Query

Attention: publishers, agents, and screenplay producers

Could genetic engineering have created the perfect terrorist weapon? Start with a method to activate the dormant genes to turn E. coli bacteria into a pathogenic monster, add a method to turn them on and off at will, and you have a national public health nightmare.

In my novel "Kill the Messenger" (77,000 words), veterinary consultant and professor Dr. Charles Fowler (A.K.A. "Chick") overhears a heated conversation and a murder at the International Poultry Trade Show. The murdered man, a close friend and salesman down on his luck, is importing an herbal product from China and had hoped to make his fortune by selling it to the poultry industry as a "natural" growth promoter.

The Atlanta PD regard Fowler himself as a prime suspect, but he is in good company with disappointed investors, international businessmen, and local hookers, all hoping to cash in on the Chinese imports. Soon, Fowler finds himself a pawn in a scheme by a militant wing of the animal rights movement to bring the "evil" meat industry to its knees.

My novel, while containing elements of the thriller, also contains a mystery to be resolved in the final pages. It is set mostly in the Atlanta area during a severe winter storm.

As a scientist and educator, my own career parallels that of the protagonist in this story. During the past ten years I have developed my fiction writing skills locally as a participant in the Harriette Austin Writers Workshop. I have frequently traveled to other workshops around the country to learn more about publishing and to develop proficiency in writing.

Thank you for considering "Kill the Messenger"

Mystery/thriller 77,000 words Larry McDougald P. O. Box 515 Watkinsville GA 30677 706-338-0603 FAX 706-542-1377 LRMCD@UGA.EDU

Relevant quotes: "What this country needs is less hogs and hominy and more chicken and celery." Biggle Poultry Book, 1895. "Those readiest to die for a cause may easily become those who are readiest to kill for it." C. S. Lewis: Reflections on Psalms, 1958, 1986.

Synopsis

Could genetic engineering have unwittingly created the perfect weapon for bio-terrorism? Start with a method to convert normal, harmless bacteria into a highly virulent form, and add a mechanism to turn the bio-engineered genes on and off at will. Couple this with a militant activist group who will stop at nothing to achieve their goals, and you have a public health nightmare. Veterinary consultant and professor Dr. Charles Fowler almost blunders into a heated argument and murder at the International Poultry Trade Show in Atlanta. The murdered man is a salesman down on his luck, who is importing Chinese herbal medicines for animals. Fowler himself is the prime murder suspect, but he is in good company with disappointed investors and international businessmen hoping to cash in on Chinese imports.

Deadly outbreaks of pathogenic E.coli in humans, traced back to contamination from small poultry flocks in Texas where the Chinese medicine was used, alert Fowler to the threat. He recognizes the signs of a bio-terroristic plot, and suspects a militant animal-rights group.

But the FBI and Atlanta PD are not convinced by his proposed scenario, and the murder of a high-priced hooker and a Chinese businessman during the trade show bring even more suspicion to Fowler. Forced underground, he chases clues and conspirators from Georgia to East Texas, Memphis, and North Carolina. Fowler discovers evidence of genetically engineered viruses stolen from an Ohio laboratory, and links to a biotech company’s new poultry vaccine. These viruses interact with the Chinese medicine to trigger conversion of E. coli to the dangerous 0157 strain. Major food companies are threatened with an ultimatum: Cut production and adopt strict animal-rights policies or they will unleash the powerful weapon. Thousands of people would die and the food industry would be decimated.

Forming a shaky alliance with a non-militant activist, Fowler tracks the medicine to a feed mill in East Texas. The FBI seizes the product, seemingly ending the threat.

But Fowler isn’t satisfied, believing the first shipment is a decoy to throw them off the track. Back in Georgia, and still on the lam, he discovers invoices among the murdered man’s effects, revealing the location of another large batch of the Chinese import. Amidst a crippling snowstorm, Fowler and his girlfriend locate the warehouse outside Atlanta and confront the militants in flagrante, while they are preparing the next shipment. Imprisoned by the gang and facing death at their hands, Fowler convinces his activist friend to trip the fire alarm to bring help, leading to a fiery shoot-out and explosion. At last, the threat is ended and the food supply is safe.

Finally, piecing together clues picked up throughout the adventure, Fowler guesses the identity of his friend’s killer. He confronts the would-be entrepreneur’s girlfriend, finding her despondent over the loss of the import company and looming financial ruin. She is burdened by guilt, having murdered Fowler's friend to keep him from exposing the public health dangers of their product. Moments before help arrives, she jumps to her death from the balcony of her hotel room, almost dragging Fowler down with her.

Chapter One

About halfway between the airport and downtown Atlanta, an eighteen-wheeler jackknifed on the ice and pushed a taxi and two other cars into our lane. My friend Gordie Westbrook gave the steering wheel a hard nudge with his big hand and our car swerved deftly around the whole mess. Without missing a beat in his sales pitch.

"Chick, you’ve gotta buy in on this one. These people’re ready to plunk down a bundle on development. We can have Qingdao Gold on the market here by summer. We’ll be in Brazil and Mexico by fall." He looked me in the eye, ignoring blaring horns from a car he’d just cut off. "This thing’s gonna be big."

