Scratchgravel Road A Mystery

SIXTEEN



Otto picked up the shoebox full of letters he had obtained from Santiago’s apartment and sat down at the conference table with a pencil and tablet of paper to take notes. The envelopes were not present, so he was hoping to find mention of cities that would help them find Santiago’s home and family. Otto opened each letter and stacked them on top of each other in the same order they had been inside the box. About half the letters had dates noted in the upper right-hand corner of the paper. The sequence of dates made it obvious that Santiago kept the letters organized, the most recent on top. With Otto’s rudimentary ability to read Spanish he was able to discern that the majority of the letters appeared to have been written by the man’s wife, Abella. Otto pulled the photographs from the bottom of the box and found the black-and-white picture of Santiago and his wife, the sides of their heads touching, squinting and smiling toward the camera. The edges of the photograph were worn from being handled so often. Otto imagined Santiago lying on his back in bed, staring at those pretty smiling eyes, wishing for the day he could return home.

Otto understood the pain of leaving one’s family. When he and Delores left Poland as young newlyweds, he’d been assigned a simple task: attend school in America, become a doctor, and return to the family village a trained physician. At nineteen years of age, with no preparation, no training, no travel experience outside of Poland, and no understanding of the process for acceptance into even the most mediocre of medical schools in America, Otto learned within six months the task his parents had given him was unachievable. He and Delores discovered their limitations together, learned of the betrayal their families felt at their failure, felt the same intense guilt at the shameful waste of their parents’ hard-earned savings, and realized that they had little more in life than their love for each other. They fast learned the lessons of poverty: that life isn’t a journey with options, but rather a ladder to climb day after day, methodically taking one rung at a time.

Otto stared at the photo in his hands and pictured the couch in his comfortable living room, neat and tidy with Delores’s personality touching each pillow and needlepoint and rug, creating a cocoon of warmth he never took for granted. He realized that he’d climbed off the ladder, the one he’d visualized for so many of his younger years, and he’d found his place to rest. And it saddened him that this family would never find that same peace.

Once Otto had reviewed the letters, he asked Marta to read them for specific details that might help them narrow down where the family lived, or for information about Santiago’s health. Marta sat beside Otto at the conference table and read through each of the letters, jotting down very few notes. She handed them back to Otto when she finished.

“Mostly, they’re filled with family milestones. It’s the stuff that means nothing to you and I, but breaks the heart of the one missing it.”

“No mention of towns or cities?”

“No. There were several letters from Santiago’s daughters and one from his son, written just before the boy entered the Ejército Mexicano, or the Mexican Army, last year. But they didn’t mention where he’d be stationed.”

“Anything about Santiago’s job?” Otto asked.

“It’s obvious that his wife understood very little about his work at the Feed Plant. The job provided a paycheck and little else.”

* * *

Josie left Marta and Otto at the police department and drove out to talk with Sauly Magson. His house was located just south of the mudflats on the Rio, surrounded by thick swaths of three-foot-high prairie grasses that rippled in the breeze like ocean waves. Mountain runoff and natural springs kept the area green year-round, and with the recent rains it looked almost tropical. Sauly’s house was a three-story grain elevator he had painted purple and converted into an artsy space. He had become something of a local celebrity the past year after he was photographed by a writer from Western Art and Architecture, writing a story on free expression. Josie doubted he had even seen the article.

She heard a boom, like that of a cannon, explode behind his house. Anyone else and she would have been concerned—with Sauly it was the norm. Josie walked around the back of the grain elevator toward the sandy slope that led down to the river. She found him, bald-headed and bare-chested, with a blue bandana tied around his neck. He was wearing a pair of jean shorts with no shoes, holding an aerosol can and lighter. He turned and Josie saw he was shaking the can and laughing aloud.

“Did you hear that? Glory!” he yelled. Raindrops from the drizzle slipped down his chest, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Sauly stood by a seven-foot-long plastic pipe that looked like a giant bazooka gun. Beside the pipe lay a bag of potatoes and several small cans of propane and aerosol propellant.

He seemed to realize he was talking to a police officer, and his smile faded.

“You here to ruin my day?” he asked. “It’s just a potato gun.”

She smiled. “Nope. What’s with the pipe?”

He picked up a potato and rammed it down into the pipe. “The potato seals the end. Then I hook up the propane at the other end of the pipe. It mixes with air in the chamber, then I light it. Want to watch one? The sound shakes things up on your insides.”

“I was actually hoping to get some information from you. Do you have a minute?”

