Ecstasy (15 page)

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from covering this kind of spot news, it’s that you don’t want to piss off cops and firemen
by sticking a notebook in their faces while they’re trying to do their jobs. So we wandered around the periphery for a while,
keeping our distance from the mob at the cooling facility’s front door. This wasn’t just a matter of respect, mind you; if
there was really some awful chemical blowing around in there, we had no interest in inhaling it.

When fifteen minutes went by without anything exploding, I nosed closer in the hope of finding someone I knew. I didn’t recognize
any of the firemen, but when I got to the other side of one of the ambulances, I encountered a very freaked-out Glenn Shardik.

The Deep Lake Cooling engineer was pacing around a tiny patch of asphalt, looking like he could use a hefty dose of elephant
tranquilizer. If I were a nicer person I might have left him alone, but, hey, I’m a reporter.

“Hi, Glenn,” I said. He stopped pacing for a second and squinted at me. “Alex Bernier, from the
Monitor.
Remember me?”

“What? Oh. Yes. Of course.”

“So…can you tell me what’s going on?”

He ran a hand through his hair, which is so bushy his fingers got stuck. It must happen a lot, though, because he didn’t seem
to notice. “What’s going on?” He started pacing back and forth again, so fast it was almost comic. “I’d
love
to know what’s going on. But nobody’s telling me anything, are they?”

“Well… what happened?”

I didn’t really expect him to answer, but apparently he was upset enough to overlook the fact that he was talking to a reporter.

“There’s something in the system,” he said. “And don’t ask me what, because I don’t know.” He looked over at the front door,
still blocked by a cadre of firemen. “And I’m not going to find out anything soon, because they won’t let me back in….”

He was talking and walking a mile a minute. I grabbed him by the wrist and noticed that he had the hairiest forearms I’d ever
seen on a two-legged animal. “Look, Glenn, why don’t we go sit down for a minute?”

“Where?”

It was a good question, but I had no answer; there’s no place to sit in the Deep Lake Cooling parking lot. “Then how about
if we just stand still for a second, okay?”

He’d gone back to staring at the entrance. I doubted he was even listening to me.

“Listen, Glenn, can you just tell me what you saw in there?” He didn’t answer. “Glenn?”

“What? Oh, sorry….Look, I can’t tell you anything. All I know is I got a call from the shift foreman telling me there was
something odd in the intake pool. I came running down here and, lo and behold, he was right.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. There’s something foreign in there. The whole pool’s bright red”—he made a sour face—“like blood.”

T
he police and firemen stayed at the scene for two hours, during which Melissa snapped innumerable photos of burly guys in
space suits. The one that ran on the front page was of two of them emerging from the front door, carrying a black plastic
case that looked like it housed some sort of video equipment. As it turned out, what was inside was a sample of the water
in the intake pool. When I finally found the scene commander, he told me it was being taken for, quote, “analysis.”

“Taken where?” I asked.

“Forensics lab.”

He kept walking toward his official SUV. I followed.

“Someone said it might be blood. Is that true?”

“We don’t know what it is,” he said, and not nicely. “That’s why we’re taking it for analysis. Get it?”

“When do you think you’ll have the results?”

“You’ll have to ask the chief about that.”

“The police chief or the fire chief?” He looked like he wanted to turn the hose on me. “Come on, I’m not trying to be a pain
in the ass. I just want to know who to ask, that’s all.”

“Fine,” he said. “Go bother Chief Hill.”

Wilfred Hill runs the G.P.D., which makes him Cody’s boss. The guy is occasionally grumpy and he’s no great fan of reporters,
but he’s always been fair. He also seems not to mind that one of his men is schtupping a member of the press corps, which
goes a long way in my book.

Once I got back to the paper, I tried calling the chief ’s office, only to be told he was gone for the day. So I asked for
the ranking officer on duty, and the next thing I knew I was talking to my boyfriend.

“Uh… hi,” I said.

“Hey, baby. What’s up?”

“Um…I actually was trying to get the chief.”

“You dating him now too?”

“Come on, don’t joke. This is official business.”

“I see.”

“And I’m officially not supposed to be covering you.”

