Fatal Impact (26 page)

46

A
t the prison, Anya left her bag in the visitors’ locker, wishing she’d had more than a brief glance at the material that had been buried under the chicken pen. Oliver carried a notepad and pen. She carried two of the journals. After being scanned, patted down and quizzed, they were led into a room with eight plastic tables fixed to the floor. Nothing in the room could be smashed or used as a weapon.

Anya felt claustrophobic in prison visiting rooms. This was a maximum security facility for some of the state’s most violent and deadly offenders. One had shot six people from his workplace. Another had beaten a police officer to death.

They had the space to themselves. A female officer waited with them.

‘What sort of prisoner is Millard?’ Oliver casually asked.

The Amazonian corrective services officer stood with her hands clasped in front of her. ‘Decent. Never talks back, never causes trouble. Keeps to himself but sure loves getting his magazines.’ She huffed. ‘Gets a real spring in his step a couple of days before
Scientific American
arrives.’

A small, thin, stooped and bespectacled man was led into the room, hands cuffed together.

‘There you go, Dr Millard,’ the male officer said. ‘These are your visitors.’

‘Thank you, you’ve been very kind.’ The small man rubbed his wrists once the handcuffs had been removed and studied Anya and Oliver. ‘Have we met?’

‘No,’ Oliver explained. ‘I’m Senior Detective Parke and Dr Crichton is a pathologist and forensic physician. We wondered if we might ask you some questions.’

‘Let me guess. I’m a suspect in the Lindbergh baby kidnapping? Shooting Martin Luther King?’ He signalled to the guard. ‘Experience has taught me the hard way. You can interview me with my lawyer present. If I still have one.’

Oliver took the lead. ‘I’m reviewing a case that may be connected to yours. It may shed new evidence on what happened to Patsy Gallop.’

Soft brown eyes widened and Millard inched forward a little in his chair. He reminded Anya of a wounded animal unsure whether or not to trust someone offering help.

‘New evidence?’

‘Len Dengate was found shot.’ Oliver let the news sink in. ‘He’s dead.’

There was no hint of pleasure in the news. Millard shook his head. ‘Poor fool. Just couldn’t leave it alone. Are the police calling it suicide?’

Oliver glanced at Anya. ‘Leave what alone, doctor?’

The prisoner sat back and slowly shook his head. ‘It’s over. There’s nothing anyone can do now.’

Anya wanted to know why Millard assumed Len’s death had been deemed a suicide, and why he didn’t seem to accept that Len could have killed himself. She lifted the book from her lap. Seeing it, Millard reached across the table with one hand, the blood draining from his face. The female officer stepped forward.

‘No physical contact, Reuben.’

‘Sorry.’ He pulled his hand back. ‘I just .
. .
It was Patsy’s.’ He almost seemed frightened. ‘Did Len give it to you?’ His eyes darted back and forth between them. ‘God, that’s why he’s dead. You don’t have a choice. If you have families of your own, you have to destroy it.’

Oliver shifted in his seat and Anya felt unnerved by the reference to their families.

‘Can you tell us why you’re so worried?’ She gently slid the book across to him.

He stroked the cover with one finger before opening it.

‘We studied rats to test the safety of some of the seed crops being developed at PT. This is one of Patsy’s logbooks.’

It looked like a kind of shorthand, interspersed with figures and tables. Recorded observations, methods and outcomes. ‘Can you decipher it?’

‘I’m the only one left who can. I know it by heart. But, like I said, it has to be destroyed.’

The trio sat in silence for a few moments.

‘Is that all?’ Reuben moved his chair back.

Oliver sat, elbows on his thighs. ‘It’s not as if you have a revolving door of visitors.’

Reuben looked to the guard in the room.

‘Man’s got a point,’ she said. ‘What’s it gonna cost you to talk a few more minutes?’

‘Okay,’ Oliver asked. ‘Why did you keep liquid selenium in the lab?’