He smiled a wide, toothless grin. “For you? Anything. Let’s go inside and have a sip of cold tea.”

Sauly asked her to carry the potato bag and he picked up the propellant along with the pipe. They walked through the wet grass to the back of his house and placed his toys underneath the green-and-white-striped awning that covered a deep back porch.

Josie followed him inside, through a small mudroom and into the kitchen. Sauly had picked a series of fifteen differently sized square windows and built them into the elevator’s sides at differing angles. The effect was somewhere between sophisticated architecture and fun-house carnival, and Josie loved it. His kitchen was outfitted with two such windows. Josie sat at the kitchen table, in front of a four-foot-square window turned sideways to make a diamond shape. From the table, the Rio appeared to flow directly from one corner of the window to the other, splitting the outdoor scenery in half. Josie was certain the placement of the window was no accident and she was amazed at the precision.

As Sauly poured their tea and chatted about building his potato gun, Josie looked around the room. It was painted a deep maroon with buttery yellow cabinets and sage green trim. On the table was a collection of cactus plants arranged around the inside of a twelve-inch snapping turtle shell. Black-and-white photographs of the Rio were framed in old barn wood and hung around the dining room.

He placed two glasses of tea and a small glass dish with sugar cubes and spoons on the table.

“So, here’s the deal,” Josie said. She dropped several sugar cubes in her tea as Sauly sat down beside her. “We found a body out in the desert. It looks like murder. No identification on the body. We tracked him down through his work boots to the nuclear plant. We think his name is Juan Santiago. He worked on the cleanup crew.”

Sauly leaned back in his chair, startled, and rubbed his bald head. “Yes, ma’am. I know who you mean. I worked with him about a year before I left.”

“I need to know anything you can tell me about him.”

Sauly made a low hum. “Can’t give you much. It’s been two years since I worked with him. And he never said nothing to anybody. Earned his dollar and left.”

“That’s what everybody said. Surely he connected with someone. You don’t remember him hanging around anyone? Maybe sitting by someone at lunch?”

“Not a one. He wasn’t unfriendly, but he just didn’t make friends. You get my meaning?”

Frustrated, she stirred her tea and watched the sugar at the bottom of the glass. “What was your job at the plant?”

“Same as Santiago. Safe cleanup. That’s what the bosses called it.”

She nodded. “What made you leave?”

“They found me out. Fired me.”

She laughed at his abrupt answer. “Fired?”

“Walked me to a room, took my clothes and boots. I tried to keep my Geiger counter for a souvenir but they caught me. They kicked my ass all the way to the parking lot. Gave me a personal escort.”

“What did you do?”

A conspiratorial grin lit up his face. “Sabatoge.”

Josie was shocked, but only mildly. She smiled at his grin. She could never keep a poker face with Sauly. “How so?”

“They were cooking soup.”

“What’s soup?”

“Nuclear soup. That’s what we called it. The chemicals were in big silver vats and we always said they were cooking the soup.”

“I thought you were working cleanup?”

“New soup. Blow-up-the-world stuff. I knew nobody would listen to me. So I pissed in the soup,” he said.

“Literally?”

He gave her a look as if she should have known better. “Figuratively.”

Josie decided not to pursue the sabotage line of questioning. Some things she preferred not know.

“What made you think they were making new stuff?” she asked.

“You need to mix chemicals to tear a building down?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I never worked at a nuclear plant.”

“The answer’s no.”

“Who was doing it?”

“Beacon! The cleanup company.”

“How do you know it wasn’t something legitimate? I talked with Diego Paiva this week.”

Sauly rolled his eyes, obviously not impressed.

She continued. “He said they’re combining waste product with glass, melting it down, and making new material where the nuclear waste can be stored while the radioactivity wears off.”

Sauly ignored her explanation. “I’ll tell you a secret. Guess who blew the whistle to the EPA?”

She looked at him skeptically. “You mean the Nuclear Regulatory Commission?”

“That’s the one.”

“I thought it was the group of women from Artemis. The ones who first suspected the higher cancer rates.”

He grinned widely. “That’s what they want you to think. Beacon blew the whistle. They go around the country scouting out old sites, getting their numbers in order. Then they feed a bunch of green-loving mamas some figures and coach them how to file a lawsuit.” He threw his hands in the air. “Wha-la! The government knows they have to clean up the mess before they get hammered with another lawsuit. Pretty soon, Beacon has a new multimillion-dollar contract.”

Josie shook her head. “Is this Sauly theory, or do you have something to back this up?”