I winced at his use of my old high school nickname, but it gave me something to focus on besides death and dismemberment. Gordie had insisted on meeting me at Hartsfield International as he returned from a meeting with prospective customers in Maryland, so he could brief me before our meeting with his business associates. Leaving my own car in long-term parking and riding to the International Poultry Convention with him in the midst of a winter storm, I felt like I was cooped up with a non-hibernating polar bear.

I pulled my attention back from the snowflakes streaming past to look at the folder in my lap. His magical product consisted of the tuberous roots of a Chinese gladiolus, dried and ground into a meal, finally becoming a feed additive guaranteed to improve the growth rate of chickens and save two percent of the feed. One paper revealed that Gordie was the sole distributor for the product in North America and maybe the western hemisphere.

"Two percent, Fowler!" he stressed, leaning over to punctuate his claim by poking a finger at a page of the report. His other hand twitched, causing our car to swerve. More honking. "We’re going public next month," he went on. "Corporation formed in Delaware, with an offering price of fifty cents a share in blocks of ten thousand. You really ought to pick up a couple, Chick, you can quadruple your money in no time."

I presumed he meant a couple of blocks rather than shares, else I could’ve handed him a buck, told him to take some aspirin, and call me again when the stock split. Opportunities to get in on the ground floor of such ventures were all too common, and usually came with fatal flaws.

"Two percent?" I raised an eyebrow. These days, nothing improved performance by two percent, that would be...

"Right, Professor! Four points in feed conversion. Look Chick, this is the real thing. We ain’t talking chicken feed here, ha, ha."

I glanced at a business card stapled to the folder: Gordon Westbrook, Director of Sales and Marketing, Hi-Tech Corporation, Offices in Amsterdam, São Paulo, Brazil, and Flowery Branch, Georgia. "Is that where you’re living now?" I said.

"Huh? Yeah, Flowery Branch is sort of a suburb of Gainesville, real convenient to the poultry companies. I’m right on the lake. You’ll have to come up sometime."

I shivered, involuntarily. "Maybe when spring comes."

Gordie made a swerve, brazenly cutting off two lanes of traffic to take the Capitol Avenue exit. I breathed a sigh of relief, happy to be going to my death at a slower speed. "We’ve got an appointment for lunch with the investors from HiTech," he said. "They want to move fast, while so many important customers are here in town."

At least I agreed with that. Everybody in the country, maybe even the world, who had anything to do with chickens was in Atlanta that week for the annual trade show. The World Congress Center would be full of exhibits, all the hotels booked. That was the reason I was in town, too, as a specialist on avian diseases.

Gordie had called me at the university, only the week before, bubbling over his new project. Money would grow on trees if only I would help introduce it to the movers and shakers in the poultry industry. He was sure the owners of HiTech International would want to hire me, Professor Nicholas Fowler, as a well paid consultant.

Having failed at my recent bid for promotion at the U, the extra money I earned from consulting seemed only fair, "just revenge" some would say.

The sidewalks were filled with people streaming to and from the convention center, some with parkas or umbrellas to fend off the snow. The hotels and restaurants, and later, the strip clubs and hookers, taxi drivers, even the street people, would be busy raking in cash from the twenty-five thousand or so attendees. The police would be as busy as one-armed politicians at a fund-raiser. Gordie braked for a traffic light, almost spilling the papers from my lap. Amidst tall buildings the cold still penetrated deep into my bones, even though the heater fan was on high. Ice was building up on the wipers and the scraping sound was giving me the willies.

"Well, what do you think?" He said, waving toward the folder. "Is that a fantastic product or what?"

The report bore the logo of a contract research farm called the Texas Poultry Institute, located in Nacadoches, Texas. I’d seen the facilities at TPI, a trio of dilapidated chicken houses and a rusty feed mill, run by a couple of unemployed poultry graduates from Texas A&M. I’d "It’s okay," I said, even though I’d immediately spotted a major flaw in the way the experiment was designed. Whether by plan or by accident, they’d left out the negative control group.

"Okay? Hell, our product bet the crap out of the best selling growth promoter on the market, isn’t that enough?"

I ignored his retort and leaned so I could see better out of the windshield as we neared the World Congress Center, the largest convention center in the Southeast. Despite the snow and cold, a dozen or so people walked up and down the sidewalk with big posters or placards on sticks, the wind buffeting them around. "Meat is Murder!!" proclaimed one poster, "Free Animals" read another. They chanted something with animated gestures, but I couldn’t hear over the whine of the heater fan. Further along, several attractive young women wearing hot pants and ski parkas handed out cards to men coming out of the center.

"Nice legs," Gordie said, with a smirk. "You suppose they’re poultry producers?"

"Strippers, probably from the Rainbow Lounge, or The Mousetrap, doing a little advertising."

"Listen," Gordie went on. " I need to catch Klaus and Eduardo before the meeting breaks for lunch. Why don’t you take the car, park in the garage, and meet me inside."

I closed the folder, happy we’d survived the mad rush down the Interstate, inwardly seething at Gordie’s insolence, expecting me to look for a parking lot in a snowstorm. But what the hey? "Yeah, I can do that," I said.

"Oh, I need one of your business cards to give them, sort of an introduction."

"Oh, sure." I dug one out from a coat pocket.

