Scratchgravel Road A Mystery

FOURTEEN



The metal roof on Mitchell Cowan’s one-story ranch home thrummed over his bed as he lay staring at the ceiling, imagining the black swirling clouds above him. The rain had started again sometime during the night, and he had awoken to booming thunder at 5 A.M. He rolled over and felt around in the general vicinity of his night table until he found the pull switch for the lamp. He sat up and arranged his pillows behind him, put his reading glasses on, and then opened the book he had started the night before.

Before leaving work that night Cowan had searched his professional library, and then drove home and pored through his extensive collection of books and scientific journals, gathering anything he could find concerning radiation poisoning. Having no wife or kids, he looked forward to a night spent deep in the pages of medical research—his favorite place to be.

At nine thirty he’d climbed into bed with a peanut butter and honey sandwich, milk, and a stack of books. At one in the morning, he finally forced himself to turn the light off. He thought he might have cracked the case. And it was a doozy.

In the book he was currently reading, he had found a fascinating story involving former Russian KGB leaders all related to some nasty business of poisoning a rogue agent who came too close to the truth. Cowan had no interest in the “truth” the young agent was attempting to expose, nor in the conspiracy theories being spun out in detail, but he was very interested in the man’s grisly death.

Alexander Litvinenko was poisoned by a highly radioactive isotope called polonium-210. The drug can be touched with no danger done to the skin; however, once ingested, it destroys the tissues inside of the victim. Pictures of the former KGB agent, the only person known to have been intentionally killed by a lethal dose of polonium, were frighteningly similar to Juan Santiago. Both men showed augmented signs of aging, and had obliterated digestive tracts.

At six A.M., Cowan took a quick shower in order to be in his office by seven. Atlanta, Georgia, was just an hour ahead of Artemis, and he wanted to catch his contact before he got caught up in meetings.

Mark Preston was a research scientist at the CDC and Cowan had attended graduate school with him. Cowan remembered little of him, other than that he was friendly and studious, and his dream in life was to work on communicable diseases. Cowan knew Preston was working for the CDC because he had seen a paper co-published by him several months ago in The Journal of the American Medical Association.

Cowan cleared off a place at his desk in the coroner’s office and put his notes in front of him. He didn’t plan on bringing up the Litvinenko case for fear of being taken for a quack, but he needed some basic information on radiation poisoning. After speaking with an operator and receptionist he was finally connected to Preston.

“Of course I remember you. You went back to Texas, is that right?”

“That’s right.” Cowan smiled, pleased Preston had remembered him from so many years ago. “I’m the coroner for a small West Texas town. Our resources are limited, but it doesn’t keep us from getting the occasional odd duck case. That’s why I’m calling.”

Preston laughed. “Odd ducks are my favorite. Fill me in.”

Cowan spent several minutes explaining the basics of the case, from the body’s exposure to the elements, to the lesions and internal decay.

“Well, that’s a unique one,” Preston said. “Do you suspect radiation exposure, meaning body penetration? Or are you thinking internal or external contamination?”

“Possibly both. The intense desert heat will obviously speed up putrification, but I’m still concerned about contamination by ingestion. The deceased’s digestive tract is destroyed, more so than his other body systems. But the lesions on his arms appear unrelated.”

“Do you know what kind of dose the deceased may have received?”

“No.”

“Here’s the truth. Radiation exposure is typically not that deadly. The amount of radiation exposure, even from a dirty bomb, would typically not be enough to cause immediate danger. Years down the road, the people directly hit would probably be at greater risk of certain types of cancer, but that doesn’t sound like what you’ve got.”

“I’m not referring to terrorists. There is a nuclear weapons plant that is currently being dismantled and cleaned up. The deceased worked on the cleanup crew at the plant. I’m concerned the company’s practices could have led to contamination.”

There was silence on the other end for several moments. “The name of the company?”

“Beacon Pathways,” Cowan said.

Another pause. “Do you suspect ARS? Acute radiation sickness?”

“That’s my fear,” Cowan said.

“A telltale sign is a day or two of intense vomiting and diarrhea. Next, the patient makes a recovery for a few days and feels good. Then it hits again with a vengeance. Fever, no appetite, exhaustion. Does that fit the profile of the deceased?”

“I can’t answer that. It’s all speculation. We found the body and we’re still trying to track down information. He lives by himself. He’s a loner. We don’t have any medical information for him.”

“Do you have a dosimeter set up in the morgue yet?”

“No.”

“So, you don’t have any radiation readings on the body?”

“No, I’m just now starting to put together a picture of what might have happened. And even that is speculation,” Cowan said.

“We need to establish low-dose and high-dose rates. You keep everyone out of the lab until you get some readings. That’s your first task.”

“Okay.”

“It’s critical you get a baseline reading to see what kind of radiation the body is emanating. If you’ve got someone who died within a week of contamination, then he was hit with a massive dose. You need to get your office checked immediately.” Preston paused on the phone and mumbled something to himself as he wrote a note, then continued. “We’ll need to get you several meters. It’s critical to find out the type of radiation that was used. Without knowing that it’s hard to know what kind of danger you might be in.”

Cowan rubbed his forehead. He was feeling completely overwhelmed.

“You need dose rate readings for everyone who’s been in contact with the body. You need a pancake probe to check your equipment and lab. Survey the remains tub, the body bag, everything. Are you wearing a Tyvek suit when you’re in contact? Checking your feet when you leave the lab? Those kinds of precautions?”

“Somewhat.” Cowan wrote down notes as Preston talked, but he knew he was missing details. Worse yet, he had no idea how to get the necessary equipment Preston was referring to. Cowan finally broke in. “I’ll be completely honest. Radiation is not my area of specialty. I’m not sure where to even begin. I don’t have any equipment, or any money to purchase the equipment. We’re on a nonexistent budget.”

“Ah. Understood. Let me put you on hold a minute.” Preston was gone for almost five minutes before returning and apologizing for the delay. “I have good news though. I’m going to send you a certified hazardous materials technician. Her name is Diane Patel. She’ll be able to help you put together a plan and get things moving quickly. This is exactly what she’s trained for.”

“That would be much appreciated.” Cowan sighed, the relief immense. “I can work with Beacon to see what kind of equipment we have available.”

“Diane will bring the necessary equipment. Without knowing Beacon professionally I’m hesitant to trust their monitors. Diane will get a flight out first thing in the morning.”

“Here is my worry,” Cowan said. “I don’t think there is a public health menace. The body was discovered several days ago, and I haven’t seen any indication that anyone else was involved. My bigger worry right now is for the officers who came into contact with the body.”

“Absolutely. Those officers must be checked immediately. As well as yourself.”