“Dig around on the Internet. You’ll find it all.”

Josie turned her line of questions back to the reason for her visit. “So, you were in the room where they were cooking the new soup?”

“They caught me there twice. Second time they fired me.”

“You didn’t have clearance to be there?”

“Nope.”

“Seems reasonable, then, that you got fired.”

“I never said it wasn’t. I didn’t really need the money anyway,” Sauly said.

“Did you ever see anyone hurt working there?”

He rubbed his head again and considered her question. “Not that I can remember.”

“No one ever got radiation poisoning from working with the chemicals?”

Sauly turned his chair away from the table and stuck his legs and arms out in front of him and studied them. “I think I got a green glow at night, but that’s about it.”

* * *

Sauly sent Josie off with a loaf of zucchini bread he pulled out of his freezer. She sat in her jeep in his driveway and called Lou on her cell phone to check in.

“Cowan called,” Lou said. “He wants to meet with you, Otto, and the county health nurse today. I already scheduled you all at the Trauma Center at three o’clock.”

“That’s perfect. Thanks, Lou.”

“Otto and I got a lead on Santiago’s family. Otto’s running it down.”

Josie could hear Otto talking in the background and Lou finally put him on the phone.

“I need sustenance. I haven’t had a Coke all day. How about the Hot Tamale?”

“I need to run by Dillon’s office first. I’ll meet you in thirty minutes.”

Josie drove back into town with the radio off, trying to sift through the details. It wasn’t the information she expected to get from Sauly, but then again, it rarely was with him.

She pulled her jeep up to the curb in front of the office of Abacus and left her car running. She entered the office and found Miss Christina Handley sitting at her desk looking radiant in a silky white shirt and cream-colored skirt. She smiled broadly and said how nice it was to see Josie again. If Dillon’s secretary was the least bit uppity Josie could have hated her, but she seemed genuinely kind. And, Dillon claimed she was an excellent secretary, which did nothing to help Josie’s struggle with the lovely Miss Handley.

“I need to talk with Dillon for a few minutes if he’s available.”

Christina winked. “Certainly.” After a momentary quiet conversation into her headset she motioned Josie back to his office.

Dillon stood from his desk as she entered. He raised his arms over his head and leaned back, groaning and stretching. He wore his standard attire: khaki pants, starched button-down blue shirt, and conservative yellow-and-blue-striped tie. His hair had been freshly trimmed and his face was clean shaven.

“I need a masseuse,” he said, and flashed her a smile. He came around the desk and kissed her, then pulled back and asked, “Did you come to buy me lunch?”

“No, but Otto would. He’s at the Hot Tamale waiting on me.”

“Actually, I already ate. Christina brought me in homemade lasagna and fresh-baked bread for lunch today. She’s serving the tiramisu later this afternoon.”

Josie felt the hair on her arms stand on end. “You’re lying to me, aren’t you?”

He smiled. “I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich I brought from home.”

She smiled. “I could make you some soup for supper tonight.”

“How about you come to my place? I’ll cook this time.”

“Deal.”

“Now, I assume you want something other than dinner,” he said.

She sat down in the chair in front of his desk, he resumed his seat, and she filled him in on the Santiago murder.

“I’m hoping you can dig around and find out some information on Beacon. See what their reputation is, how solvent the company is, that kind of thing.”

“Sure, I can do that.” He narrowed his eyes and considered her for a moment. “Don’t consultants usually get paid for working with police departments?”

She smirked. “What fantasy cop show have you been watching?”

He grinned and nodded his head. “Then we’ll negotiate. I’m cooking dinner, and offering free consulting services. What will you be providing?”

Josie gave her best sleazy grin. “I’ve been staying up late sewing my lingerie apron. If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll model it tonight.”

* * *

The Hot Tamale was raucous. The returning rain, coupled with the forecast for more, and a flood level that would not peak for several days, had the regulars on a manic high waiting for the next disaster.

West Texans had a complicated relationship with rain. Many a person spent time on their knees praying for rain for months on end, and after a few days of thanksgiving, flipped to prayers for the rain to cease. Josie couldn’t think of anything else that was so desperately needed, worshiped, feared, and loathed as desert rain.

Otto had wangled their favorite table in the front of the diner. By the time Josie stopped to chat with a few patrons along the way and made it to the table, Sarah had left two Cokes and moved on to the next group.

“What’s up?” Josie asked. She felt fairly good from a productive day, coupled with dinner plans that didn’t involve cooking.