‘Simple, there was a deficiency in the local soil. Sometimes the mice were fed diets from food grown in other areas. By excluding selenium deficiency in all the subjects, we excluded an important variable that could have affected the results. The liquid was easy to administer to the animal feed in droplet form.’

‘Was that documented in the study findings?’ Anya asked.

‘Most definitely.’ He opened the book and flicked through a few pages. ‘Patsy recorded the daily doses.’

He found an example and turned the book around for Anya. ‘Se’, the chemical symbol for selenium, was the abbreviation used.

‘She recorded the dose in terms of micrograms and drops.
You see,’ he pointed to a line on the page, ‘they were the equivalent of two-ounce, or 59 ml to be exact, bottles, containing twelve teaspoons or twenty-four half-teaspoons. Each half-teaspoon contained one hundred micrograms of selenium. With this viscosity a half-teaspoon contains twenty drops of that specific liquid formulation. Therefore, five drops were the equivalent of ten micrograms.’ He sat back, arms folded.

‘Why were you the only one allowed to touch the bottle?’

‘I wasn’t. Patsy pipetted the dose out each day. She wore protective gloves so her skin wouldn’t be burnt by spills.’ He looked as if he were watching the scene.

‘It’s understandable. Working so closely together. Same goals and passion for science?’ Oliver left the comment hanging.

‘I’ve never been attractive to women, detective.’ Millard let out a sigh. ‘I deeply admired her. She was exceptional. Vibrant, extremely intelligent and insightful.’ Another sigh. ‘I was never even in her league. Len was good to her. She shone every time she saw him. Anyone could see it. If you’re asking if I ever had intimate relations with Patsy, the answer is no.’

‘Did she know how you felt about her?’ Anya asked.

He made eye contact with her. ‘Patsy was the best research assistant and friend I ever had. Why is it so difficult for people to understand that it was enough? I didn’t want anything to change that.’

Anya believed he was being honest.

‘Why were the police convinced you two had an affair?’ Oliver questioned.

Millard inhaled and looked upward. ‘They claimed they found love letters, emails from my computer to hers.’ His eyes became dull. ‘I saw her every day and she was engaged to another man, also my friend. We worked at a research centre, but everything was owned and paid for by PT. The computers were company property. Why would I have done that?’ His leg began to jiggle beneath the table. ‘Not that it matters anymore.’

The man sounded innocent, yet seemed defeated, as if he were resigned to his fate.

‘Why did your lawyer fail to offer a defence on your behalf?’ Oliver knew more about the case than he had let on, particularly about what had become of the lawyer.

‘He said the jury would see through the prosecution’s lies.’ He placed both hands on the table. ‘Is that it?’

Oliver leant closer. ‘Jerry Dyke was wrong. He didn’t even put you on the stand to defend yourself. He failed in his duty to you.’ He paused, letting the words sink in. ‘And within weeks he was on the payroll of PT.’

The convicted killer’s expression remained bland. ‘Unfortunately, detective, there are no laws against that.’

There was no hint of anger in his voice. In psychiatric terms Millard presented with a flat effect. Lack of emotion or variation in mood. Anya wondered if Patsy’s death, the conviction and prison had broken what spirit he had. Or he really was a cold-blooded killer, without a modicum of remorse.

She wanted to know if anything could get him more animated. ‘From a scientific perspective, do you regret working there?’

Millard cocked his head and licked his lips. ‘In the beginning I was hopeful of the new technologies. In the field of molecular genetics, possibilities are only limited by our imaginations.’ His eyes began to lighten, and for the first time, there was expression in his voice. ‘In the right hands, this technology could change the world. Just like Salk did with the polio vaccine.’ His eyes moved between Anya and Oliver. ‘Do you know he could have made billions but decided not to patent it, as a gift to the world? I wanted to be like Salk.’

Anya genuinely wanted to know, ‘What changed?’

‘Funding. Universities are now reliant on corporate funding for research. Look at the USA for a prime example. Research is purely there now for commercial development. Inserting a gene to make a rose blue isn’t going to help the world, but if there’s a dollar to be made by fans of blue roses, funding will back it.’