The noise level outside increased somewhat with angry shouts, a scream. We looked back to see several of the demonstrators throwing something at a group of men emerging from the convention hall. At first their missiles looked like snowballs, but they broke, releasing something yellow. Eggs. Several security guards ran out of the building, themselves becoming targets before they could subdue the assailants. The scene quickly developed into a scuffle, as onlookers joined the fray, eager to get in a punch or a kick, in repayment for being splattered.

"Damn," Gordie said with a grimace. "These people are serious."

Punctuating his observation, a stray egg smashed against the back windshield, leaving a sticky splotch of yellow yolk and albumin on the frozen glass.

***

Trying to save a few bucks on my expense account I decided to park the car in a private lot two blocks away from the convention center rather than pay ten dollars for a space in the parking deck. I was hurrying back toward the center, keeping my head down against the wind and sleet when I became aware of a fracas across the street near the MARTA station. Two figures were grappling. I heard a woman scream. Two other men heading toward the center stopped, looking toward the fight, frozen in position. Instinctively, I started to run toward them, apparently a mugging near the alley that opened near a parking lot. Another scream, and as I drew closer, a man’s voice shouting "Give it up! Stop that. Now give it up."

A young woman wearing a red pullover and jeans waged a desperate tug-of-war over a large handbag. Her opponent, a young black man clad in an army surplus coat and black jeans, also had a knife, slashing at the heavy strap on the bag, but the woman clung desperately to her property.

"Hey, break it up!" I shouted as I approached. When I saw the knife, I stopped, unsure of how far to go. Instantly, the mugger released the purse and turned at me, waving the blade in my direction.

At the sight of the knife, parts of my brain rearranged thought processes and sought new connections with body parts. I hated street punks, hated the weapons they used, and hated it more when I was on the receiving end of some rip-off. Rather than wait for him to reach me with the knife I charged him. I saw his arm go back, surprise on his face, the knife flashing as it rose toward my face. My last stride became a kick driving my knee into his groin before we both bounced off the brick wall. He screamed but didn’t drop the knife. We both fell, rolling with each other on the dirty sidewalk. I tried for the knife, missed, felt it go through my coat sleeve. I pushed back, scrambling to my feet, whirling to face his counterattack.

"Alright, mista’ good Samaritan," he grunted, his face contorted with rage and breathing heavy. "You want some of this?" He waved the knife and advanced toward me in a crouch.

I circled slowly, keeping my gaze on the assailant. His eyes were wild, nostrils flared, a combination of surprise from my attack and pain where I’d kicked him, and a heavy dose of unquenchable rage. My own breath came in gasps, the adrenaline rush fighting with shock. In the distance I heard sirens, not unusual for downtown Atlanta, but it gave me hope. The mugger gathered for a lunge with the knife, now that he could tell I was unarmed. Suddenly a flash of something red came from one side and I heard a clang like a cymbal. The woman, wielding a metal garbage can lid. She slammed it against his head a second and third time.

"Stop it, you bitch!" He flailed at the lid with his weapon but she danced to his side, fending him off with the lid as a shield. I took advantage of his confusion to deliver a well-placed kick to his knee. He staggered, almost went down. Finally, deciding he was outnumbered, he backed away toward the alley. I thought he was gone, but he stopped and pointed the knife at me like a baton. "I’ll get you, you crazy mother." Then he turned and ran, heavy footsteps echoing off brick walls in the alley.

The sirens were closer, several police cars and an EMT from the sound of them. I took a ragged breath and leaned on a parked car, shaky from the adrenaline. "You okay, Miss?"

She shrank back, holding her bag behind the metal shield and breathing in gasps. "Oh! That was so close." She gave me a frightened once-over, like she wasn’t sure whether I was her knight in shining armor or just a well-dressed street thug. Slowly her demeanor softened as she decided to trust me. She dropped the garbage can lid with a clatter. "Oh my God. He could’ve killed me."

"I don’t think so, he only wanted your purse."

"Bookbag," she said, turning to watch as the first of the police cars flashed past.

I looked closer seeing she was right. The small canvas pack with a sturdy shoulder strap was a type favored by students at the University. I pulled myself together. "Are you all right Miss? Want me to call the police?"

"Oh!" A startled look crossed her face and she glanced at the approaching cars. "No, I’ve had quite enough of them already."

"You were pretty good with that lid," I said. "Probably saved my life. Are you going to the convention center?"

"Yes, I..." The sirens blaring from two police cars and the EMT van gave her a chance to look me over again. She decided to trust me enough to accompany me to the building. "I’m just not used to this kind of thing," she said, still trembling. "I’m not a city girl, you know."

"Me neither," I said, noticing that all four emergency vehicles were clustered on the sidewalk at the main entrance to the convention center. The egg fighters had fled. " It’s lousy weather for a convention, isn’t it."

"Yes, terrible weather." She was no longer frightened and shivering, instead focusing on the scene unfolding at our destination. Several policemen had already disappeared inside, leaving squad cars to fend for themselves with bursts of blue and white lights, and the EMT techs were unloading gear from side compartments of their rig. A small crowd of bystanders, ignoring the icy wind and snow, watched from across the street. But people still came and went from the entrance, so I presumed the fracas was a small one.

"Maybe you should take a cab when you go back out, Miss..."