“Good news. Sort of. Lou tracked down Santiago’s family. I spoke with his wife. I explained that we suspect her husband was killed. Her English was sketchy, but her daughter was there. I spoke to her as well.”

“How did they take it?”

“They were shocked. They had already begun to think something was wrong because he hadn’t called. His wife sobbed in the background as I talked to his daughter.”

“You get anything new?” she asked.

“Santiago was married with four kids. Lived in Chiapas. Took his wife his paycheck each month to pay off a parcel of land in Central Mexico. A safe place where they could move their family. His wife said Santiago’s dream was to raise the grandkids with no fear.” Otto sipped his Coke and looked at Josie, his expression discouraged.

“Would she talk to you about his medical records?”

“She spoke Spanish and I could only understand about half of what she said,” Otto said. “Her daughter said her father was in great health. She said she was certain he hadn’t been receiving chemo, because he had no health insurance.”

Otto frowned and leaned back as Sarah placed a bologna sandwich in front of him. She reached across the table to set a cold tamale and chips in front of Josie.

“How’s it going, Sarah?” Josie asked.

“It’s okay.”

“You mind if I ask you a question about Juan Santiago?”

She looked surprised. “No, go ahead.”

“I just wonder what your take on him is?”

Sarah shrugged, looking confused by the question.

“All we’ve been able to figure out is that he’s quiet.”

She smiled. “That’s pretty much it.”

“Quiet because he had no social skills? Maybe he was shy?” Josie asked.

Sarah narrowed her eyes and looked skeptical. “I don’t think that was it. Brent drove him to work every day. And he still didn’t talk! We even invited him over to dinner a couple times. He always said no.” She tilted her head. “I hate to say this, but he just wasn’t very friendly.”

“Why did Brent drive him?”

“Juan didn’t have a car. He used to have an old beater, but it basically died. Brent offered to help him out, and Juan never replaced his car! He said he was going to a few times, but he was saving his money. He took a bus home to visit his family each month.”

“How’s Brent taking all this?” Josie asked.

She shook her head. “He’s not doing so good. He’s taking it really hard. He stayed home from work today. I can’t hardly get him to talk.”

Josie glanced at Otto and leaned back in her seat. “I’d like to talk to one of Juan’s coworkers about the plant. How about we stop by and talk to Brent today?”

Sarah lifted a shoulder, a helpless gesture. “Sure. Maybe talking it through will help.”

Josie sipped at her drink as Sarah walked off. “I don’t know where else we go with this. We can’t go barging into the Feed Plant with nothing to tie the dead body to their operation.”

“And what would we even look for?” he said.

“I don’t know whether I hope there’s a connection between the sores and his death, or whether I dread it.”

“How about you? Sauly enlighten you?” he asked.

“As always. He claims Beacon is loaded. Their operation works like this—they find old nuclear plants. Then they convince a group of citizens—Sauly says women—that their town is contaminated and they need to file a lawsuit to make the government clean it up. Beacon lowballs a bid, gets hired, then a few years later requests more time and money from the government. Milks the contract for every drop it can get.”

Otto smirked. “And the government is so happy to avoid a lawsuit they roll over belly-up. Beacon gets whatever it wants.”

“Sauly’s got life figured out,” she said. “He should run for mayor.”

Otto grinned. “You could be his campaign director.”

* * *

Josie arrived back at the station at two thirty and finished up a case report from a drunk-driving incident and stood to stretch. She walked to the window at the back of the office and stared at the continuing rain. A small clock radio on Otto’s desk played softly. They had both spent the afternoon listening to frequent updates about the flooding along the West Texas border. Mexico had received the most damage, but Presidio was evacuating all along the river. Sandbagging crews were working around the clock in Artemis. If the rain kept up as predicted, there was a chance Artemis would need to begin evacuations by week’s end.

“You about ready?” Josie asked.

Otto looked up from his computer and glanced at his watch. “Day’s flying. You driving?”

Josie borrowed Lou’s umbrella to avoid the downpour, unlocked her jeep, and let Otto in the passenger door. She drove south two blocks to the Arroyo County Health Department—a brick ranch-style building that was located in the same structure as the Trauma Center.

The health department entrance led into a large fluorescent-lit room with rows of blue plastic chairs and low coffee tables covered with magazines, puzzles, and Legos. Several young mothers sat with small children in the plastic seats, most likely waiting for the free immunizations, the department’s primary purpose in town. They stared openly at Josie and Otto as they approached the receptionist who sat behind a glass window with a sign-in clipboard.