‘What if the research isn’t favourable to the company?’ Oliver asked. ‘Scientists are supposed to declare financial interests, conflicts of interest, in publications.’

Millard was beginning to warm up. ‘I was reassured my work would not be censored.’

Anya shifted in her seat and the chair leg scraped the floor. The guard looked up from a magazine, and they continued. ‘Was it?’

‘It’s no coincidence that companies that make the most toxic chemicals known to mankind – tobacco, chemical weapons and pesticides – now control the food industry. Ask yourself what would make them even wealthier? Is it any surprise they’re buying up patents for vaccines and medicines? Inserting genes into some of the pesticide-resistant plants resulted in the creation of new, unintended proteins. They were fed to cattle without being adequately tested. Was this reported?’

The question was obviously rhetorical.

‘In the US, they get away without adequate testing because they
miraculously
fall into the category of GRAS.’

Anya was unfamiliar with the acronym.

Oliver knew. ‘Generally Recognised As Safe.’

‘Exactly!’

Oliver’s knowledge seemed to impress and engage Millard.

‘Because they’re seeds,’ his forehead and eyes became more dynamic as he made the point, ‘they automatically get a free safety pass. No proof required.’

‘It’s difficult to get how that is even possible,’ Oliver added.

‘Money is power. You pay off government officials everywhere. Anyone against GM foods, like a lot of Europe, is accused of restrictive trade practices, and being anti-progress. The funny thing is, regimes that were big on genetic engineering and using people as human guinea pigs were known to commit some of the worst atrocities in history. The Nazis were the ultimate fascists. How is this different? Of course, third-world countries are the first to be taken advantage of. Clarkson Evergreen has planted their own people in important government positions in countries like Indonesia, Brazil, Bangladesh, Sudan, now Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and the US.’

It sounded like something from the Cold War, with ‘sleeper’ agents infiltrating influential government agencies, except that this was considered capitalism, adeptly practised by a Chinese communist government. Anya thought of Samir and Grace, and the tragedy their families had suffered. ‘What sort of health issues can the new proteins you mentioned cause?’

‘Allergic reactions, cancer, immune diseases .
. .’
He stopped himself.

It was exactly what Madison Zane had said.

‘Believe me, I was idealistic and thought I could make a difference. Only it’s all about profit. Industry funds universities. Whoever controls the funding controls the outcome.’

Anya felt for this man. Instinct told her that Len had been right about him. ‘You could appeal your conviction. Your lawyer obviously had a connection with your employer.’

He offered a half-hearted smile. ‘I don’t believe in God or the afterlife. It may not be much of a life in here, but I have more than Patsy. And now poor Len.’ He bowed his head.

Anya had one more question. ‘What do you think happened to them and why?’

‘You seem well intentioned, but you have no idea what you’re dealing with.’ He slid the book back across to Anya and stood up. Before the guard escorted him out, he turned back. ‘You need to destroy this and any others you may have, while you still can.’

‘Before we go,’ Oliver casually enquired, ‘know anyone who goes by the name of Mincer Leske?’

Millard’s shoulders tightened and his blinking became rapid. ‘Never heard of him.’

47

I
t was late afternoon by the time they left the prison. Anya felt rung out after the events of the past couple of days. She had no objections when Oliver asked if he could drive on the way back.

She held the books tightly in her lap. It seemed odd that Reuben Millard wouldn’t defend himself or challenge his lawyer’s advice. He had assumed Len’s death was a staged suicide. But hadn’t said why.

‘What are you thinking?’ Oliver asked.

‘Two scenarios. Reuben Millard loves prison life, or he really thinks he’d be killed if he appeals his conviction now.’

‘Did you see his reaction to hearing about Len’s death?’

She had. There had been a hint of sadness, but no surprise or shock. ‘Not what you’d expect from someone who wanted vengeance if Patsy had chosen another man over him.’

‘I agree. There wasn’t the slightest sense of satisfaction, or relief.’

