Plum Island (13 page)

The last paragraph was interesting and read:

In the event of an emergency, the Center Director or Safety Officer may detain the visitor on Plum Island pending accomplishment
of necessary biological safety precautionary measures. Personal clothing and other items may be temporarily held on Plum Island
for decontamination and substitute clothing provided in order that the visitor may leave the Island after completion of a
decontamination shower. The retained clothing items will be returned as soon as possible.

And to add to the enjoyment of my visit, I consented to any quarantine and detention necessary. I said to Stevens, “I guess
this isn’t the Connecticut ferry.”

“No, sir, it isn’t.”

The efficient Mr. Stevens handed out a few government pens, and we laid the forms on the table and, still standing, we scratched,
skipped, and clotted our names on them. Stevens collected the forms, then he gave us the carbon copies as souvenirs.

Stevens then handed out blue clip-on passes, which we dutifully affixed to our clothing. He asked us, “Are any of you armed?”

I replied, “I believe we all are, but you’d be well advised not to ask for our guns.”

Stevens looked at me and replied, “That’s exactly what I’m going to ask for. Firearms are absolutely prohibited on the island.”
He added, “I have a lock box here where your pistols will be safe.”

I said, “My pistol is safe where it is now.”

Max added, “Plum Island is within the jurisdiction of Southold Township.
I
am the law on Plum Island.”

Stevens considered a long moment, then said, “I suppose the prohibition doesn’t apply to law officers.”

Beth said, “You can be sure it doesn’t.”

Stevens, his little power play foiled, accepted defeat with good grace and smiled. It was, however, the kind of smile that,
in the movies, the creepy villain gives before saying, “You have won this battle, sir, but I assure you, we will meet again.”
Click heels, turn, stomp off.

But Mr. Stevens was stuck with us for the time being, and he said, “Why don’t we go on the top deck?”

We followed our host up the stairs, through the cabin, and outside to a staircase that led to a nice deck above the cabin.
No one else was on the deck.

Mr. Stevens indicated a grouping of seats. The boat was making about fifteen miles an hour, which I think is about two hundred
knots. Maybe a little less. It was a bit breezy up top, but quieter away from the engines. The mist was burning off and sunlight
suddenly broke through.

I could see into the glass-enclosed bridge where the captain stood at the steering wheel, aka helm, talking to the mate. From
the stern below flew an American flag, snapping in the wind.

I sat facing the bow, with Beth to my right, Max to my left, Stevens across from me, and Nash and Foster on either side of
him. Stevens remarked, “The scientists who work in biocontainment always ride up here unless the weather is really foul. You
know, they don’t see the sun for eight to ten hours.” He added, “I asked that we have some privacy this morning.”

To my left, I saw the Orient Point Lighthouse, which is not one of the old-fashioned stone towers built on a headland, but
a modern steel structure built on rocks. Its nickname is “The Coffeepot” because it’s supposed to look like one, but I don’t
get it. You know, sailors mistake sea cows for mermaids, porpoises for sea serpents, clouds for ghost ships, and on and on.
If you spend enough time at sea, you get a little batty, I think.

I looked at Stevens and our eyes met. The man really had one of those rare, never forgotten wax faces. I mean, nothing moved
but the mouth, and the eyes bored right into you.

Paul Stevens addressed his guests and said, “Well, let me begin by saying that I knew Tom and Judy Gordon. They were well
regarded by everyone on Plum—staff, scientists, animal handlers, lab people, maintenance people, security people—everyone.
They treated all their fellow workers with courtesy and respect.” His mouth made a sort of weird smile. “We’ll sure miss them.”

I had the sudden notion that this guy could be a government assassin.
Yeah.
What if it was the government who whacked Tom and Judy? Jeez, it just hit me that maybe the Gordons knew something or saw
something, or were going to blow the whistle on something…. As my partner, Dom Fanelli, would say, “Mama mia!” This was a
whole new possibility. I looked at Stevens and tried to read something in those icy eyes, but he was a cool actor, as he’d
shown on the gangplank.

Stevens was going on, “As soon as I heard about the deaths last night, I called my security sergeant on the island and tried
to determine if anything was missing from the labs—not that I would suspect the Gordons of such a thing, but the way the murder
was reported to me … well, we have standard operating procedures here.”

I looked at Beth and our eyes met. I hadn’t had a chance to say a word to her this morning, so I winked at her. She apparently
couldn’t trust her emotions so she turned away.

Stevens went on, “I had one of my security patrol boats take me to Plum very early this morning, and I did a preliminary investigation.
As far as I can determine at this point in time, there is nothing missing from any of the stored micro-organisms or any stored
samples of tissue, blood, or any other organic or biological material.”

This statement was so patently self-serving and idiotic that no one even bothered to laugh. But Max did glance at me and shake
his head. Messrs. Nash and Foster, however, were nodding as if they were buying Stevens’ baloney. Thus encouraged, Mr. Stevens,
aware that he was among fellow government-employed friends, continued to put out the line of official crap.

You can imagine how much bullshit I have to listen to in my professional life—suspects, witnesses, informants, and even my
own team, like ADAs, brass, incompetent subordinates, low pols, and so forth. Bullshit and cowshit, the former being a gross
and aggressive distortion of the truth, while the latter is a milder, more passive crock of crap. And that’s the way it is
with police work. Bullshit and cowshit. No one’s going to tell you the truth. Especially if you’re trying to send them to
the electric chair, or whatever they’re using these days.

I listened awhile as Mr. Paul Stevens explained why no one could get a single virus or bacterium off the island, not even
a case of crotch itch, if we were to believe Pinocchio Stevens.

