” she warned. “And then again, he may be a cold-blooded psychopath.” The wind suddenly felt colder to Boldt.

  “I’d like to bring in Dr. Richard Clements. He’s BSU.” She meant the Behavioral Sciences Unit of the FBI. Boldt knew she had used Clements in past investigations. He had never met the man.

  The low charcoal clouds grew oppressively lower. Boldt loosened his collar and chewed down two Maalox.

  “You all right?” She crossed unsteadily and flopped down onto the cushion beside him. Her hair whipped in the wind. “Are you okay?” she asked more intimately, pressed up against him.

  “The boy is worse, I hear,” he said.

  She reached out and laid her hand gently on the lower sleeve of his sport jacket and squeezed his forearm.

  The launch engines slowed, and as the launch pulled alongside, a woman crew member tossed a line. Daphne climbed the ladder, followed by Boldt. The launch sped away, cutting into the angry green water, ripping open a crease of white foam.

  “Lousy weather,” the woman offered. She was in her twenties with an athletic figure, nice legs, and quite crisp green eyes. She wore khaki shorts, white and blue canvas deck shoes, and an aquamarine T-shirt damp on her shoulders.

  They descended into a spacious, well-appointed living room. Owen Adler stood to the side of the steep ladder and offered his hand to Daphne to guide her down the steep steps. “Welcome aboard,” he said to Boldt.

  Adler was a boyish forty-five, with graying hair at the temples, wire-rimmed glasses, French cuffs, and silver cuff links. He stood just under six feet but carried himself much taller. He wore soft brown Italian loafers, linen pants, and a faint pink pinpoint cotton shirt with a starched collar. His handshake was firm, his dark eyes attentive.

  Adler and Daphne sat on opposite ends of a small chintz couch. Adler’s attorney and chief operating officer, Howard Taplin, took the cushioned chair to Adler’s immediate right. Taplin was a wiry man with drawn features, a trimmed mustache, and intense gray eyes. He wore a gray suit and black wing tips and the kind of high, thin socks that required garters. Boldt sat between Taplin and Kenny Fowler. Fowler had once served on the police force in Major Crimes, working the gangland wars. Boldt saw him occasionally at the Big Joke, where Boldt played happy-hour piano. Fowler carried a deliberate intensity in his eyes. He wore his dark hair slicked back and kept himself impeccably groomed. He fancied himself a ladies’ man, though the rumors had always been that he chased the cheerleading age. Boldt knew well the man’s reputation for an explosive disposition and frank honesty. Fowler shook hands strongly with Boldt and asked him about Liz and Miles. He always remembered to ask. He had a couple of new teeth in front and a tiny scar on his lower lip. Boldt wondered what the other guy looked like: Fowler was the workout type and wore tailored clothes to prove it.

  As Adler opened the meeting, the cruiser left the protection of the jetty, entering some rougher water. But as the speed increased, the ride smoothed. The cabin was impressively soundproofed. A male crew member delivered a pitcher of iced tea and extra glasses with sprigs of mint and wedges of lemon. A plate of cookies circulated.

  Adler said, “We want to welcome your assistance and expertise, Sergeant. This is a horrible situation, and we will cooperate in whatever way required to resolve this just as quickly as possible. I want to say right up front that we’re aware we may have impeded your efforts by waiting to contact you as we did.” He glanced at both Daphne and Howard Taplin. “And I should add that we still feel strongly about keeping the involvement of the police as low-profile as possible. With these contaminations, whoever this is has proved he means business, and we would just as soon be perceived as adhering to his demands—all of his demands.”

  “Agreed,” Boldt replied. “Where do we stand with the recall?”

  “We’ve issued a full recall for the product run in question. Kenny is continuing to quietly search for a possible employee who might carry a grudge. You two will want to coordinate on that, I’m sure.”

  “We will not give in to terrorism,” Taplin interrupted.

  Adler did not appreciate the intrusion. “What Tap means,” he said addressing Boldt, “is that we would prefer to catch this person than enter into negotiations.”

  “And some of us would prefer to keep the police out,” Taplin said. “Nothing personal,” he added coolly, passing Boldt the most recent fax.

  THE CHOICE IS YOURS.

  MORE SUFFERING—AND WORSE—

  UNLESS YOU OBEY.

  DO NOT CLEAR THE SHELVES,

  AND NO POLICE OR PRESS OR

  HUNDREDS WILL DIE.

  BEEN TO PORTLAND LATELY?

  “Portland?” Boldt asked, worried.

  “We have calls in to all the hospitals,” Fowler explained.

  Daphne took the fax and reread it, saying partly to herself, partly to the gathering, “He’s getting more wordy. That’s a good sign. He’s opening up.” The others listened. Boldt felt cold. She reread it yet again. “No contractions; he’s well educated. And he uses the word obey, not cooperate—that’s interesting.”

  Taplin said, “You see our position?”

  “Damned if we do, damned if we don’t,” Fowler said.

  “What do you advise?” Adler asked. “We will cooperate however we can. We would like to place another run of soup back out there—but not if we’re risking more poisonings.”

  “Can you keep the chicken soup off the shelves, but stock them with something else?” Boldt inquired.

  “It’s our highest-velocity product,” Taplin complained.

  “My take,” Daphne offered, “is that we should accede to the specific demands while taking every precaution possible to prevent this from happening again. What about product redesign?”

  Boldt explained, “If the blackmailer is working in one of your production facilities, a label or product redesign might tell us so. If he—or she—has access to the new materials then
we know it’s inside work. He added, “And it doesn’t go against any of the demands.”

  “Way ahead of you,” Taplin crowed. “Six to eight working days to print new labels if we already had a new design, which we do not. Two to three weeks for a new design. In terms of container redesign—moving to something tamper-proof—we’re looking both domestic and abroad, but best guess is anywhere from two to twenty months to facilitate such an overhaul.”

  Fowler contributed, “We’re aware of the product-tampering cases that have lasted years, Lou, ’kay? But from what I can tell, they seem to always involve extortion. These are strange demands we’re getting, and with the time limit already exceeded, it somehow doesn’t seem too real that this nut house is going to hang in there for all that long. You follow? Whatever he’s got cooking—you’ll pardon the pun—I don’t think we can wait around a couple months to put the soup in jars or something. ’Kay? So I advised to move forward with the new labels but not to hold our breath or nothing.”

  “What about changing the glue to water-insoluble,” Boldt suggested. “This guy is drilling the cans beneath the label. If we make it impossible to soak off a label, and yet he is still able to contaminate the cans, we narrow the field of where to look inside your company.”

  Fowler said, “It would have to be someone stealing labels from, or working on, the line.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s very good!” exclaimed Adler, jotting a note onto a legal pad. “And it’s a simple change,” he said to Taplin, who nodded.

  “As few people as possible should know about the glue change,” Boldt encouraged.

  “We can arrange this with virtually no one involved,” Adler said.

  “We might piss him off,” Fowler cautioned.

  “He’s threatened hundreds if we challenge him,” Taplin reminded.

  Boldt considered how much to reveal and then informed them, “The lab tests suggest that there is no direct evidence indicating that the label was either soaked or steamed off the can. There’s a high probability that the blackmailer is working with fresh labels—new labels.”