If he’d been acting, there would have been little to be gained by feigning sympathy for Len. Millard had also refused any offer of help looking into his case.

‘Maybe he believes in karma.’ Drizzle began to fall. ‘The windscreen wipers are on the left side.’

‘Thanks.’ Oliver kept his eyes on the semi-trailer in front of them. ‘Why do you say that?

‘I think he feels guilty about the work he did for the company. He may think he’s paying the price for other wrongs.’

‘That’s the bit I don’t get. If he felt that guilty, and there was something revealing in Patsy’s logbooks, why not expose them? Why does he want them destroyed? What possible incentive does he have for remaining silent?’

Anya tried to see it from Millard’s point of view. His colleague was murdered and he had been framed and imprisoned. Now Len was dead, and he believed it would be written off as a suicide. If he were innocent, what would prevent him trying to prove it? ‘Maybe someone else has been threatened. Does he have a family?’

‘Father died years ago.’ Oliver checked the rear-view mirror. ‘Mother passed away last year. No brothers or sisters. Never married.’

‘You said he didn’t get visitors anymore. Who used to go see him?’

‘Vince Chan, vice president of product development at PT.’

It was definitely time to take Glenn up on his offer to tour the laboratory. ‘I know someone who’s working in that area.’

He seemed interested again in the rear-vision mirror. They were headed north, back on the Midlands Highway. Anya checked her side mirror. Behind them was a red Torana followed by a white Commodore.

‘Why did you want to take this car to Risdon?’

‘Someone’s pretty interested in what we’re doing. Don’t turn around, but we’ve been dogged since we left the prison. We weren’t tailed on the way down to the university. My guess is, someone at the prison tipped off our secret admirers.’

He slowed and hit the blinker before pulling over to the side. The rain was constant but not heavy. He stopped and hit the hazard lights before stepping out and opening the bonnet.

The Commodore slowed and cruised by. Tinted windows disguised whoever was inside. It looked like a government vehicle.

Oliver climbed back in and rubbed water from his cropped hair. ‘Let’s see if they loop back. There’s a U-turn bay not far ahead.’ He was studying his watch.

‘Two minutes.’ The car appeared on the other side of the road.

Anya knew the road well. ‘I can get us onto back roads from any of the turnoffs.’

‘We have another couple of minutes before they loop back on us again. They may assume we’ve taken the next one, so let’s shake them up.’ He watched until they were out of sight. Anya quickly closed the bonnet and they headed north again.

She found the calico bag behind the driver’s seat and put the logbooks away.

‘How nervous do you think we should be?’

‘I’m not sure. You were at Len Dengate’s PM. Chances are he was murdered and it was staged to look like a suicide. Reuben Millard seems nervous for our lives then we’re followed. I’m thinking there really is something important in those books.’

Anya had to agree. ‘The sooner we find out, the safer we’ll be. I still subscribe to the “knowledge is power” concept. Besides, if they know we’ve got the logbooks, they’re going to assume we’ve at least read them.’

It would take a few hours to go through them without interruption. Anya had an idea. ‘I know somewhere at Arthurs Lake. A cabin we can use where no one will disturb us.’

‘Is that our only option? You should know. I’m married and I would never–’

Anya exclaimed, ‘Neither would I! I am just trying to get us to a safe place.’

‘Just felt duty-bound to clear up any possible miscommunication.’ His face reddened. ‘Will a car arriving cause a problem for neighbours?’

‘Cabin used to get rented out so they’ll assume it’s tourists.’

He stopped briefly at a service station. Anya refilled the tank while Oliver went into the shop. As she went to pay, Oliver returned with two full shopping bags. Bottled water, bags of chips and Twisties were visible through the plastic. The man’s stomach seemed like a black hole.

Back in the car, he pulled out a packaged car cover. ‘Just in case.’

Reuben Millard’s instructions to destroy the logbooks had definitely rattled him as well. Anya drove from there. The roads were better than she remembered, but the weather made them difficult to navigate. Passing through sheep farms, rain now sheeted down. The windscreen wipers swished at maximum speed as the wind buffeted the car in gusts. A log truck passed in the opposite direction and the car rocked with the closeness.

