The Scent of Revenge Page 6

  The bell rang and Olga answered it. When Bennie walked in, she broke down in tears again.

  “You can go, Olga,” said Bennie. “Rick and I will take care of things.”

  “No, I stay. I sleep on couch. I will not leave Ellen.”

  Olga gave Bennie the rundown of the day as she had told me.

  “Rick and I need to have a private chat, Olga.”

  “Okay, Doctor Bennie. I go into other room. I need for to take a nap.”

  ***

  Ben sat across from me at the kitchen table. He looked like a man about to say something that he’d rather not say.

  “Rick, I cannot fucking believe what’s happened in the past three days. But it did happen, and it is happening. Ellen needs round-the-clock nursing care, not just a visiting nurse like Olga, but a full-time staff with doctors on the standby. You can’t turn this apartment into a full-care facility. It won’t work.”

  “Bennie, are you telling me I have to put Ellen in an institution?”

  “The word institution is loaded with negative implications, Rick. What I’m telling you is that Ellen needs to be moved to a nursing facility.”

  I lost it. I bawled my fucking brains out. In three days, Ellen went from a bright and beautiful woman to a person in need of full-time mental and physical care. But it was time to suck it up. Bennie was right.

  “When Olga called me,” Bennie said, “I put two and two together and made a few phone calls. There’s a place just a few blocks from here called New Horizons. The director is a personal friend who owes me some favors. It’s a good place, and I’ll be on top of the situation.”

  Olga insisted on staying over. She slept on a cot in Ellen’s room.

  The next morning at 8 a.m., my Ellen was taken by ambulance to New Horizons.

  Ellen Bellamy, age 38, best-selling author and Architect of the Year according to Architectural Digest magazine, now lives in a nursing home.

  Chapter 21

  “Bennie, it’s Rick. I’ve arranged a meeting tomorrow at 10 at my office with Harry Noonan and that epidemiologist guy Buchannan. I’d like you to be there.”

  The next morning, we sat in the conference room across the hall from my office. My assistant brought in coffee and some bagels and rolls.

  The day before, I had spent over an hour on the phone with Buchannan. He filled me in on his findings to date, and I told him everything about Ellen.

  Frank Buchannan, age 47, was a slender, studious-looking guy, about 6’1” with reading glasses permanently ensconced on the end of his nose. He had close-cropped brown hair.

  Bennie spoke before the meeting formally began.

  “Rick, I visited Ellen this morning at New Horizons. It wasn’t visiting time, but my friend put me down as one of her attending physicians. Hey, buddy, I can only imagine what you’re going through. Your smart and beautiful wife is now under full-time care. It must suck.”

  “Bennie, thanks for your support as always, my friend. But I want to emphasize something to the three of you guys. I’m not sitting in front of you as Bennie’s friend or as a man whose world just crumbled around him. Nope. I’ve called this meeting as an FBI agent. I’m a man trained to look at facts in a cold and hard way. And that’s what this meeting is about. Doctor Harry blew our minds the other day when he talked about the sudden big uptick in new dementia cases, and especially the huge increase in early-onset victims. I’ve asked Frank Buchannan to join us because, as an epidemiologist or medical detective, he can help us take a cold, hard look at some weird shit.”

  “Rick, have you uncovered anything that I may have missed so far?” said Buchannan.

  “No, I haven’t, Frank, but let me take you on a brief tour through the brain of an FBI agent. Any time I see something big, something that shouldn’t happen, a Black Swan, if you will, my antenna goes up. To turn the old phrase on its head, shit doesn’t just happen, shit happens for a reason. The reason is usually the result of a bunch of connected dots that form a pattern. It’s possible that this has nothing to do with law enforcement; in which case, I’m no longer needed. But remember Peter Falk, the rumpled detective in the old TV series, Colombo? Well, I’m like Colombo, ‘Something’s botherin me.’ And until I rule out as many possible dots as I can, I suspect some bad shit is going on. I suspect it because that’s what I’ve been trained to do. At this point, I have no idea what may be happening, but I’ve got to sort it out. Frank, I assume that you have every case entered into a database.”

