Into the Inferno - Earl Emerson [92]
“From the fire department?”
“A newspaper guy.”
“What about this specialist?”
“I’ve got a call in to him.”
Cherie Arden spoke up. “I don’t understand this thing, whatever it is. I mean, if you were all exposed back in February, why didn’t you get sick in February? And why isn’t everybody getting sick at once?”
Stephanie said, “People’s immune systems are different. Some are strong. Some are weak. We don’t know what might be affecting the way people react. As far as the lag time between exposure and onset of symptoms, apparently this syndrome has a long incubation period if exposure was minimal. I’m guessing the firefighters in Tennessee had a greater level of exposure than the people here, and that’s why their symptoms came on so much quicker.”
I said, “A guy came through town a year ago. From Montana. Exfireman. On disability. He’d had a stroke. He said they fought a fire out in the dingles somewhere in a store that carried everything you could think of: pharmaceuticals, ammunition, painting supplies, dynamite. Afterward, people who’d fought the fire started going down. In nine months four of them had strokes and three had heart attacks. They never proved it was caused by the fire, and they never got any money out of the pension system, either, even though they all knew it started with that fire.”
Cherie said, “I never thought it would happen here. I sure hope Ben doesn’t have it.”
“Me, too, Cherie.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I know. I really don’t want anyone else getting it.”
Two King County fire investigators in jeans and button-down shirts appeared in the doorway behind me, the first looking dwarflike beside the second, taller man, who had ruddy, baby-butt cheeks on an otherwise pale face he worked hard to keep unexpressive. These were the two who’d responded to Max Caputo’s place after the explosion—the short one was Shad; the taller, Stevenson. Shad didn’t look tall enough to be a firefighter, but then, most departments in the area had relaxed their guidelines on height in order to recruit more women.
“Need to talk to you,” said Stevenson.
“I’ve got a funeral I’m about to go to.”
“And we’ve got a man up on the hill came down in itty-bitty pieces,” said Shad.
“We’re still trying to fit it together.” Stevenson planted a wan smile on his mug, delighted at his own witticism.
Ian Hjorth came up the hallway, peered over their shoulders, and said, “Sorry to bust in, Jim, but Karrie brought in some doctor from out of state who claims he’s going to talk to the TV guys after the funeral. Says this syndrome is all in your head.”
“What?”
“That’s what he says.”
“How could he know that without talking to me?”
“I don’t know. He spoke to Karrie, though.”
“Karrie doesn’t know her ass from a sack of apples!” I glanced at the two fire investigators, who’d backed off in the face of my outburst. “Wait in the front office. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Just don’t be skipping out on us,” said Stevenson.
“For God’s sake,” Stephanie muttered. “Where do you think he would go? A Mexican clinic?”
Just then, Karrie walked past the doorway in her black dress uniform.
“Karrie? What’s this I hear about you bringing in a doctor to debunk our syndrome?”
“Dr. Perkins. I didn’t bring him in. Not actually. I found him on the Internet and called him. He said this sounded like an interesting phenomenon and would we mind if he flew out. When he showed up yesterday, I took him to see Jackie. I was just trying to help.”
“He’s not even a real doctor,” Ian said. “All he does is write books, get on talk shows, and play kiss-kiss with celebrities.”
Karrie brushed a speck of lint off her coat. “I would think you’d be relieved. He’s already proved you don’t have to worry. Or hasn’t anyone told you the syndrome’s a figment of your imagination?” When the room and corridor had been quiet for a few seconds, she