Oliver’s arms tensed on the dashboard. ‘Are you sure you don’t have to be a mountain goat to get in and out of here?’ They passed fewer farmhouses on the way up to the mountains. Soon the vegetation was sparser, and the terrain rockier. Still, the occasional dead Tasmanian devil lay squashed on the road, casualties of nocturnal travels.

Anya thought of the snow chains her father always kept in his boot. The cabin had been known to have snow around it, even in summer. After what felt like hours, she steered down the familiar gravel drive to the wooden cabin. Outside, the air was at least fifteen degrees colder than it had been at the prison. Oliver patted his arms and offered her his suit coat but she hoped wet weather gear was still kept locked in an inside cupboard.

‘Not a fan of the weather, but this is pretty amazing.’ Oliver surveyed the view of the lake. It was still and the quiet was only disturbed by the rain and occasional duck call on the water.
A mist had already begun to descend on the surface. ‘Guess this belongs to a relative.’

‘Something like that.’ Anya’s father had spent many weekends fishing with friends up here. He still rented out the shack in winter to tourists who appreciated the snow and remote location. Her father wouldn’t be there now. ‘Trout fisherman’s paradise.’

Going by the amount of dirt and dust on the wood pile cover, it hadn’t been visited in a while.

While Oliver put the car cover over the Commodore, Anya moved to the back section of the wood pile and reached her hand under. A hand-carved wooden box still hid a key with a leather tag attached, embossed with the words,
Love Shack
.

‘So much for security.’ Oliver rubbed his hands together. He took some deep breaths, which condensed as he exhaled.

‘From memory, it’s colder inside.’ Anya grabbed some logs of wood, careful to check for spiders, and unlocked the door.

Oliver followed with some kindling from a box next to the chopped wood.

Anya had remembered rightly. Little had changed inside the cosy cabin. She wiped her feet in the wet area designed for boots, coats and waders. The room contained a wooden table with four chairs, a small stove and an oven adjacent to a sink. Against the side wall was a bar fridge.

She switched on the power in the fuse box inside the door and shivered. The temperature was rapidly dropping as night approached. She prepared a fire as Oliver explored the basic bathroom and two small bedrooms, each just large enough for a double bed. The same key unlocked the cupboard, and she produced two waterproof jackets.

‘This is really homely. My kids wouldn’t like it, no freezer for the ice-cream.’

‘In winter, you just bury it in the snow.’ It had been one of the things she’d loved doing with her father. ‘Once we left the milk in the car. Next morning it was frozen solid.’

‘Speaking of milk. . .?’

Anya suspected he was thinking of his stomach again. She arranged the kindling and pointed to the cupboards above the sink. ‘Try there.’

‘We’ll never run out of long-life milk packs.’ He pulled out a couple of cartons. ‘Just in case anyone pops in, there’s still six months left on them.’ He rifled through the cupboards. ‘We have two-minute noodles, cup-a-soups and .
. .
four tins of tuna in oil, instant coffee, tea bags and biscuits. I call dibs on the chocolate chip ones.’

She wondered how many brothers and sisters he’d had growing up, or if fatherhood had made him more childlike at times. ‘You sound like my son,’ she mused, appreciating the lack of pretence. Ben was always fun to play with, and not remotely interested in the self-imposed inhibitions of adulthood.

She lit the fire starters, kindling and a large piece of wood in the combustion stove. Within minutes, radiant heat filled the kitchen area and the kettle was on the stove top. A warm drink would take away the chill she felt in her bones and help her concentrate on the task at hand.

Oliver set up a work station at the round all-purpose table.

Something had been nagging at Anya all day. If PT knew what their products could do, they were potentially responsible for the deaths of anyone who consumed those products. Without accurate labelling of products, it would be impossible to source the illnesses or allergies back to them. Anya thought about what Madison had said about the way PT treated its beef.

