Toxin (21 page)

“What happens to the patties when they come out of the formulating machine?” Kim asked.

“A conveyor takes them directly into the nitrogen freeze tunnel,” Jack said. “Then they are hand-packed into boxes, and the boxes into cartons.”

“Can you trace the origin of meat?” Kim asked. “I mean if you know the lot number, the batch numbers, and the production date.”

“Sure,” Jack said. “That's all recorded in the patty-room log.”

Kim reached into his pocket and withdrew the piece of paper on which he'd written the information from the labels in the Onion Ring walk-in freezer. He unfolded it and showed it to Jack.

“I'd like to find out where the meat came from for these two dates and lots,” Kim said.

Jack glanced at the paper but then shook his head. “Sorry, I can't give you that kind of information.”

“Why the hell not?” Kim demanded.

“I just can't,” Jack said. “It's confidential. It's not for public consumption.”

“What's the secret?” Kim asked.

“There's no secret,” Jack said. “It's just company policy.”

“Then why keep the logs?” Kim asked.

“They are required by the USDA,” Jack said.

“Sounds suspicious to me,” Kim said, thinking about some of Kathleen's comments earlier that morning. “A public agency requires logs whose information is not available to the public.”

“I don't make the rules,” Jack said lamely.

Kim let his eyes roam around the patty room. It was impressive with its polished stainless-steel equipment and lustrous tiled floor. There were three men and one woman tending to the machines.

Kim noticed that the woman was carrying a clipboard on which she scribbled intermittently. In contrast to the men, she did not touch the machinery.

“Who's that woman?” Kim asked.

“That's Marsha Baldwin,” Jack said. “She's a looker, isn't she?”

“What's she doing?” Kim asked.

“Inspecting,” Jack said. “She's the USDA inspector assigned to us. She stops in here three, four, sometimes five times a week. She's a real hard-ass. She sticks her nose into everything.”

“I suppose she could trace the meat,” Kim said.

“Sure,” Jack said. “She checks the patty-room log every time she's here.”

“What's she doing now?” Kim asked. Marsha was bending over, looking into the yawning mouth of the patty-formulating machine.

“I haven't the faintest idea,” Jack said. “Probably making sure it was cleaned the way it was supposed to
be, which it undoubtedly was. She's a stickler for details, that's all I know. At least she keeps us on our toes.”

“Three to five times a week,” Kim repeated. “That's impressive.”

“Come on,” Jack said, motioning with his hand for Kim to follow him. “The only thing you haven't seen yet is the boxes being packed into the cartons, and the cartons being put into cold storage prior to shipping.”

Kim knew he'd seen as much as he was likely to see. He was convinced that he would not get to talk with Everett Sorenson.

“If you have any further questions,” Jack said back at the reception area, “just give a holler.” He gave Kim a business card and flashed a winning smile. Then he pumped Kim's hand, slapped him on the back, and thanked him for his visit.

Kim walked out of the Mercer Meats building and got into his car. Instead of starting the engine, he turned on the radio. After making sure his cellular phone was on, he leaned back and tried to relax. After a few minutes, he rolled the window partly down. He didn't want to fall asleep.

Time moved very slowly. Several times he almost gave up and left. He was feeling progressively guilty about having abandoned Tracy in the ICU waiting room. But a little over an hour later, Kim's patience paid off: Marsha Baldwin walked out of Mercer Meats. She was dressed in a khaki coat and carried what looked like a government-issue briefcase.

In a mild panic to get to her before she climbed into her car, Kim struggled with his door. It stuck once in a while: a legacy of an old fender bender. Several thumps with his palm got it open, and he leaped out. He sprinted
toward the woman. By the time he got to her, she had the back door open of her yellow Ford sedan. She was just straightening up from having stowed her briefcase on the floor of the backseat. Kim was surprised by her height. He estimated she had to be at least five foot ten.

“Marsha Baldwin?” Kim demanded.

Mildly surprised at being accosted by name in the parking lot, Marsha turned to Kim and gave him a once-over with her deep emerald-green eyes. By reflex she swept a lock of her dark blond hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. She was confused by Kim's appearance and immediately put on guard by the confrontational tone of his voice.

“Yes, I'm Marsha Baldwin,” she said hesitantly.

Kim took in the whole picture, including the bumper sticker that said “Save the Manatees” on what was obviously a government-issue car and the image of the woman who was, in Jack Cartwright's words, “a looker.” Kim estimated she couldn't have been much over twenty-five, with coral-toned skin and cameolike features. Her nose was prominent but aristocratic. Her lips sculpted in sharp relief.

“We have to talk,” Kim averred.

“Really?” Marsha questioned. “And what are you, an unemployed surgeon or did you just come from last night's costume party?”

“Under different circumstances I might think that was clever,” Kim said. “I was told you are a USDA inspector.”

“And who gave you this information?” Marsha asked warily. She'd been warned in her training that occasionally she might have to deal with kooks.

Kim motioned toward the Mercer Meats entrance. “By an unctuous Mercer Meats PR man named Jack Cartwright.”

“And what if I was a USDA inspector?” Marsha asked. She closed the rear door of her car and opened the front. She had no intention of giving this strange man much time.

From his pocket Kim extracted the paper with the details from the labels of the patty cartons in the Onion Ring. He held it at the top corner shoulder high. “I want you to find out where the meat came from for these two lots.”

Marsha glanced at the paper. “What on earth for?” she questioned.