"Paalmu," she said. "Lisa Paalmu. But I won’t be going out alone, I’m...uh...meeting some other people." We were at the door. She gave me a nervous smile and extended her hand. "I do owe you my sincere thanks, Doctor Fowler. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come along."

"Think nothing of it. Glad I could help." Inside the center she headed for a restroom and I went off to find Gordie, thinking there was something strange about Miss Paalmu and her predicament.

It wasn’t until later that I began to wonder how she knew my name.

***

I never made it to the poultry meeting. The concourse leading to the convention rooms was blocked by a crowd of people, all stretching their heads to see over, some talking excitedly, others leaning against the wall as though feeling faint. "What’s going on?" I asked the first person I met, a vaguely familiar young man holding a laptop computer under his arm and wearing a sour expression over his dark suit.

"Some guy got shot. Of all the luck, I was about to give my paper and we heard this noise. A gunshot, I guess. Then everyone ran out into the hall to look. Geez; I was all pumped up about the student competition, and now look. They probably won’t be able to sort this out all day. Probably won’t get to give my paper."

"Hmm," I said, not feeling much empathy for his plight. "Any idea who it is?"

"I’m not sure. I thought I heard a name, Gordie something."

"Uh..." My stomach lurched. I pushed through the crowd until I was face to face with one of the policemen I’d seen dashing into the building earlier.

"Who’re you?" He demanded, adjusting his gunbelt.

I tried to look past him, a large form sprawled on the floor, blood spreading from a wound in the center of the chest. A small pistol lay on the polished tile floor a foot from the body. From the extended leg with pants leg hiked up enough to expose a flabby calf over argyle socks, an arm clothed in a white shirt terminating in a beefy hand, and the coat I’d seen only minutes before, I had no doubt the victim was my friend Gordie Westbrook.

"I’m Dr. Nicholas Fowler," I told him.

He did a double-take, but recovered quickly. "That’s great. Why don’t you step over here. I think the Lieutenant’s gonna want to talk to you."

He allowed me across the tape he’d set up to block off the crime scene, and just as quickly whisked me into an adjoining banquet hall. At the same time, he managed to unsnap his handcuffs from a belt strap and had them firmly clasped onto my wrists before I could shout habeas corpus.

Chapter Two

Death stinks. The coppery odor of blood blended with the aroma of other spilled bodily refuse and caught in the back of my throat. I glanced across the broad dining room with its white tablecloths and napkins, to the doorway, where the body of my friend Gordon Westbrook lay spread-eagled on the floor. A flock of police and EMT personnel were gathered like buzzards on a road kill. I hadn’t a clue of what had happened.

I kept replaying a mental video-loop of everything that led Gordie and me to that room.

Gordie had shown up at my office a week before looking like he desperately needed a cigarette, or a drink, or maybe just a decent meal. I wasn’t surprised. Once he’d told me he spent most of his money on booze and broads (his choice of words), and the rest was wasted. "Gordie," I said, "you look like hell."

"Thanks," he growled. "Don’t be so friggin’ profound or I’ll look for somebody else to cut in on this gold mine." He slapped a folder on the table, some kind of prospectus for an IPO. "This product is so hot, the poultry producers will be hijacking truckloads of it off I-85. We’re having it tested, just to confirm everything. I’ll have the results next week, you’ll see just how good this stuff is."

He spent the next hour trying to pressure me into hopping on board his money train as a consultant. I could meet his new partners the next week, during the Trade Show. I tried to beg off, feigning a meeting I was late for. Gordie followed me out into the hall. "How about Tuesday? I know they want to meet you. We can go to dinner at Pricci’s in Buckhead, or maybe Nicholai’s Roof. They’re ready to put a lot of money into this, you know, to introduce it to the industry."

"Right."

"The potential for this is humongous." Gordie spoke fast, trying to get his spiel in, huffing to keep up with me. "With ten billion broilers produced each year, you can imagine the potential for the USA alone. But the main thing is, we’re looking for a consultant, someone well known to the industry who can be a spokesperson, you know, to help put the right spin on the product. I told the partners you’d be great in that role."

"I don’t know, Gordie," I said, punching the elevator button with the knuckle of my trigger finger.

The door lurched open and I started to step inside, but Gordie placed a hand on my arm. "Chick," he said, his bloodshot eyes only inches from mine, desperation in his raspy voice. "You gotta help me on this, Chick. I ...they’ll ... Jesus, Chick, I really need your help."

***

I glanced across the room again, finding Gordie’s corpse still in the same place. Two men and a woman, crime-scene investigators, bent over for a close look, one of them pointing at something. The evidence team had bagged my coat as evidence, and even my shoes, leaving me in stocking feet. My toes were numb with cold, and I was still the most likely and probable perp. Why? Gordie was still holding my business card at the time of his death. What a way for a hit man to operate. "Excuse me, sir, I’m a hit man. Here’s my card; should you ever need my services, don’t hesitate to call. Thank you. Bang."

"Sir, we need to test your hands now."

I looked up, surprised. I hadn’t seen to the two women approach, both young, wearing jeans and sweaters and dark blue "Police" windbreakers. They wore blue rubber gloves and one of them held a package of small bottles. The top of it was labeled "GSR Kit."

"Gunshot residues," one said, taking my right hand by the tips of my fingers while the other rubbed the skin with a swab wetted with a colorless liquid. The swab went into a bottle labeled "Right Back," then my hand was turned over and the palm swabbed. This went into a different bottle.