  “That’s right, Rick. We plug in a bunch of criteria, just like you, to see if there are any patterns.”

  “Please tell me about the criteria, Frank.”

  “Sure, it’s fairly simple, Rick. We look at age, economic status, occupation, medical history, family history, and geographic location.”

  “And does your medical history include incidents of trauma, like accidents, assaults, or events like that?”

  “Alzheimer’s or any form of dementia, theoretically, can be caused by trauma, but it’s rare, so we don’t pay much attention to that.”

  Bennie jumped in and took the words out of my mouth.

  “Hold the fucking phone,” said Bennie, lapsing into his NYPD vocabulary. “First, Harry over here, the Alzheimer’s maven, told us that you guys doubt that this disease is even Alzheimer’s. Secondly, and I’m speaking as a doctor, how can you be so sure that trauma can’t have something to do with this, especially since we’re not sure what ‘this’ is?”

  I wanted to keep Dr. Frank focused on the discussion, and I was concerned that Bennie’s broadside may have gotten into his head and made him feel defensive.

  “Hey, Frank, don’t worry about it,” I said. “When I investigate cases, I start with a lot of assumptions. But one thing I’ve learned over the years is that assumptions can kill a case. So the first thing I do when I start digging is to trash all of my assumptions, even if they seem well founded.”

  Buchannan didn’t appear to be offended at all. He seemed like a guy who has his ego well under control. Thank God for that, I thought. The last thing I need on this team is bruised egos, looking to make excuses.

  “You know,” said Buchannan, “I have to admit something. I have a lot to learn from you law enforcement types, especially from Bennie, who’s also a doctor. So, yes, we assumed that trauma has little or nothing to do with this condition, but that assumption was based on the prior theory that we were looking at Alzheimer’s.”

  “If I may suggest something,” said Dr. Harry, the Alzheimer’s expert, “maybe we should stop calling this disease Alzheimer’s, because we’re not sure what the hell it is.”

  “Good point, Harry,” said Bennie. “The one critical fact we have is the autopsies. I know from my general reading, and my conversations with you, that our way of diagnosing Alzheimer’s has come a long way in the past few years. There was a time when we’d take a guess that a person had Alzheimer’s, not just dementia. But the one slam-dunk piece of proof has always been the autopsy. That would rule the disease in or out. What we’ve learned, according to you guys, is that of the 10 people who died, not one of them actually had Alzheimer’s. Not one. They had something that looked exactly like Alzheimer’s from a diagnostic point of view, but the physical markers were just not there when the autopsy was performed. So, Doctor Frank, is it not a good idea to look at trauma, assuming that we may not be dealing with Alzheimer’s?”

  “You’re right, Ben,” said Frank, “you’re dead-on right. I’m going to change our protocol right now, thanks to you law enforcement guys. I can even go backward. All I have to do is interview next of kin to ask about incidents of trauma and then plug that information into the database. Hell, it wasn’t until the late 19th Century when Louis Pasteur nailed down germ theory once and for all. Before him, the medical community thought that infection was caused by miasma or fetid water vapor. Thank you guys for reminding me that we haven’t gotten to the end of medical science.”

  “How soon can you plug in the data
on trauma, Frank?” asked Bennie.

  “No problem, Ben. Since these early-onset numbers started coming in, grant and government money flowed behind it. I can hire a small army of researchers, which is exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “Okay, guys,” I said, “let’s see where we are and where we’re going from here. First, we’ve concluded that we’re probably not dealing with Alzheimer’s, but a disease that mimics its symptoms. Let’s call it The Syndrome. Next, we don’t have reliable data on trauma, which the good Doctor Frank will supply us. Next, I’m going to need Frank’s entire database to turn over to FBI researchers. You can’t connect dots unless you see the dots.”

  “Rick, I’m sure you understand that I’ll need a court order to release that data. I’m sure you can get it with a phone call.”

  “No problem, Frank. I do things by the book. Barbara Auletta knows we’re meeting today and what the subject of the meeting is. She’s already cleared it with Sarah Watson, Director of the FBI.”