Otto spoke to the lady behind the counter like an old friend. She was in her fifties, a cheery woman with a short haircut that accentuated big brown eyes and a flashy smile. Josie didn’t know her and remained behind Otto while they laughed about some event that had taken place at the Kiwanis meeting. The woman finally led them through a door and down a hallway and into a small office with a sign that read SHEILA MAGNUS—COUNTY HEALTH NURSE. The receptionist sat them both at a small round table and offered coffee and soft drinks before going back to her post. The door shut and a shriek rang out from an examination room down the hall. It sounded like a young child in serious distress.

Otto smirked. “They don’t make kids like they used to.”

Josie nodded. “They’re not tough like we were.”

A few minutes later, a harried middle-aged woman walked into the room, smiling and chattering, patting them both on the back before sitting across from them at the table.

“You have to quit beating the little ones,” Otto said.

She laughed, her eyes still wide from the incident. “That little bugger tried to bite me! I gave him a shot in the butt and he went for my leg!”

Sheila wore a nurse’s white top, pants, and shoes. Her wavy black hair and deep tan looked even darker against the stark white of her uniform. Josie had known her for years and had worked with her on several domestic and child abuse cases. She was a high-energy, conscientious worker whom Josie respected and liked.

Sheila sat down at the table. “Mitchell called and said he’s hung up at the coroner’s office. He’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.”

Josie nodded. “That will give me time to give you some background. I assume you’ve heard about the Santiago murder? The body found in the desert this past week?” Josie asked.

She nodded. “It’s horrible. I heard the illegal crossing theory’s already been shot down. Any leads?”

Josie tipped her head. “It’s gotten complicated. We’re coming to you with confidential information today.” She paused.

“I understand.”

“We have a male, name is Juan Santiago. He’s in his forties, but we’re still struggling with cause of death. He had multiple open wounds on both his arms. We’re leaning toward some kind of radiation poisoning.”

She pulled her head back and frowned in surprise. “You think he was over-radiated?”

“Not from a hospital. He worked at the Feed Plant. He was on the cleanup crew.”

Sheila grimaced. “The old nuclear weapons plant?”

“We’re concerned he may have been poisoned at the plant, but it’s all conjecture,” Josie said.

“Have you had any community members with strange wounds, or ailments that you can’t explain?” Otto asked.

“Honey, people would be amazed at some of the strange things that can’t be explained in here. But, outside of one patient, I haven’t had any kind of sores like you’re describing.” She stood from the table and pulled a manila folder out of a filing cabinet behind her desk. She sat down and rifled through the folder and laid a photograph in between Josie and Otto. “Is this what you’re referring to?”

They both nodded. Josie was certain they were looking at Juan Santiago’s arms in the picture. She also knew HIPPA laws would prevent Sheila from confirming Santiago’s identity.

Josie glanced at the photo and asked, “Can you tell me when this patient was seen?”

Sheila looked at the folder again. “The patient came in last Wednesday afternoon. I dressed his wounds and asked him to come back on Friday to let me reexamine him. I hoped to see him again, but you never know.”

“Why not?” Otto asked.

She laid the folder down and crossed her arms on the table in front of her. “We see some people on a weekly, almost daily basis. Some of them are old and don’t have any other contact with people. Some are lonely or social misfits. They just need to interact with people. Then there’s the other side of the spectrum. There’s a group of people who so mistrust us that they would choose death over receiving proper care. They associate us with the government, and they figure we’re out to get them.” She lifted both shoulders and turned her palms up. “What can you do?”

“Obviously the patient we’re referring to was in the second group,” Josie said.

“Hard to say. He was very nervous. I tried to reassure him. Tried to make him feel comfortable, but it didn’t work. It was as if he thought the police would bust in the doors at any minute to cart him off to jail.”

“Or back to Mexico,” Otto said.

“I hate to admit it, but I think the pictures I took—only of his arms—freaked him out.” She squinted at Josie as if feeling guilty. “But that’s standard for anything we fear might be communicable.”

“What was your diagnosis?” Josie asked.

Sheila grinned. “You know I can’t tell you that. Nice try though.”

Josie smiled in return. “Have you filed any reports to the CDC in the past month?”

She put a finger in the air. “That I can tell you.” She stood again and rifled through her filing cabinet, and then laid a paper in front of Josie. “That’s the CDC list of Nationally Notifiable Infectious Conditions for this year. We only report to them confirmed cases. Mystery diseases, like what we saw last week? There’s nothing to report.”