"I thought they used paraffin for this," I said as they started on the other hand, trying to join in the fun.

"They used to," my hand-holder said, making some entries on a form. "I think it was before I was born."

"Oh."

"Sir, have you washed your hands since you...uh...since the shot was fired?"

"No, I haven’t."

She made a note. As if on cue, the top of my head developed a tight feeling that sometimes presaged a migraine.

I looked up to see Ebenezer Bolden, my department head at the university, talking to a tall, well-dressed black man in the doorway. The way some other cops deferred to the black man, I assumed he had a position of authority. He wore an off-white trench coat over his dark suit, a white shirt and tie, and a hat. He said something to a uniformed officer, who nodded and strode toward me. The fashionable cop turned and walked away, still talking to Bolden.

Oh, shit, I thought. My only consolation was that Bolden looked seedy and anemic, next to the cop.

***

The APD officer riding shotgun got out and opened my door. I scrambled out, off balance because of the cold wind and my handcuffs. I stepped on a pebble with my stocking-clad foot and stumbled. Meanwhile, a flurry of activity developed nearby. A car door slammed, a man in a black suit, a black hat, hugging his arms around a skinny body. "Sir...sir," he called, barely audible over the wind. As I straightened up he extended a hand. I glimpsed a pale face, a scraggly mustache.

"Okay, Winky," one of the cops said, extending a giant hand to catch him in the chest. "Give us some room here, okay?"

Skinny fingers reached almost to mine and I plucked a proffered card in my own, almost losing it in the wind. Wendel A. Winkler, it said, Attorney at Law, and a phone number. Call anytime.

"Who’s that?" I said, as the cop shoved the intruder back toward his car, exchanging heated words. I managed to slip the card into my shirt pocket.

"Goddamn ambulance-chasing lawyer," the officer holding me said, giving me a nudge. "Come on, it’s cold out here."

He led me to an aluminum and glass door bearing a block lettered sign: "Atlanta PD, Auburn Avenue Precinct."

We were only a few blocks from the Congress Center. I was still in stocking feet and my toes felt like frostbite was setting in. An attractive ebony-skinned woman behind bulletproof glass buzzed us through. The way she flashed a warm smile at the officers, while ignoring me, reinforced a growing feeling that my karma wasn’t worth a chicken feather in hell.

"Last room on the left," my escort said, firmly steering me down the long hallway by an elbow. We passed an open office where a huge cop sat across from a shriveled prune of a man almost swaddled inside a woolen overcoat. The man wore a drooping felt fedora with a hole in the crown and hadn’t shaved in a few days, and the coat had a large wet stain around the pocket the shape of Africa and the size of a pint bottle of Ripple. The door to the next office was closed, and someone inside was shouting about police brutality. In another, a woman bawled in great racking sobs.

The "interview room" smelled of disinfectant and cheap wine. Concrete block walls were painted light green, and a one-way window was disguised as a mirror. A small wooden table with an imitation walnut laminate top and two plastic chairs completed the furnishings. "Wait here, Mr. Fowler," the cop instructed, as he removed the handcuffs. "The Lieutenant will be in pretty soon."

As he left, the heavy door closed with a thud and latched, the sounds echoing up and down the hallway. Half an hour later, Lieutenant Calvert Barrington III, of the Atlanta PD arrived and shoved his badge and ID in my face. He’d removed the trench coat the hat, but up close, he reeked of cigars. He was followed closely by a woman I took to be another cop, but he introduced her as Agent Harris. She watched me intently from large brown eyes, but offered no greeting, no hand to shake. Someone brought in an extra plastic chair and she sat at the table next to Barrington. I tried not to appear overly interested, but she was attractive, about thirty, dressed in a practical way with her hair cut short. I thought she bore a strong resemblance to Jodie Foster. Though she was several inches shorter than me, I had no doubt she could take me out easily in a one-on-one tussle. The quiet in the room quickly got on my nerves. I wondered who might be on the other side of the mirror?

The Lieutenant looked at my driver’s license and back to me. "Mister Fowler...Nicholas...may I call you Nicholas?" He asked, in a resonating bass voice, seeming to savor the syllables of my name as they rolled across his tongue.

He could call me anything, I thought, as long as it wasn’t Chick. The woman sat by his side, watching, alert. I nodded. "Yes, Lieutenant. Could you tell me what this is all about?

"Nicholas, I understand you knew the victim, Mister...ah...Westbrook."

"Yes, he was a business associate, but...."

"What kind of business, Nicholas?"

"Chickens," I said. "He sold products for chickens. I work at the university."

"Oh, you’re a professor at UGA?" He brightened. "My daughter’s a sophomore over there."

"Ah...associate professor, actually. What’s your daughter’s major?"

"Business," he said proudly, glancing at Agent Harris. "She just got admitted to the program."

"Oh that’s great. Fine program there, the business school...," I blabbered. My voice sounded high and squeaky compared to his. He was quiet for a moment while he studied my face. I sought out eye contact even though it hurt.

He took a small evidence bag from his inner coat pocket and laid it on the table. "The victim had this in his hand at the time of his death. Want to explain that?"