  “Rick, Ben, if you don’t mind me asking a question,” said Buchannan, “and maybe it’s a naive question, but why are you guys so focused on evidence of trauma?”

  “Because bad guys can cause trauma.”

  Chapter 22

  Sister Doris Augusta had just taken over as principal of St. Mary’s Elementary School in the Ridgewood, Queens section of New York City. Because of severe budget cuts, the Archdiocese of Brooklyn, which controlled all Catholic schools in the area, had consolidated three elementary schools into one, St. Mary’s. The building was designed to accommodate 300 kids, but the enrollment was suddenly 395. Three mobile trailers had been brought to the property to accommodate the new children.

  “Sister, it looks like we have a bad water leak in the main building,” said Kirsi Almati, her assistant.

  Great way to start a new job, thought Sister Augusta.

  “Did you call a plumber?”

  “Yes, sister, I called Sparkle Plumbing on Metropolitan Avenue. I hear that they’re good and fast.”

  ***

  Muhamad Islam, walked into the main office of Sparkle Plumbing. He had been hired four weeks before as an assistant. Joe Raboni, the manager, sat behind his desk.

  “Muhamad, we just got a call from St. Mary’s School around the corner. Bad leak in the main building. Get there as soon as you can. Bring Jack O’Leary with you. Here are the keys to the truck.”

  In the back of the truck were various supplies and plumbing tools. Stacked up next to the cab were four 40-pound boxes of Tannerite. All of the containers had been mixed.

  At 11:30 a.m., all of the children at St. Mary’s were in the large schoolyard enjoying recess before lunch. I can’t believe our little school now has 395 kids, thought Sister Augusta.

  The Sparkle Plumbing truck entered the property, with a teacher’s aide clearing a way through the crowds of children.

  Muhamad Islam pressed the detonator of his device as the truck came to a stop next to the building, while yelling “Allahu Akbar” three times.

  The blast crumbled the aging school, with its three floors cascading down to the earth. The explosion also stormed out in all directions, killing 125 children and injuring dozens more. The three mobile trailers were flung like shoeboxes, one landing in the middle of the road in front of the school. Sister Augusta’s body was found the next day under one of the mobile trailers.

  The sound of ambulances and police cars jarred the afternoon in the quiet neighborhood, as the area hospitals filled up quickly with the broken little bodies of the children who survived.

  ***

  My job involves a lot of unpleasant shit, but the St. Mary’s School bombing was the most sickening disaster I’d ever seen. It wasn’t just a crime scene. It was a place of monstrous depravity, a killing field of innocent children. I had been tipped by our friend Imam Mike from Brooklyn that something may have been afoot at a school. Mike is our most trusted mole, a man who has his eyes and ears to the sights and sounds of radical Islam. But all Mike was able to tell me was that some radicals were upset about the crowding of children, and a mixing of sexes, in schools. Obviously, it wasn’t a tip that I was able to act on, because crowded schools exist all over the country.

  We suspected terrorism immediately, and I was put in charge of the crime scene. Fifteen other agents were with me, and the local NYPD police captain provided me with plenty of cops to help.

  Cops and FBI agents are usually a tough crowd. Law enforcement brings you into contact with a lot of mayhem, ugly mayhem. But these officers were having a hard time dealing with the disgusting scene before them, and so was I. There is something about seeing a cop in tears that jolts your emotions. It got worse as parents started to show up. The forensic people were doing their best to identify the little bodies, but a lot of those little bodies had been blown to bits. Because I had been researching the use of Tannerite in terrorist bombings, I made sure that the CSI people focused on bomb residue.

  I left the scene at 6 p.m. that evening. John Scarpetta, one of my colleagues at the bureau, took over for me.

  The St. Mary’s attack would focus the efforts of the FBI as well as the NYPD for months to come. Because I was up to my ears in The Syndrome investigation, not to mention the surface-to-air missile operation, Barbara Auletta relieved me of any involvement in the St. Mary’s atrocity. I felt relieved, not just to have my caseload lightened, but because it sickened me to investigate the murder of little children.

