Plum Island (18 page)

So, we began a tour of the two wings that flanked the two-story lobby. Everything was painted the same dove gray or dark gray,
which I guess has replaced the pukey green of older federal buildings. On the walls of the corridors were photos of past lab
directors, scientists, and researchers.

I noticed that almost all the doors in the long corridors were closed and they were all numbered, but none of them had the
name of a person or function on them, except the lavatories. Good security, I thought, and again I was impressed with Paul
Stevens’ paranoid mind.

We entered the research library where a few egghead types were browsing through the stacks or reading at tables. Donna said,
“This is one of the finest libraries of its type in the world.”

I couldn’t imagine too many animal disease libraries in the universe, but I said to Donna, “Wow!”

Donna retrieved a handful of brochures, press releases, and other propaganda from a long table and handed them out to us.
The tri-fold brochures had titles such as “Hog Cholera,” “African Swine Fever,” “African Horse Sickness,” and something called
“Lumpy Skin Disease,” which, judging from the scary photos in the brochure, I think one of my old girlfriends had. I couldn’t
wait to get home and read this stuff, and in fact I said to Donna, “Can I have two more rinderpest brochures, please?”

“Two more … ? Sure….” She retrieved them for me. She was really nice. She then got us each a copy of the monthly magazine
called
Agricultural Research
, whose cover featured a hot story titled “Sex Pheromone to Foil Cranberry Fruitworm.” I asked Donna, “Can I have a brown
wrapper to cover this?”

“Uh … oh, you’re kidding. Right?”

George Foster said to her, “Try not to take him too seriously.”

Au contraire,
Mr. Foster—you should take me very seriously. But if you confuse my doltish sense of humor with carelessness or inattention,
so much the better.

So, we continued the fifty-cent tour, Part Two. We saw the auditorium, then came to the second-floor cafeteria, a nice, clean
modern room with big windows from which you could see the lighthouse, the Gut, and Orient Point. Donna offered us coffee,
and we all sat at a round table in the nearly empty dining area.

We chatted a minute, then Donna said, “The researchers in biocontainment fax their lunch orders to the kitchen. It’s not worth
showering out—that’s what we call it—showering out. Someone delivers all the orders into Zone Two, then whoever delivers has
to shower out. The scientists are very dedicated, working in biocontainment eight or ten hours a day. I don’t know how they
do it.”

I asked Donna, “Do they order hamburgers?”

“Excuse me?”

“The scientists. Do they order beef and ham and lamb and stuff like that from the kitchen?”

“I guess…. I date one of the researchers. He likes his steak.”

“And he does dissections on diseased and putrid cows?”

“Yes. I guess you get used to it.”

I nodded. The Gordons did dissections, too, and they loved their steaks. Weird. I mean, I just can’t get used to stinking
human corpses. Anyway, I guess it’s different with animals. Different species and all that.

I knew this might be the only time I’d be able to get away from the herd so I glanced at Max and stood, announcing, “Men’s
room.”

“Over there,” Donna said, pointing to an opening in the wall. “Please don’t leave the cafeteria.”

I put my hand on Beth’s shoulder and pressed down, indicating she should stay with the Feds. I said to her, “Make sure Stevens
doesn’t come back and slip anthrax in my coffee.”

I went to the passage where the two rest rooms were located. Max joined me, and we stood in the dead-end corridor. Rest rooms
are much more likely to be bugged than corridors. I said, “They can say they fully cooperated, showed us the whole island,
and the entire facility except for Zone Five. In fact, it would take a few days to cover this whole building, including the
basement, and it would take a week to interrogate the staff.”

Max nodded. He said, “We have to assume the people here are as anxious as we are to figure out what, if anything, is missing.”
He added, “Let’s trust them on that.”

I replied, “Even if they find out or already know what the Gordons stole, they’re not going to tell us. They’ll tell Foster
and Nash.”

“So what? We’re investigating a murder.”

“When I know what and why, I’m close to who,” I said.

“In normal cases—with cases of national security and all that stuff, you’re lucky if they tell you anything. There’s nothing
on this island for us. They control the island, the workplace of the victims. We control the murder scene, the home of the
victims. Maybe we can horse-trade some information with Foster and Nash. But I don’t think they care who killed the Gordons.
They want to make sure the Gordons didn’t kill the rest of the country. You know?”