I looked. It was my business card, the one I’d given him only moments before he was killed. My heart sank to new depths, but I tried to remain upbeat. "Sure, I just gave it to him, outside. He wanted to show it to some clients."

He waited for an hour or two, or maybe only a few seconds, perhaps expecting me to go on. "What do you do at the university?" he said, finally, when I didn’t.

"Research, mostly. I’m in the Poultry Science department. I study parasites that make chickens sick." I maintained a straight face through this revelation hoping to convey sincerity. "Sometimes I work as a consultant in the poultry industry, helping solve problems with disease management."

I tried to sound enthusiastic about my profession, but had too many scars to hide. I was often at odds with the realities of academic life. My colleagues took petty politics to new heights, overlooking no opportunity for backstabbing. The road to tenured professor was well mined. To say that I was jaded about my profession was to remind one that all the Popes used to be Italian. This introspection left me totally unprepared for his next question.

Barrington fixed me with soulful eyes. "What about this pistol of yours, Nicholas, why did you bring it with you this morning?"

Chapter Three

The small room closed in on me like something out of a Poe novel. Agent Harris and the Lieutenant looked at me as I squirmed in my seat. "Not mine," I said, trying to keep my cool. Barrington was obviously trying to settle on me as chief suspect, and it made me flighty as a leghorn hen in a full moon. "Never saw it before," I added, in case he hadn’t understood me the first time.

While waiting in the dining room, I’d noticed another plainclothes cop bending over the pistol on the floor. He reached over with a rubber-gloved hand, stuck a finger through the trigger guard, and held it up for a close inspection. From the glimpse I got, it was a short-barreled .38, a pistol that macho gun dealers would tell you was designed mostly for women, small, so it would fit in their purses. Probably a Smith & Wesson, although it could be a knockoff. I didn’t think it was mine. Ninety-nine percent sure.

"Is that so? Well, we’ll be checking to see just where it did come from. If by some remote possibility it did turn out to be yours, can you tell me why you would have brought it this morning?"

"Not mine." I shook my head, trying not to shudder. His sidekick, the woman, had no reaction, just gazed at me like she might a hapless child in the principal’s office.

He made a note in his book. "Okay, let’s go back to his visit to your office. "This meeting last week, was he trying to sell you something? Is that what Mr. Westbrook came to see you about?"

"Huh? No, I don’t buy things like that personally. I don’t actually raise chickens, I just advise others. Gordie seemed to think I could help him develop a market for some new product he wanted to import from China."

"From China?" He jotted this down in a notebook. "Did he say anything out of the ordinary? Anything that would indicate he was in trouble?"

"Trouble? Hell, Gordie was always in trouble over something."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Oh, you know, business wasn’t working out, customers weren’t paying up regularly, his sales manager expecting more than he could deliver, overextended on his expense account. He was married and divorced a couple of times, and I’m sure that was expensive. Once he had a new Infiniti repossessed when a business venture was going sour. The repo man took it from a parking lot while he was visiting a customer. It was the talk of the poultry industry for a while."

"Oh," he said, mulling that over. "You had an appointment with Mr. Westbrook today," he accused. "Twelve o’clock it says here." Only then I noticed the small pocket diary he held, his huge thumb splaying the pages open to today’s date, where red letters indicated a holiday. The paper was filled with scribbles, mostly in black ballpoint.

"Unfortunately," I managed. "Actually, I met Gordie at the airport about ten o’clock, and we came directly here to the Center. Then we split up. I went to park his car, then came directly to center. We’d planned to meet his associates from Europe and have lunch. Of course that wasn’t possible, since he was killed at eleven."

"Europe? I thought you said China."

"No, that’s where the stuff is made. They import it, I guess through Europe, Gordie didn’t say."

"What associates? Can you give me some names?"

"Nope, sorry. Doesn’t he have some notes in his book there? Some business cards? They were supposed to be the big shots in this company he’s working with. He somehow thought they would be able to talk me into helping with this Chinese chicken medicine. Gordie seemed to think it was a goldmine. They even called it Qingdao Gold."

"Sounds like a fancy imported beer. What did you think of it?"

"He showed me some data on the way here from the airport. I thought it was just one more bottle of snake oil. This kind of stuff comes along all the time, usually doesn’t pan out. These aren’t exactly Fortune 500 companies we’re talking about here."

"I see." A change in Barrington’s voice brought me back to the stark fluorescent light of the room. At first his words didn’t register, but the way he looked at me, the way his eyes fixed on me, an almost sad expression on his face told me this was "come to Jesus" time. "What about it, Nick?," he said. "Didn’t you have some reason to kill him? Don’t you want to get this off your chest?"

My stomach had been queasy up to that point, but for some reason his words had a calming effect. Everything was more vivid and clear, as a sound heard over water after a rain. I thought of the card in my pocket, and the phone number, probably the man’s cell phone. I pictured Winky Winkler still waiting outside in his car. "Lieutenant," I said, "Do you think there are some courthouse lawyers hanging about? It looks like I’m going to need one before I can talk to you anymore."

The Lieutenant opened his mouth to speak, but there was a knock at the door. We all looked up as the door opened, revealing a uniformed cop with a young woman. She was nicely dressed and clutched a leather purse to her red coat. Her hairdo, no doubt styled at great expense, had been tousled by the wind outside. She looked shaken and unsure of herself. She looked familiar. I thought of Little Red Riding Hood, having made it through the woods only to fall into the clutches of the big bad wolf.