The sound he made didn’t quite jibe with his wholesome image. “Sorry to hear that. Having you cover me would be—”

“You’re awful.”

“Sorry,” he said, though he laughed when he said it. “What were you calling about, anyway?”

“I was just out covering this thing at Deep Lake.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.”

“Well, do you know what’s up?”

“You mean on the record?”

“Yeah.”

“No idea.”

“What about off the record?”

“No idea, either.”

“The fire lieutenant said I should call Chief Hill to find out what’s going on.”

“Chief Hill went home.”

“No kidding. And I’ve got a deadline here.”

“Look, I’ll ask around and call you back, okay?”

“Better call Ochoa back, what with the conflict-of-interest thing and all.” I gave him the number. “I’ll give him a heads-up
about it.”

“Ochoa’s not nearly as pretty as you are.”

“You know,” I said, “I’m sure there’s a compliment in there if I just keep looking for it.”

I filled Ochoa in on what was up, and when I dropped the problem on Bill’s desk, he decided we should write the story under
a joint byline.

Here’s how it turned out:

By ALEX BERNIER & CAL OCHOA
Monitor
Staff

Gabriel police investigators are still trying to identify the substance that contaminated the Deep Lake Cooling intake pool
Thursday afternoon. According to fire lieutenant Paul Soper, the fire department was called to the scene at approximately
5:15
P.M
. after workers at the Heat-Exchange Facility, located on East Shore Drive, reported seeing a bright red substance in the
intake pool. “They called their supervisor and he was concerned enough to call us,” Soper said.

In a press release delivered via fax to the
Monitor
newsroom Thursday evening, a group identifying itself as the Mohawk Warriors has claimed responsibility for the contamination.
“We will not allow Benson and its corporate interests to rob us of our natural resources,” the statement said. “Mohawk Lake
must be protected at all costs.”

More than a dozen firefighters responded to the scene, including several in full hazardous-material gear. Testing inside the
building showed no indication of any dangerous chemicals or gases, Soper said. Although there is no reason to believe that
workers are in danger, he said, the facility has been shut down pending analysis of the pool’s water. Drawn directly from
the bottom of the lake at a depth of 400 feet, the water remains a constant 38 degrees.

According to Detective Brian Cody of the Gabriel Police Department, the sample, described as a reddish liquid, is being stored
at the police forensics lab and is scheduled for testing this morning (Friday). “Until we know what this is, we’re taking
the proper precautions,” he said.

Owned and operated by Benson University, the Deep Lake Cooling facility provides air-conditioning for buildings and laboratories
on campus by drawing chilled water from the bottom of Mohawk Lake. Four years in the making, the project is the first of its
kind in the U.S. and only the second in the world. It started operation on Wednesday, when it was unveiled at an open house
whose start was delayed by a blockade by about twenty protesters.

Glenn Shardik, the Benson engineer who designed the system, declined to speculate on whether the contamination might be related
to the protests. “The system will be operating normally as soon as possible,” Shardik said.

We filed the piece around eight, then went back to work on the drug stories. By the time we left, we needed a little chemical
consolation of our own.

“What I want to know,” Mad was saying from our usual window seat at the Citizen Kane, “is what kind of goddamn idiot puts
that shit in their body.”

He said this, by the way, while raising a shot of midpriced tequila to his lips. No one felt the need to point out the irony.

“Hey, come on,” Ochoa said. “Kids like to try stuff. Always have, always will.”

Mad turned the glass upside down to demonstrate his successful ingestion of every drop. “You saying you’ve done it?”

“Tried acid? Yeah, a couple times. In college.”

“And?”

Ochoa shrugged. “Everything kinda glowed.”

“That’s it?”

“Colors were brighter; textures were richer; that kind of thing. I guess I didn’t take that much. I never saw any sounds or
anything.”

I reached past Mad to the Beer Nuts. “What do you mean ‘saw any sounds’?”

“It’s this thing they say about acid,” Ochoa said. “Some people feel like they can ‘see sounds,’ ‘hear colors,’ that sort
of thing. It’s all about altering your senses. That’s the name of the game.”

I drank my drink. “And you actually got into this?”

“Not really. I just dated this chick once who dug it, that’s all. Thought I’d give it a try.”