“Yeah, Max, I know. But my cop instincts tell me—”

“Hey, what if we catch the killer, and we can’t put him on trial because there aren’t twelve people left alive in the state
of New York to form a jury?”

“Cut the melodrama.” I considered a moment, then said to him, “This may not have anything to do with bugs. Think drugs.”

He nodded. “Thought about it. I like that one.”

“Yeah. Really. What do you think of Stevens?” Max looked over my shoulder, and I turned to see a blue-uniformed guard come
into the passage. He said, “Gentlemen, can I help you find something?”

Max declined the offer, and we went back to the table. When they send someone to interrupt a private conversation, it means
that they weren’t able to eavesdrop.

After a few minutes of coffee and chitchat, Ms. Alba checked her watch again and announced, “We can see the rest of the wing
now, then go to Dr. Zollner’s office.”

“You said that half an hour ago, Donna,” I reminded her gently.

“He’s very busy this morning,” she replied. “The phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Washington, newspeople from all over the
country.
” She seemed amazed and incredulous. She said, “I don’t believe what they’re saying about the Gordons. Not for one minute.
No way.”

We all left the cafeteria and wandered around dull gray corridors awhile. Finally, while viewing the computer room, I’d had
enough, and I said to Donna, “I’d like to see the laboratory where the Gordons worked.”

“That’s in biocontainment. You can probably see that later.”

“Okay. How about Tom and Judy’s office here in the admin area?”

She hesitated, then said, “You can ask Dr. Zollner. He didn’t tell me to take you to the Gordons’ office.”

I didn’t want to get rough with Donna, so I glanced at Max in a way cops understand—Max, you’re now the bad cop.

Max said to Ms. Alba, “As the chief of police of Southold Township, of which this island is a part, I require you now to take
us to the office of Tom and Judy Gordon, whose murders I am investigating.”

Not bad, Max, despite the shaky syntax and grammar.

Poor Donna Alba looked like she was going to faint.

Beth said to her, “It’s all right. Do what Chief Maxwell asks.”

Now it was the turn of Messrs. Foster and Nash, and I already knew what they were going to say. George Foster turned out to
be the designated dickhead. He said, “Because of the nature of the Gordons’ work and the probability that their office contains
papers or documents—”

“Relating to national security,” I interjected helpfully, “and so forth, and blah, blah, blah.”

Teddy Boy thought he should go on record and said, “The Gordons had a secret clearance, and therefore their papers are classified
secret.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me, Detective Corey—I’m speaking.” He fixed me with a really nasty glare, then said, “However, in the interests of
harmony and to avoid jurisdictional disputes, I will make a phone call, which I’m confident will get us access to the Gordons’
office.” He looked at me, Max, and Beth and asked, “All right?”

They nodded.

Of course the Gordons’ office had already been completely searched and sanitized last night or early this morning. As Beth
had said, we were only going to see what they wanted us to see. But I gave George and Ted credit for thinking to make a big
stink over this, as though we were going to find some really interesting stuff in the Gordons’ office.

Donna Alba seemed relieved and said to Nash, “I’ll call Dr. Zollner.” She picked up a telephone and hit the intercom button.
Meanwhile, Ted Nash whipped out a flip phone and walked some distance away with his back to us and talked, or made believe
he was talking, to the gods of National Security in the Great Capital of the Confused Empire.

Charade over, he returned to us mortals at the same time Donna finished with Dr. Zollner. Donna nodded that it was okay, and
Nash also nodded.

Donna said, “Please follow me.”

We followed her into the corridor and headed for the east wing of the building, past the open staircase we’d come up. We came
to Room 265, and Donna opened the door with a master key.

The office had two desks, each with its own PC, a modem, shelves, and a long worktable covered with books and papers. There
was no lab equipment or anything of that nature—just office stuff, including a fax machine.

We poked around the Gordons’ desks awhile, opening drawers, looking at papers, but as I said, this office had been picked
clean earlier. In any case, people who are involved in a conspiracy don’t calendar it in or leave incriminating memos around.