"Is that him?" the cop said.

"Yes sir," she squeaked, looking away quickly. Her face flushed. I tried to think where I’d seen her.

"You’re sure."

"Yes sir." She smiled quickly, her eyes darting to me and away.

"Lieutenant," the cop said. "Speak to you a minute?"

He shot me a glance that would blister paint and went out. The FBI lady followed, slamming the door behind her.

I tried to think. A witness? What had she seen? I contemplated a brown stain on the floor next to my foot for a while.

After a few minutes the door opened again and Barrington returned, alone, wearing a forced smile. This time he left the door open. "Well, Professor, it looks like we owe you an apology."

"You mean...?"

He gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder, took a seat across from me, and smoothed his tie. "We have a witness. This young lady saw you and Westbrook drive up. He got out, then you took the car and drove away. She followed him inside, almost to the spot where he was shot, but ducked into a restroom just before it happened. Actually, she’s the one called in the report on her cell phone. She came out of the ladies’ room and found him lying there. A few seconds earlier and she would’ve seen the perp, but there’s a corner in the hallway and she only heard him running. She was scared, so she went back in."

"Glad to hear it," I said, reflecting that "overjoyed" would be a better way to put it. I took a deep breath, seemingly the first I’d enjoyed in a fortnight.

***

After that, Barrington and I had a conversation that could be described as polite, professional, even convivial. "She’s a credible witness," he’d explained. "The reason she didn’t come forward earlier, she had to go back to the meeting to give a speech or something. She said the killer was wearing 'expensive shoes.' "

"Expensive?"

"I think she meant they sounded like they were made with leather soles. But maybe there’s something you can help me with. The thing is, I’m having a tough time grasping the significance of this product Mr. Westbrook was importing. Our witness overheard part of a conversation between Westbrook and his killer. It sounded like he thought the material might be dangerous, and the other person wanted to cover it up. What do you make of that?"

"I really don’t know enough about his product to offer an opinion, Lieutenant. Sorry."

Someone in one of the other rooms yelled an obscenity. Barrington frowned and kicked the door shut with his foot.

"I’m not sure. There wasn’t anything in the reports I saw to suggest that. But it must’ve been something that didn’t show up in ordinary testing. At least, it didn’t have any effect on the chickens. According to the brochure he showed me, the same material is used as human medicine in China, some kind of folk remedy."

"Hmm. Strange. You know, the reason Agent Harris was here, she’s assigned to the new counter-terrorism unit. She’s looking for any possible link to domestic-terror threats."

"Domestic terror?" The words had a chilling sound.

"Not just that, but any kind of plot affecting the Poultry Convention. Mr. Westbrook was carrying a sample of his product, and she took that for analysis. I guess she’ll have it checked for poisons, anthrax spores, SARS virus and other bacteria, things like that."

I thought this over, considering the possible motives of Gordie and his friends, the people at HiTech, even the cooperative back in China where the plants were grown to make the material. "Surely there’s nothing like that," I said, more confidently than I felt.

Lieutenant Barrington sat for a long moment and regarded me with an expression I couldn’t read, then seemed to come to a decision. He excused himself and left the room. Ten minutes later he returned, bearing an odd-looking pair of shoes. "Professor, there’s some people I want you to meet. Seeing as how you’re no longer under suspicion, maybe you can help us out." He dropped the shoes on the table. "These are all I could find in your size. Sorry."

***

The Lieutenant let me ride in the front seat of his unmarked white Crown Vic as we drove across town. I enjoyed this promotion from fugitive to colleague and sat up straight. The building he took me to was a nondescript high-rise with no significant markings, no roster of companies doing business inside. Across the narrow street a homeless man wearing a rumpled, stained, light-colored overcoat and baggy woolen trousers was urinating into a crevice between two buildings. He gave us a glance with bloodshot eyes and went on with his business.

My host left the car on the street with the flashers on. A uniformed guard sat behind a counter watching the access to the elevators. Barrington said nothing to him as we passed, and he said nothing in return.

The meeting was on the fifth floor, in a corner room with a view of the I-75/85 connector far below. It was snowing again, all but obliterating the view. An ample supply of sweet rolls, donuts, and fruit salad sat on a side table, along with a generous sampling of soft drinks and coffee. All the better if we got snowed in.

A dozen or so people sat around a large oval table, papers spread before them. I recognized Harold Dodge, the Executive Secretary of the U. S. Poultry and Egg Association. Two of his assistants, a young black man dressed in a conservative business suit and a middle-aged woman in a pants suit, sat on either side of the man. They nodded politely as Barrington introduced me around. A delegation from the Atlanta Mayor’s office sat across from them, Arnie Higgenbottom and Carlisle Smit, handsome black men, both of whom I’d seen occasionally on local TV. Several cops in the room he didn’t introduce, perhaps preserving anonymity. But I knew they were cops, capable-looking men wearing jeans and short windbreaker-type jackets, and buzz-cut hairdos. Some had a mustache or other face adornment.

Compared to the other police, Barrington stood out like a preacher at a soup kitchen in his dark suit, stiff white shirt, and dark red tie as he led the introductions, but he fit right in with the mayoral delegation. And of course, the poultry people.