I gripped my right ear and twisted, which is how I tune out idiots. With Stevens’ voice now far away, I looked out at the
beautiful blue morning. The New London ferry was inbound and passed us off our left side, which I happen to know is called
the port side. The one and a half miles of water between Orient Point and Plum Island is known as Plum Gut, another nautical
term. There are a lot of nautical terms out here, and they give me a headache sometimes. I mean, what’s wrong with regular
English?

Anyway, I know that the Gut is a place where the currents get bad because the Long Island Sound and the open Atlantic sort
of smack together in the Gut. I was with the Gordons once, in their speedboat, when we got into a situation right about here
with the wind, the tide, and the currents slapping the boat around. I really don’t need a day like that on the water, if you
know what I mean.

But today was okay, and the Gut was calm and the boat was big. There was a little rocking, but I guess that can’t be helped
on the water, which is basically liquid and nowhere near as reliable as blacktop.

Well, it was a nice view from out here, and while Mr. Stevens was flapping his gums, I watched a big osprey circling. These
things are weird, I mean totally crazy birds. I watched this guy circling, looking for breakfast, then he spotted it, and
began this insane kamikaze dive into the water, shrieking like his balls were on fire, then he hit the water, disappeared,
then shot up and out like he had a rocket up his ass. In his talons was a silver fish who’d been just paddling along down
there, chomping minnows or something, and whoosh, he’s airborne, about to slide down the gullet of this crazy bird. I mean,
the silver fish maybe has a wife, kids, and whatever, and he goes out for a little breakfast and before he can bat an eye,
he
is
breakfast. Survival of the fittest and all that. Awesome. Totally.

We were about a quarter mile from Plum Island when a strange but familiar noise caught our attention. Then we saw it—a big
white helicopter with red Coast Guard markings passed us off our starboard side. The guy was going low and slow, and leaning
out the door of the helicopter was a man, secured by straps or something. The man was wearing a uniform, a radio helmet, and
was carrying a rifle.

Mr. Stevens commented, “That’s the deer patrol.” He explained, “As a purely precautionary measure, we look for deer that might
swim to or from Plum Island.”

No one spoke.

Mr. Stevens thought he should expand on that, and said, “Deer are incredibly strong swimmers, and they’ve been known to swim
to Plum from Orient and even Gardiners Island, and Shelter Island, which is seven miles away. We discourage deer from taking
up residence or even visiting Plum Island.”

“Unless,” I pointed out, “they sign the form.”

Mr. Stevens smiled again. He liked me. He liked the Gordons, too, and look what happened to them.

Beth asked Mr. Stevens, “Why do you discourage deer from swimming to the island?”

“Well … we have what’s called a ‘Never Leave’ policy. That is, whatever comes on the island may never leave unless it’s decontaminated.
That includes us when we leave later. Big items that can’t be decontaminated, such as cars, trucks, lab equipment, construction
debris, garbage, and so forth never leave the island.”

Again, no one spoke.

Mr. Stevens, realizing he’d frightened the tourists, said, “I don’t mean to suggest the island is contaminated.”

“Fooled me,” I admitted.

“Well, I should explain—there are five levels of biohazard on the island, or I should say, five zones. Level One or Zone One
is the ambient air, all the places outside the biocontainment laboratories, which is safe. Zone Two is the shower area between
the locker rooms and the laboratories and also some low-contagion workplaces. You’ll see this later. Then Level Three is the
biocontainment labs where they work with infectious diseases. Level Four is deeper into the building and includes the pens
where diseased animals are held, and also where the incinerators and dissection rooms are.” He looked at each of us to see
if he had our attention, which he most certainly did, and continued, “Recently, we have added a Level Five capability, which
is the highest biocontainment level. There are not many Level Five facilities in the world. We added this one because some
of the organisms we were receiving from places such as Africa and the Amazon jungle were more virulent than suspected.” He
looked at each of us and said, sort of sotto voce, “In other words, we were getting blood and tissue samples infected with
Ebola.”

I said, “I think we can go back now.”

Everyone smiled and tried to laugh. Ha, ha. Not funny. Mr. Stevens continued, “The new laboratory is a state-of-the-art containment
facility, but there was a time when we had the old post–World War Two facility, and that wasn’t, unfortunately, as safe. So,
at that time, we adopted the ‘Never Leave’ policy as a precaution against spreading infection to the mainland. The policy
is still officially in effect, but it’s somewhat relaxed. Still, we don’t like things and people traveling too freely between
the island and the mainland without being decontaminated. That, of course, includes deer.”

Beth asked again, “But
why?”

“
Why?
Because they might pick up something on the island.”

“Like what?” I asked. “A bad attitude?”

Mr. Stevens smiled and replied, “Maybe a bad cold.”

Beth asked, “Do you kill the deer?”

“Yes.”

No one spoke for a long moment, then I asked, “How about birds?”

Mr. Stevens nodded and replied, “Birds could be a problem.”

I asked my follow-up question, “And mosquitoes?”

“Oh, yes, mosquitoes could be a problem. But you must remember that all lab animals are kept indoors, and all experiments
are done in negative air pressure biocontainment labs. Nothing can escape.”

Max asked, “How do you know?”

Mr. Stevens replied, “Because you’re still alive.”

On that optimistic note, while Sylvester Maxwell contemplated being compared to a canary in a coal mine, Mr. Stevens said,
“When we disembark, please stay with me at all times.”

Hey, Paul, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

A
s we approached the island,
The Plum Runner
slowed. I stood, went to the port side, and leaned against the rail. To my left, the old stone Plum Island Lighthouse came
into view, and I recognized it because it was a favorite subject of bad watercolor artists around here. To the right of the
lighthouse, down by the shore, was a big billboard-sized sign that said, “CAUTION! CABLE CROSSING! NO TRAWLING! NO DREDGING!”