There was a quick knock, then the receptionist opened the door and stood back as Mitchell Cowan entered.

“Afternoon,” Cowan said. “My apologies for being late.”

Sheila stood and scooted a chair out for Cowan, who eased his considerable weight into the chair and sighed heavily as he hit the seat. Josie noticed Sheila smiling fondly at Cowan and wondered if there might be some interest outside of work.

“You look like you need a shot of caffeine. Can I get you coffee?” Sheila asked.

He looked up from the briefcase he was opening in front of him and smiled, although it was a sad, tired look. “That would be wonderful.”

Sheila bustled out of the room and Cowan said, “I assume you’ve got her up to speed.”

“We gave her the basics on Santiago. She showed us pictures of a man that was examined last Wednesday here at the clinic.” Josie slid the picture over to Cowan, who glanced at it and scowled. “She couldn’t provide much information, other than she didn’t have any idea what the sores were caused by.”

“And, she tried to convince him to come back for followup, but he didn’t come back,” Otto said. “She said that he seemed afraid, or at least mistrustful.”

Sheila came back in and placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of Cowan. Josie was glad to see the cream in the coffee. She had known how to fix the drink without asking.

Cowan thanked her and opened a small laptop in front of him. His expression turned grim. “This morning I talked to a contact at the CDC who is quite knowledgeable about radiation diagnosis and treatment. He’s sending us help tomorrow. We need to get a radiation assessment of the body, my lab, and each one of us. We’ll need to include Cassidy and Danny as well.”

Josie and Otto both looked at him in surprise. “What does that mean?” she asked.

Cowan pulled up notes on his computer and read from them. “Here’s the crux of it. From what I was able to provide the CDC this morning, the scientist I spoke with confirmed a strong possibility of acute radiation syndrome. Considering the speed with which Santiago died, there is a chance he was hit with a massive dose.”

Josie broke out in a cold sweat. “We stood right over the body and examined it. Are we in similar danger?”

“We won’t know until we get the proper equipment and get each of us tested. Meanwhile, Sheila, it is imperative that you call immediately if you see any additional cases. At this point, we’re approaching this as an isolated incident. If we find more people are affected, we could have a serious disaster looming.”

“What about the Feed Plant? Couldn’t they get us equipment?” Otto asked.

“The CDC is sending a certified hazardous materials technician. She’ll help us with the equipment, help us assess the situation and come up with a plan. My contact at the CDC suggested as this point that we wait and use CDC equipment, as well as their staff. Beacon Pathways may be very well trained, but then again, they may not be. I’m not willing to take the gamble.”

Josie was struggling not to look down at the picture of the sores lying in front of her on the table. “What do we do in the meantime?”

Cowan sighed heavily. “I know this goes against your grain. This is very unsettling. It is for me too. But I think we wait another half a day.”

“You don’t think a quarantine is in order?” she asked.

“Radiation is its own special kind of beast. Some radiation can be wiped on your skin and nothing will happen. You ingest the same thing and it will eat your insides up like battery acid. Some spreads through the air, others via surfaces. Some particles are radioactive for miles from the source and can be detected by a Geiger counter if a trace amount is on the shoe of a pedestrian that walks by. Other forms are only radioactive within centimeters of the source.”

Josie listened to Cowan, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “I think we call Diego Paiva and get a list of anyone who had contact with the area of the plant Santiago worked in during his last three days there. We recommend they stay at home until we find some answers. I don’t know what it could hurt.”

Otto gave her a skeptical look. “Gossip travels at the speed of light in Artemis. The Hot Tamale would have it broadcast by nightfall. The trauma unit would be full. And what would we tell people?”

Josie looked at Sheila, who nodded in agreement with Otto. Josie finally shrugged. “Okay. We wait.”

* * *

Josie left the meeting feeling numb. It had always been the unseen things in life that caused her the most fear: diseases, plague, nuclear radiation, bacteria, and parasites. She liked police work because the dangers were tangible. She could formulate a plan and attack it. A gun was a comfort. When she rested the palm of her hand on the butt of the gun in her holster she typically felt calm and in control. With this investigation she felt none of that.

She drove to Brent Thyme’s at 4:15. After talking with Sarah that afternoon, Josie opted not to call Brent to tell him she was stopping by. Josie was curious why Santiago’s death was troubling him so much, given that they weren’t close friends. She realized the fact that Santiago had been murdered could be reason enough to upset Brent, but it was worth exploring.