“Because I believe one of these lots has made my daughter deathly sick with a bad strain of E. coli,” Kim said. “Not only do I want to know where the meat came from, but I also need to know where these lots were shipped to.”

“How do you know it was one of these lots?” Marsha asked.

“I don't know for sure,” Kim said. “At least not yet.”

“Oh, really?” Marsha questioned superciliously.

“Yes, really,” Kim said hotly, taking offense at her tone.

“Sorry, I can't get you that kind of information,” Marsha said.

“Why not?” Kim demanded.

“It's not my job to give such information to the public,” Marsha said. “I'm sure it's against the rules.”

Marsha started to get into her car.

Picturing his deathly ill daughter in her hospital bed, Kim roughly grabbed Marsha's arm to keep her from getting into the car. “Screw the rules, you goddamn bureaucrat,” he snapped. “This is important. You're supposed to be protecting the public. Here's an opportunity to do just that.”

Marsha didn't panic. She looked down at the hand gripping her arm, then back up into Kim's indignant face. “Let go of me or I'll scream bloody murder, you crank.”

Convinced she was a woman of her word, Kim let go of her arm. He was nonplussed by Marsha's unexpected assertiveness.

“Be nice, now,” Marsha said as if she were talking with a juvenile. “I haven't done anything to you.”

“Like hell you haven't,” Kim said. “If you USDA people weren't acting out a sham and really inspected this meat industry, my daughter wouldn't be sick, nor would some five hundred kids die each year.”

“Now, just wait one minute,” Marsha shot back. “I work hard at my job, and I take it very seriously.”

“Bull,” Kim spat. “I've been told that you people work hard at going through the motions. I even hear you're in bed with the industry you're supposed to be inspecting.”

Marsha's mouth dropped open. She was incensed. “I'm not going to validate that comment by responding,” she said. She climbed in behind the wheel and pulled her door shut. She stuck her key in the ignition.

Kim rapped on her window. “Wait a sec,” he yelled. “I'm sorry. Please!” He ran a worried hand through his disheveled hair. “I'm desperate for your help. I didn't mean anything personal. Obviously I don't know you.”

After a few seconds' deliberation, Marsha rolled her window down and looked up at Kim. What had appeared to her a moment previously as the visage of an eccentric oddball now looked like the face of a tortured man.

“Are you really a doctor?” she asked.

“Yes,” Kim said. “A cardiac surgeon to be exact.”

“And your daughter is really sick?”

“Very, very sick,” Kim said with a voice that broke.
“She has an extremely bad strain of E. coli. I'm almost positive she got it from eating a rare hamburger.”

“I'm truly sorry to hear that,” Marsha said. “But listen, I'm not the one you should be talking to. I've only been working for the USDA for a short time, and I'm at the bottom of the inspectional service totem pole.”

“Who do you think I should contact?” Kim asked.

“The district manager,” Marsha said. “His name is Sterling Henderson. I could give you his number.”

“Is he sort'a what you'd call middle management?” Kim asked. He could hear Kathleen's voice in the back of his mind.

“I suppose,” Marsha said.

“I'm not interested,” Kim said. “I've been told there are real problems with the USDA inspectional services in terms of conflict of interest, especially in middle-management positions. Is this something you know anything about?”

“Well, I know there are problems,” Marsha admitted. “It's all very political.”

“Meaning, a multibillion-dollar industry like the beef industry can throw its weight around.”

“Something like that,” Marsha said.

“Will you help me for my daughter's sake?” Kim asked. “I can't help her medically, but I'm sure as hell going to find out the how and the why she got sick, and maybe in the process do something about it. I'd love to spare other kids from the same fate. I think one of these lots on this piece of paper has to be contaminated with a particularly dangerous strain of E. coli.”

“Gosh, I don't know what to say,” Marsha responded. She tapped the steering wheel as she debated with herself. The idea of saving some children from a serious illness had great appeal. But there were risks.

“I don't think there's any way for me to get this material without your help,” Kim said. “At least not fast enough to make a difference.”

“What about calling the department of public health?” Marsha suggested.

“That's an idea,” Kim said. “I'll be willing to try that too on Monday. But, to tell you the truth, I wouldn't be optimistic going that route. I'd just be dealing with another bureaucracy, and it probably would take too long. Besides, I kinda want to do this myself. It's to make up for not being able to help my daughter medically.”

“I might be putting my job on the line,” Marsha said. “Although maybe I could enlist the aid of my immediate boss. The trouble with that is that he and I have never had what I would call a good working relationship.”

“Would that be the district manager whom you mentioned earlier?” Kim asked.

“That's right,” Marsha said. “Sterling Henderson.”

“I'd prefer we just kept this between you and me,” Kim said.

“That's easy for you to say,” Marsha said. “The trouble is, it's my job not yours.”

“Tell me,” Kim said, suddenly having an idea. “Have you ever seen a child ill with this E. coli problem? The reason I ask is because I never did before my own daughter got sick, and I'm a doctor. I mean I'd read about it, but it was always an abstraction, a statistic.”

“No, I never have seen a child sick with E. coli,” Marsha admitted.

“Then come with me to see my daughter,” Kim said. “After you see her, you can then decide what to do. I'll accept whatever decision you make. If nothing else, it will give added meaning to your work.”

“Where is she?” Marsha asked.

“She's at the University Med Center,” Kim said. “The same hospital where I'm on the staff.” Kim motioned toward Marsha's cell phone that he could see between the two front seats. “Call the hospital if you question what I'm saying. My name is Dr. Kim Reggis. My daughter's name is Becky Reggis.”