‘If PT did irradiate or wash the beef in ammonia in the abattoirs, they must have known the cattle could carry infections. They wouldn’t want it being traced back to their meat products.’

‘Which means they did make some effort to make sure their products were safe.’

‘At what cost? The consumers don’t get a choice. Would you deliberately feed your children meat that’s been irradiated, or washed in ammonia?’

‘No way,’ Oliver said. ‘To be honest. I don’t get it. Has society gone that litigation crazy that producers are having to protect themselves even if the meat is eventually served undercooked on someone’s table?’

A piece of wood cracked in the fire.

‘The cattle are packed into feedlots and stand in their own manure. Faecal material is all over their hooves and lower legs. It could transfer to the carcasses in abattoirs and end up on the meet in the skinning process.’

‘Does that sound crazy to you? Instead of moving the cattle out of their own manure, you introduce radiation or toxic chemicals to the beef, so people won’t get sick.’

He was right. It sounded like something in a comedy skit to prove people had lost sight of the point of eating: nutrition and sustenance. ‘They either didn’t think about the possibility of water contamination or run-off from the feed lots, or they knew and ignored it. It’s made worse because of what the cattle are fed. Corn alters the stomach acids, so new forms of bacteria can find their way into the manure.’

‘And therefore the food chain.’ Oliver put his hands behind his head. ‘You’d think farms produce the best, freshest and healthiest food. If spinach you think has been washed can kill you, what hope is there?’

Anya moved over to place more wood in the fire. ‘The vet said one of PT’s cows developed a leg abscess a few months ago, with a new strain of E. coli identical to the one that caused the food poisonings. She’s checking the manure samples now. If they match, it would explain how Len Dengate’s crop became infected. The feedlots are upstream from where he planted his spinach.’

The detective returned to his laptop and started clicking away.

‘PT brings whole new meaning to what the protesters called Frankenfoods. Take a look at this.’ He showed her a picture from POWER’s website of dairy cows pumped with hormones to increase milk production. The udders were abnormally huge and must have been painful for the animals.

‘What a mother eats or drinks goes into her milk. So they’re pumping hormones into cows that will get into the stuff we force our kids to drink to be healthy. How many of us have no idea?’

Wind lashed the branches in the trees outside the cabin.

Anya thought of how quickly Evelyn had become critically ill. It was only luck that had prevented hundreds of deaths. PT was playing roulette with people’s lives. And it was owned by one of the most profitable companies on the planet.

Oliver’s phone rang. He checked the number before answering. ‘Speaking .
. .
She’s here now.’ He handed across the phone. ‘It’s Steve Schiller from Hobart homicide.’

‘Hi Steve.’

‘Just wanted you to know. We found Jenny and Mia Quaid. Alive.’

Anya drew a deep breath and imagined Beatrice Quaid’s relief. ‘That’s fantastic news. Where, how?’

‘They were hiding out in a yacht down in the harbour. Owners were overseas and hadn’t accessed it for a month. Someone reported a break-in and we found Jenny cowering with her little girl. They haven’t eaten much, but doctors say they’ll be fine.’

‘Does Beatrice Quaid know?’ The grandmother’s prayers had been answered.

‘She’s on her way to the hospital now.’

‘Beatrice may not know that Jenny can’t read or sign anything without help. She said her daughter ignored the lawyer’s letters, but she may not have been able to read them, so may not know about the custody fight that’s taking place.’

‘I’ll talk to the grandmother. Jenny’s been to hell and back. She thought she’d killed Emily by not preparing the food properly. Been off the electricity grid and hadn’t seen or heard the news. At least now she can be there to bury her child.’

‘Will she be charged with anything?’

‘Doubt now the prosecutor would go for negligent homicide or manslaughter for not getting medical attention in time. Maybe interfering with a body, but the way Emily was placed wasn’t disrespectful and she died in the house so it might be difficult to make that case. Jenny didn’t report the death. My guess is the chief prosecutor will think she’s suffered enough.’