The couple lived in a small beige stucco adobe behind the police station. Brent and his wife Sarah were sitting in lawn chairs just inside the open doors of a two-car garage, staying out of the downpour. Josie pulled her jeep up and noticed a small boy pedaling a tricycle in circles inside the garage. Josie got out of her jeep and ran for shelter. Brent stood and shook her hand.

“Sorry to barge in on you like this. I’m hoping I can ask you a few questions about the Santiago investigation.”

Sarah offered drinks and when Josie declined Sarah took the little boy off the tricycle and said she needed to lay him down for a nap. She disappeared inside the house and Brent and Josie settled into the two lawn chairs facing the rain.

“Sarah said you’re pretty upset about Santiago. Anything in particular?”

He looked surprised at her comment. “Well, no, other than my coworker is dead. That’s pretty troubling.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

Again, he looked surprised at the question. “What do you want to know?”

“No one knows anything about Santiago other than he loved his family and wanted to return to Mexico. There has to be something more.”

Brent lifted his hands in a futile gesture. “I don’t know what else I can add to that. I wish there was more we could help you with.”

“Yet, this man with no connections to the community, no money, no friends, no family here in the U.S.—he ends up left for dead in the middle of the desert.” Josie almost added, “wearing his work boots,” but few people knew that information and she hoped to keep it that way.

Brent looked out into the rain. “I feel lousy about it now. I wish I’d made more of an effort with him. Tried to connect with him somehow.”

“What about the work he did at the plant? Can you tell me what part of the plant Santiago was working in?”

“I can’t provide you with that information.”

She sighed. She should have anticipated his reaction, but opted to play the game out. “Why not?”

“When I was hired I signed a nondisclosure agreement. I’m prohibited from giving you any information about the inner workings of the plant.”

Josie gave him a quizzical look. She was asking the questions to gauge his attitude toward the plant, more than his actual answers. If his answers were hesitant, unsure, she was fairly certain he would crack with enough pressure. “It’s not as if you’re giving out company secrets. The plant is closing down.”

“They’re still making new materials,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows.

Brent groaned in frustration. Josie could tell he realized he’d already said too much.

“Look. I could get fired for talking to you. I was told it doesn’t matter who comes asking for information, whether you’re with the police or not. We’re supposed to refer you to Paiva.”

“I’ll be talking with him later.”

“I’m not allowed to discuss the plant.”

Josie nodded. “I’m not here to cause you problems. I’m here because a man was murdered. Not only do I want to find the man’s killer, but I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Brent turned in his chair and glanced back at the door leading into the house. “Are you able to keep my name out of this if I tell you something?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

“I mean, this remains completely anonymous.”

“Yes, that’s my intent,” Josie said.

Brent sat for a moment and wiped the sweat off the back of his neck, then onto his shorts. His face was beet red and he looked miserable. “Santiago had been working in the pilot unit before he died. I know because I was working with him.”

“I thought you worked in Unit Seven?”

“That’s our assigned area. We spend most of our time there, but we have side projects in other areas. We’ll occasionally do work out of the pilot unit. Santiago and I were assigned to the pilot for two days to sanitize equipment we’d been using in Unit Seven.”

“What kind of work takes place there?” she asked.

“New projects. Pilots. Basic lab work. It’s stuff Beacon tries out before the systems go live.”

Josie narrowed her eyes in confusion. “Once again, I thought you were supposed to be closing the plant down. Why test new stuff?” She wondered if Brent’s answer would match what others had told her.

He shrugged once. “Supposedly, it’s new technology for radiation cleanup.”

“You try new technology in the pilot unit, then try it out in the plant. If it works, I’m guessing Beacon sells it to others in the industry?”

He shrugged again. “Or the government.”

“So, our government is paying them to clean up the plant, and they are using part of that money to develop new technology?” she asked.

He nodded.

“And then they turn around and sell it back to the government?”

“And the private sector,” he said.

“So they’re double-dipping.”

“I guess you could call it that,” he said.

“Can you give me an example of the kinds of projects that take place in the pilot unit?”

His face twisted in frustration, and he rolled his head as if stretching tight neck muscles. After a long moment he said, “After you left the other day? Paiva called all the plant supervisors in for an emergency meeting. Supervisors were told to personally meet with every one of their employees within twenty-four hours, even if it required home visits. Afterwards, Skip gave us copies of the nondisclosure agreement we signed. Someone had taken an orange highlighter and underlined the information on grounds for dismissal.” He pointed his finger at Josie, then at his own chest. “This right here? I’ll be fired if they find out. And I have a two-year-old, and a wife that makes little more than minimum wage.”