“No way I’d put that shit in this body,” Mad said again, rolling up the sleeve of his blue oxford and flexing a bicep for
dramatic effect. “I mean, come on. Who needs to mess with perfection?”

“And speaking of which,” I said, “who needs to mess with seventeen-year-old girls?”

Mad turned a pair of comically wide eyes on Ochoa. “Oh, hey, perish the thought,” he said. “Who’d ever want to do something
like that?”

“Hey, not me,” Ochoa said. “I insist the chick’s gotta be at least a college freshman.”

“Too bad, man,” Mad said. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Jacob Ebenezer Madison,” I said, “tell me you’re not messing with that girl.”

“Hey, she’s just called me in the newsroom a couple of times, okay? I haven’t laid a hand on her.”

“Yeah, and you better not. The kid’s all messed up and grief-stricken. She’s not even thinking straight.”

Ochoa flashed a crafty smile. “So maybe Madison here can help her feel all better….”

“Mad,” I said, “Lauren Potter isn’t even old enough to vote.”

He smiled back at Ochoa. “She will be in a week or so.”

“Jesus,” I said, “I need another drink. How about one of you two pedophiles go and get it for me?”

Ochoa rolled his eyes, but stood up. “What are you drinking again?”

“Maker’s Mark and ginger ale.”

“Sad waste of good bourbon,” he said, and headed for the bar.

“Seriously, Mad,” I said once Ochoa had gone, “are you actually thinking about screwing a high-school student?”

“Nah.”

“Because this would be a new low, even for you.”

“I said no, okay? Give me a break. The kid’s half my age.”

“Two minutes ago, you weren’t making that sound like much of a liability.”

He shrugged and poured himself a beer from the pitcher. “Guy talk.”

“I hope that’s all it is.”

“Christ, Bernier, what do you care?”

“I have a hard time thinking a roll in the hay would do much good for either one of you.”

Again with the carnivorous grin. “Might change her political views.”

I started to stand up. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“Where are you going? I thought you said Cody was meeting you here later.”

“I’ll catch him on his cell.”

“Come on, sit down. I’ll be a good boy.”

I half lowered myself back into my seat. “You promise?”

“Cross my heart. Besides, I’ve got a funny story for you.”

“One that doesn’t involve jailbait?” He stuck his tongue out at me. “Fine. What is it?”

“The crazy, mixed-up history of lysergic acid diethylamide.”

“What?”

“LSD.”

“Oh. What about it?”

“I found out some cool stuff today. Thought you might be interested.”

“Give me a break,” I said. “We’ve been dealing with this stuff all day.”

“Yeah, but it’s pretty fascinating.”

“Science stuff?”

“You bet.”

“Spare me. I’ve had enough with the Deep Lake Cooling thing.”

“Speaking of which, what the hell’s going on over there?”

“You read the story, right?”

“Yeah, but it didn’t say much. Come on, Bernier, what do you think’s really in the water?”

“Damned if I know. Shardik said it looked like blood.”

“Are you serious?”

“That’s what he said.”

“What could account for that?”

“Honestly,” I said, “I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Wimp.”

“Fine. I think it was the goddamn protesters.”

“Who, what? Sacrificed a chicken?”

“Have to be more than one chicken. There’s, like, thousands of gallons of water in that pool. And besides, the chicken-sacrificing
thing isn’t what you’d call politically correct.”

Ochoa arrived, carrying my drink in one hand and two tequila shots in the other. “What in the holy hell are you people talking
about?”

I reached for my bourbon and ginger ale. “You’re back fast.”

“No line at the bar,” he said. “Sweet.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Just wait until the upperclassmen get back.”

Mad took the shot and dispatched it in one fluid move. “I bet Ochoa here’d like to hear a little bit about where his glowing…
whatevers came from.” Ochoa gave us a confused look. “History of LSD,” Mad said.

“Cool,” Ochoa said. “Lay it on me.”

“Okay,” Mad said, “the year is 1943. A Swiss chemist named Albert Hofmann is noodling around in his laboratory, working on
synthesizing drugs from a plant-based substance called ergot. Now what, you may ask, is ergot?”