“Well, something ingested by the victims would be the most likely means of delivery,” Whatley answered. “But the tests performed so far have shown no trace whatsoever of any toxin or contaminant in any of the food recovered from the scene.”
“Leaving us with what?” one of the faces projected on the wide-screen asked.
“I may have an idea on that front,” interjected Young Roger.
61
SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
“One that explains all the variables and variants in play here,” Young Roger continued.
“Who’s speaking, please?” asked another of the disembodied faces.
As Young Roger stated his name, credentials, and position with the Texas Rangers, Caitlin focused on what she knew about him from her own experience. Until this moment, she hadn’t even known his last name. Young Roger was in his early thirties but didn’t look much older than Dylan. Though he was a Ranger, the title was mostly honorary, provided in recognition of the technological expertise he brought to the table. He had helped the Rangers solve a number of Internet-based crimes, ranging from identity theft to credit card fraud to the busting of a major pedophile and kiddie porn ring. He worked out of all six Ranger company offices on a rotating basis.
Young Roger wore his hair too long and was never happier than when he was playing guitar with his band, the Rats, whose independent record label had just released its first CD. Their alternative brand of music wasn’t the kind she preferred, but Dylan told her it was pretty good. She still figured Dylan had a crush on a gal bass guitarist named Patty and had dragged Caitlin to a Rats performance when he was home over Christmas, just to show her off to the blue-haired bass player.
“Explain your thinking, please,” Jones instructed, once Young Roger’s introduction was complete.
“If you assume ingestion as the means of the delivery of the toxin to the victims,” he began, “we need to consider the anomaly of the waitstaff and cooks being infected. Even more, there’s the apparent speed of the spread.”
“Wait,” said one of the faces on the wide-screen, “are you suggesting contagion here?”
“Not at all. That’s the point. The analyses I’ve seen all indicate all victims struck down, without visible symptoms, within between twenty and twenty-five seconds. Based on the photographs of the scene I’ve examined, six of the victims—two tables—hadn’t been served any food, or even water, yet. Then there’s the additional anomaly of the bodies found closest to the door.”
Young Roger waited, as if for a photo displaying just that to appear on the screen, then continued when it didn’t.
“They fell facing the inside, not the outside, likely toward the end of that twenty-to twenty-five-second time frame of effect.”
“So, what are you suggesting?” asked the same face that had posed the last question.
“Nothing yet,” answered Young Roger, sounding less committal. “At least, nothing for sure. I need to run some more tests, do some more research. Right now, I’m focusing on why the perpetrators plugged up the exterior venting on the kitchen exhaust fan. What was it they didn’t want getting out?”
“You’re giving Daniel Cross a whole lot of credit, kid,” Jones said, jogging the screen back to the hazy, zoomed-in shot of Daniel Cross from the Austin cop’s body cam.
“With good reason. Cross has degrees in chemical engineering, organic chemistry, and applied physics. A poster child for just the kind of technical expertise involved in what we’re facing here.”
“You do know,” Jones started, “that the only job he’s ever held for longer than six months was as a candy mixer for Susie’s Candies during the holidays a few years back, when he was living in Odessa. He profiles as a disaffected loser who tried to find himself on social media, not a mad scientist. Only, this time, he found the helping hand he’d always wanted.”
“If I had my way,” groused Captain Tepper from the darkened end of the table, sounding as if he were speaking mostly to himself, “I’d take a hammer and a blowtorch to the whole goddamn Internet until we were back in time maybe a generation or two.”
“Given that’s not quite a realistic possibility,” Jones picked up, “FBI and Homeland already have three hundred agents dedicated to nothing other than finding Daniel Cross, along with Saflin and Zurif. Since they showed no aggression toward the patrolman who asked them to move, and complied immediately, we can assume they don’t know they’ve been identified. That gives us an advantage we intend to exploit to its absolute, goddamn fullest,” he finished, his eyes back on Caitlin.
*
“I notice you left out mention of the Comanche Indian reservation from your status report, Jones,” Caitlin said to him, off to the side of the room. The wide-screen television had gone dark.
“You think I don’t know where the two of you were headed when your captain made the call?”
“You got eyeballs on us?”
“Electronically—you’re damn right, Ranger. This country might be under the gravest threat it has ever faced, so I like to know where my people are.”