I’d swear they all looked at my feet and smiled before getting down to business.

The center of attention was Agent Harris and another FBI man, Agent Worthy. I looked at Harris closer this time, finding she looked even more like Jodie Foster than before. She had short hair, wore jeans and running shoes, and a couple of layers of sweaters. Ready for action. She gave me a terse nod and a tightlipped smile. While Agent Harris specialized in domestic terrorism, the Lieutenant explained, Worthy was attached to the Agency’s special unit on bioterrorism. Both were assigned to the newly formed Office of Homeland Security.

"Earlier today, as most of you know, a man was murdered at the Convention Center, a salesman of poultry supplies named Gordon Westbrook. For a short time," he glanced at me with a smile as he said this, "Doctor Fowler was actually a suspect, but I’m happy to report that’s all been cleared up. The circumstances of Mister Westbrook’s death are still a mystery, and we don’t know whether there’s any connection to our mission here. I’ll let Agent Harris explain what I mean by that." He motioned for her to take over, and sat down.

She stood and glanced at the others in the room, making eye contact with as many as possible. "You’ve probably noticed the activities around the convention center today, as the Poultry Congress gets underway. Our mission, the reason we’re here, is to make sure you have a safe and uneventful week. And there’s no reason you shouldn’t. After all, who would want to harm a bunch of chicken farmers?" With this she smiled, expecting the audience to loosen up. There was a light titter from some of the cops and one of the mayor’s aides, but the Harold Dodge and his sidekicks didn’t seem impressed. One of them made some notes.

"But we do have certain intelligence," she went on, "suggesting that organized groups may be planning something. Unfortunately, in this day and time, it’s unusual for there not to be any protests of some kind, at a meeting this large. I’m sure some of you noticed the picketers from the Animal Rights Movement out there today." Heads nodded. Dodge frowned. "I’m sure you’re no stranger to the ARM, they show up regularly at anything to do with animals. So far, their focus has been on other types of laboratory animals, particularly primates, cats and dogs. But now they appear to be shifting their attack, picking out targets in the food production sector."

I nodded, remembering the egg fight I’d seen earlier. The governor’s aide raised his pen, like was about to ask a question, but thought better of it and made a note in his book instead.

Harris continued. "Our concern is not the mainstream movement. Those people are a mixture of vegetarians, housewives who love their cat, people who just want to see animals treated better. Whatever their motives, they don’t want to hurt anybody. What we’ve seen from other large causes, there’s always a militant wing. Some who aren’t content with demonstrating and passing out handbills. People who enjoy violence." She paused for effect, making eye contact around the table. "That was especially true of the antiabortion movement, where militants were all too ready to kill doctors or bomb clinics. The animal rights movement has its own militant splinter groups. One of the most militant leaders, Dr. Harvey Kingman, is believed to be here in Atlanta, taking part in this protest."

"How much do we know about this Kingman?" one of the mayoral aides asked.

‘Before he went to medical school, he spent a hitch in the army. He was in a demolition unit and received training in handling explosives. We have evidence that he is an admirer of other famous terrorists: The Unibomber, the Oklahoma City bomber, Erik Rudolph, Roy Moody. Several months ago there was a bombing at a university in Ohio, several people killed, the biological science complex destroyed. No one claimed responsibility, but we had some intelligence that pointed to Kingman. We know he and one of his close aides were in town when it happened."

I nodded again. I’d heard about that, in fact I even knew one of the people killed, although not well.

"There are several potential targets here, a primate lab at Emory, bioengineering labs at Georgia Tech, the CDC labs in Chamblee. If they’re targeting the poultry industry, you’ve got commercial plants all over North Georgia."

"But you think his primary target is the convention itself?" I said.

Harold Dodge spoke up. "She’s right. When you look at the numbers, it’s perfect for a terrorist attack. We have twenty thousand people from all over the world right here under one roof. Not only decision makers from the industry, but the businesses that supply them equipment, everything."

"Right," she said. "It’s perfect."

Carlisle Smit held up his Mont Blanc. "Agent Harris, let me see if I understand this correctly. Is there any evidence that this is related to previous attacks, like the Anthrax letters, or the Mideast?"

"No. That’s not what we’re saying. Although I should point out that the Anthrax letters were never actually traced to their source. No, we don’t have any evidence of any connection. What we’re looking at, we’ve been tracking thefts of explosives from construction sites, and military depots. The dynamite used in the Ohio bombing came from a drilling site near Quannah, Texas, and our experts estimated they only used about half of it. Couple of months ago an empty box turned up in a raid in Alexandria, Virginia, along with what could be called bomb making supplies. Kingman had been there and gone shortly before the police."

Everyone looked at each other. Agent Harris looked grim.

"Do you have any evidence that these people have brought the explosives to Atlanta?" someone asked.

"We haven’t been able to confirm that. But all the major players are here." She looked at me with hard brown eyes. "We think your friend Westbrook somehow found out about their plans, and they killed him to keep it quiet. Something’s going down, something involving the poultry convention. We have to stop this now. Otherwise, before the week is over there’ll be a bombing and people will be killed. Everything points to it."

Harold Dodge frowned. Some of the others squirmed in their seats. She’d made her point in spades.

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