Josie felt a stab of guilt for pushing him. If he chose not to share information she could call the company attorney and ask for assistance, but legally there wasn’t much in her favor. A person could not be forced to talk.

She finally said, “Disregard the last question. I’ll be talking with Mr. Paiva. I plan to ask him the same questions I’ve asked you. Your name will not be mentioned, nor will the information you shared with me. At least now I have a point of reference.”

“I understand.”

Josie opened the manila folder on her lap and pulled out several five-by-seven color photographs that Lou had developed for her earlier in the day. She handed the stack to Brent, who grimaced immediately.

“I’m sorry to have you look at these. They’re pictures of Juan Santiago’s arms the day we found his body. The sores are a big concern for us. They may be tied to his death. We have no medical records, so we’re not sure if the situation was medical or possibly job-related. We’re also concerned there may be a public health hazard that we don’t know about.” Josie paused and Brent nodded once. He flipped through the photographs, holding the edges as if he didn’t want to touch the gruesome images.

“Did he have those sores on his arms when you last saw him?” she asked.

“Juan had some sores, but nothing like this.” He stared at the last picture for several moments and appeared to consider Josie’s question. He finally passed the photos back. “The last day he was at work I saw them. Just some red blisters on his arm. I saw him in the cafeteria, but he didn’t talk to anyone. Most days he sat with us. That day he didn’t. He went off by himself and ate. I saw the sores though when he went through the line. I wondered, you know? But it could have been a hundred different things. Then, we didn’t see him again.”

“You didn’t mention the sores to anyone else you worked with?”

He shook his head.

“Why didn’t you bring this up at the meeting we had in the cafeteria?” she asked.

He gave a cynical laugh. “In front of Paiva?”

“This information could be critical to the investigation. It helps establish a timeframe. It could help the coroner determine a cause of death.”

His expression had changed, but she couldn’t read it.

“We have a radiation specialist from the CDC coming to talk to us tomorrow. I would like for you to tell him what you know about the sores on Juan.”

His face clouded over with anger.

“They’re coming to help us, Brent. They want to make sure no one else ends up like Santiago.” She stared hard at him, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “You know more than you’re telling me,” she said.

After a moment, he held his right hand toward her, palm down, and pulled a bandage away from his skin. A blister, the size of a dime, was in the middle of his wrist.

Josie tried to hide the shock she felt. Her skin burned at the sight of it and she flashed back to the horrible images she’d just shown him of Santiago’s arms.

“Sarah doesn’t know. She thinks I burnt my hand on the iron.”

“How did you get the sore?”

He shrugged, his eyes frightened. “I don’t have any idea. When I saw the sores on Santiago, I didn’t talk to him about them. I wondered. But, like I said, it could have been anything.” He looked down at his hand and replaced the bandage. “Then I woke up this morning with this sore. It scared the shit out of me. Then you come here with these pictures and they’re way worse than what I saw.”

“Does anyone else at the plant have these same lesions?”

“I don’t think so. No one has said anything.”

“You need to tell all of this to the CDC tech. Show her the sores and tell her everything you can remember about the work you were doing.”

He nodded, his expression sober and frightened. “If Paiva thinks we had an accident, and I didn’t follow reporting procedures, I’ll lose my job.”

“Did you have an accident?”

“No! But he’ll assume we did if he finds out I’ve been affected too!”

“If you didn’t have an accident, then other people could be involved. You need to get checked immediately.”

“You don’t have kids. You don’t have a family and a house payment.”

Josie ignored his comment. “You say you don’t know where the sores came from. Give me your best guess. Do you think it was exposure to radiation?”

His gaze was steady, but Josie was certain the internal struggle was seismic. He said nothing.

“I know you’re worried about your job and your family. I’m not judging that. I respect it,” she said. “But sometimes you have to be willing to look beyond your own self for the greater good. If this was a radiation accident, there could be other people affected. I touched Santiago’s body. The coroner has worked on his exposed flesh for hours on end. There may be others at the plant who were affected that you don’t even know about. And we don’t know what kind of internal damage this could be causing to any of us.” Josie could feel her face getting red, and anger creeping into her voice.

His expression never changed. “I’m telling you, I don’t know how it happened.”

“It’s no longer a suggestion.”

Brent bent over in his lawn chair and held his head in his hands for a long while, staring at the ground. He finally sat up, his expression resolute. “I’ll meet with your CDC expert tomorrow. I’ll give them everything I know.”