Still, you never know what you might find. I rolled through their Rolodex cards, noting that they knew people from all over
the world, mostly scientific types, it seemed. I looked under “Gordon” and saw a card for Tom’s parents, and names of people
who must have been his sister, his brother, and other family members. All in Indiana. I didn’t know Judy’s maiden name.

I looked for “Corey, John” and found my name, though I don’t recall them ever calling me from work. I looked for “Maxwell,
Sylvester” and found his office and home numbers. I looked for “Wiley, Margaret,” but she wasn’t there, and I wasn’t surprised.
Then I looked for “Murphy,” the Gordons’ next-door neighbors, and they were there, Edgar and Agnes, which made sense. I found
“Tobin, Fredric” and I recalled the time I’d gone with the Gordons to the winery of Fredric Tobin for a wine tasting. I looked
for and found the number of the Peconic Historical Society, and the home number of its president, one Emma Whitestone.

I looked under “D” for Drug Runner, Pedro, and “C” for Colombian Drug Cartel, but no luck. I tried “T” for Terrorists and
“A” for Arab Terrorists, but I came up empty. I didn’t see “Stevens” or “Zollner,” but I imagined there must be a separate
directory of every employee on the island, and I intended to get a copy of it.

Nash was playing with Tom’s PC and Foster was playing with Judy’s. This is probably the one thing they hadn’t had time to
fully check out this morning.

I noted that there were virtually no personal items in the office, not a photograph, not a piece of art, not even a desk item
that wasn’t government issue. I asked Donna about this, and she replied, “There’s no rule against personal items in Zone One
areas. But people tend not to bring much on the ferry to put in their office, except maybe cosmetics, medicines, and stuff
like that. I don’t know why. Actually, we can requisition almost anything we want, within reason. We’re a little spoiled that
way.”

“My tax money at work.”

She smiled. “We have to be kept happy on this crazy island.”

I walked over to a big bulletin board where Beth and Max were reading the few scraps of paper pinned to the cork. Out of earshot
of the Feds, I said, “This place has been picked clean already.”

Max asked, “By who?”

Beth said, “John and I saw our two friends getting
off
the Plum Island ferry this morning. They’ve already been here, already met Stevens, already saw this office.”

Max seemed surprised, then annoyed. He said, “Damn … that’s against the law.”

I said, “I’d let it go if I were you. But you can see why I’m not in the best of moods.”

“I haven’t noticed any difference, but now
I’m
pissed.”

Donna, in her most accommodating voice, interrupted our discussion and said, “We’re a little behind schedule now. Maybe you
can come back here later.”

Beth said to her, “What I would like you to do is to see that this room is padlocked. I am going to send people here from
the county police force, and they will look around.”

Nash said, “I assume what you mean by look around is that you’re going to take items into custody.”

“You can assume that.”

Foster said, “I believe a federal law has been broken, and I intend to take whatever evidence I need from federal property,
Beth. But I’ll make all of it available to the Suffolk County police.”

Beth said, “No, George,
I’ll
take this whole office into custody and make it available to you.”

Donna, sensing an argument, said quickly, “Let’s go see the duty office. Then we’ll see Dr. Zollner.”

We went back into the corridor and followed her to a door marked “237.” She punched in a code on a keypad and opened the door,
revealing a large, windowless room. She said, “This is the duty office, the command, control, and communication center of
all of Plum Island.”

We all entered, and I looked around. Countertops ran along all the walls, and a young man sat with his back to us, talking
on a telephone.

Donna said, “That’s Kenneth Gibbs, Paul Stevens’ assistant. Kenneth is duty officer today.”

Kenneth Gibbs turned in his chair and waved at us.

I looked around the room. On the tables were three different types of radio transmitters and receivers, a computer terminal,
a TV set, two fax machines, telephones, cell phones, a teletype, and a few other electronic gizmos. Two ceiling-mounted TV
cameras scanned the room.

On the wall were all sorts of maps, radio frequencies, memos, a duty roster, and so forth. This was Paul Stevens’ operation—command,
control, and communication, known as CCC or C-Three. But I didn’t see a door that could have led into Stevens’ private office.