  I got back to my apartment at 7 p.m., my empty apartment. Whenever I had a particularly rough day, I could always count on Ellen to focus me, to calm me down; but, of course, Ellen wasn’t there. She was at New Horizons Nursing Home.

  Chapter 23

  Before I turned on the TV this morning to catch up on the news, I read my index card for a Jerry Seinfeld joke. I needed a laugh after yesterday’s horror at St. Mary’s School. But I couldn’t laugh. Otherwise, Ellen’s prescription for my de-stressing was working. Ellen, a woman who doesn’t know who she is or who I am. I planned to see her at New Horizons before I went to the office.

  Shepard Smith appeared on the TV.

  “I have terrible news to bring you this morning, folks. Our Fox News producers have just told me that there has been yet another surface-to-air missile attack on an American aircraft. United flight 301 had just taken off from Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport when it was struck by what appears to be a surface-to-air missile, a SAM. There are also reports that a drone aircraft was seen in the vicinity of the missile launch. We have an unconfirmed report that the drone fired its own missile toward the launch area, but the weapon was either a dud or it simply missed. The grim reality, and I say this with all sympathy for the loved ones of the passengers, is that the plane crashed in a ball of fire, and authorities don’t believe that there are any survivors of the 259 passengers and crew. We’ll be keeping our viewers up to date on this breaking story as more facts come in.”

  I knew I should get to the office, as people would be going crazy over the latest plane attack, but no way in hell was I going to skip seeing Ellen.

  ***

  “Any changes, Nancy?” I asked Ellen’s nurse.

  “The good news, Rick, is that she’s stable. She has moments of lucidity, such as this morning when I brought her breakfast. She was delighted that scrambled eggs were on the menu.”

  “Ellen hates scrambled eggs.”

  Nancy, who could give seminars on bedside manner, patted me on the arm.

  “Rick, it’s one day at a time. Let’s thank God for small favors. Hey, she now enjoys something she never liked before.”

  Ellen was dozing. I leaned over her bed and kissed her on the forehead. Her skin still had that same wonderful aroma. I wiped a tear from my eye.

  “My allergies are acting up,” Mr. Tough Guy lied to Nurse Nancy.

  ***

  I hadn’t been in my office for more than five minutes when Buster walked in.

  “What the hell is the story with t
hat drone in Dallas?” I said.

  “The news got it right. The drone’s missile was a fucking dud. With these missile patrols that we’ve launched, you only get one shot to make it right. One dud and 259 bodies. The only good news is that they caught the missile shooter. He’s in a lockup right now, but he asked to make the phone call. So Mr. Servant of Allah is now lawyered up and not talking. I wish they’d let me interrogate the scumbag.”

  “Hey, Buster, don’t forget your yoga, meditation, and joke reading. Ellen gave us all a regime to follow in our crazy business.”

  “Tell me about Ellen, Rick. How’s it going?”

  “Nothing new, Buster. I guess the only good thing to report is that she now likes scrambled eggs. But she doesn’t recognize me, and that tears me apart.”

  I then brought Buster up to speed on my meeting with Drs. Buchannan, Noonan, and Bennie.

  “The statistics are too crazy to be an accident, Buster. Until I can rule out any possible intentional acts, I’m going to pursue it.”

  “Bennie tells me that the epidemiologist is giving you all of the names of the victims of The Syndrome, as you’ve named it. I suggest we plug the names into our database at the agency. My guys know how to play around with algorithms better than those medical types.”

  “I’ll have it to you in the morning.”

  “Rick, talk to me. Do you really think there may be some connection between The Syndrome and everything else that’s going on?”

  “Buster, I don’t know. Bennie told me that he thinks I’m indulging in a fantasy to try to make sense of what happened to Ellen. But I told Ben, and I’m telling you, I’m doing this as an FBI agent. If I don’t find anything, so be it. But if I don’t look, I’m guaranteed not to find anything.”

  “Rick, I think of myself as a tough guy, a hardnosed spook, but what you’re going through with that wonderful wife of yours has me sick. I’m glad you’re throwing yourself into your work. It’s all you can do. And knowing you, if there’s something to be found, you’ll find it.”