Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [71]
Jack paused, as the conversation was getting a little flaky. “Did you say you researched this?”
“Yes, don’t you see what’s going on? Surely the medical examiner knows what kind of toxin was involved. This report is a cover-up. Maybe the government doesn’t want to send the public into a panic over fears of chemical and biological warfare.”
A retiree with time enough to dream up conspiracy theories. Great.
“Doctor, I’m not saying you’re paranoid, but—”
“Please, I need help. I don’t know why the medical examiner won’t say what killed Ethan Chang. The point is that if I came in contact with the same toxin when I was helping that man—or even if I just breathed in the fumes—I need to start on an antidote.”
His voice was becoming increasingly urgent, and Jack needed to reel him in. “Okay, I hear your concern. But let’s think about this for a second. If you were exposed, wouldn’t you be dead already, or at least showing some kind of symptoms?”
“Not necessarily. Chang got a direct application and died in an hour. Depending on how much I got and how it got into my system, it could take weeks to see the effects.”
“All right,” said Jack, trying to keep him calm. “Let’s look at this another way. What would be the downside of starting yourself on a nerve-gas antidote as a precaution?”
“For some of these synthetics the antidote is itself a toxin. I can’t just be self-prescribing willy-nilly. I need to know exactly what kind of toxin was involved.”
“What have you done so far?”
“I’ve plied every professional contact I’ve made over the past forty years, and I can’t get anywhere. I’ll be honest, I’m no fan of lawyers, but I know when I need one. You seemed like the logical choice. You’re plugged into this already with the work you’ve done for Jamal Wakefield.”
It still sounded flaky to Jack. “So you want a lawyer to go into court and get a judge to force the medical examiner to reveal the toxin that killed Ethan Chang. Is that what you’re asking?”
“Bingo. If the son of a former governor can’t cut through red tape, who can?”
Jack glanced at Neil, who was finishing his tea and trying to get Theo’s attention.
“Mr. Swyteck?”
Jack heard the doctor’s voice, but he was thinking. It had all started with a Gitmo detainee who spoke no English. Several bodies later, Jack was now discussing nerve gas with the second potential client of the day who was—in someone’s eyes—nothing more than collateral damage in one hell of a cover-up.
That, or the crazy conspiracy theorists are coming out of the woodwork.
“Refill, Mr. Goodwrench?”
Neil handed Theo his empty cup, and Theo poured more hot water. It was a simple thing but a pivotal moment for Jack: the man who’d mentored him at the Freedom Institute served hot tea by a former badass from the ’hood who had been the only innocent man Jack and Neil had ever represented.
Had been. Until Jamal came along.
“Mr. Swyteck, are you still there?”
Jack was still taking in his Neil-and-Theo moment, and though it wasn’t technically accurate, another word came to mind to describe his mentor. “Doctor, can I call you right back?” Jack said into the phone. “I need to consult with my partner.”
Chapter Thirty-four
The Internet café on Bethnal Green was open twenty-four hours. At half past midnight in the middle of week, he expected to have his choice of terminals, especially on such a cold and nasty night. The rain was turning to sleet, and the sidewalks were deserted, but he was unlike most of his fellow Africans in Somaal Town. January’s bite didn’t bother him, and he actually preferred the shorter days of winter. The late sunrise and early sunset were his friends, and if that meant living in a colder climate, so be it. His given name was Habib.
To his victims, he was known as the Dark.
He shook out his umbrella and entered the café. The fluorescent lighting assaulted his eyes and, for some reason, triggered a yawn. His quick trip to Miami and back had left him drained.