Rolando said.
“I’m not here,” she called after him. “You have no idea when I will be back.”
A minute later, Rolando returned with a curious look on his face. “It’s a translator service from a hospital,” he said.
“What do they want?”
“They have a sick man who was brought in three days ago, and no one’s been able to talk to him. Now somehow they’ve concluded he’s speaking Qu’iche.”
“Tell them to call the church in the morning,” she told him. “Someone over there can translate for them.”
“They told me the patient keeps saying one word over and over again, repeating it like some kind of mantra.”
“What word?”
“Wuj.”
12.19.19.17.11
DECEMBER 12, 2012
FIVE
T HEY REPEATED THE GENETIC TESTING AT THE PRION CENTER . John Doe’s chart, lab tests, and MRI scans were scrutinized at CDC headquarters in Atlanta. By the following morning, after all-night meetings and emergency conference calls, the doctors all agreed with Stanton: The patient had a new strain of prion disease, and it came from tainted meat.
After dawn, Stanton reviewed the case with his deputy, Alan Davies, a brilliant English doctor who’d spent years studying mad cow across the Atlantic.
“Just got off with USDA,” said Davies. They were in Stanton’s office at the Prion Center. “No positive tests for prion at any of the major meat packagers. Nothing suspicious in the herd records or feed logs.”
Davies wore the vest and pants from a pin-striped three-piece suit, and his long brown hair was so perfectly set on his head, it looked like a toupee. He was the only lab rat Stanton had known who wore a suit, his way of showing Americans how much more civilized their British cousins were.
“I want to see the tests myself,” Stanton said, rubbing his eyes. He was having trouble fighting his exhaustion.
“That’s just the big farms,” Davies replied, smirking. “USDA couldn’t cover all the small farms if they had a year. Never mind the sheep andpigs. Somewhere out there, some careless bugger is probably still grinding up contaminated brains or whatever the hell else and shipping them to God-knows-where.”
Tracking the original source was crucial in any food-borne illness. Vegetables with
E. coli
had to be traced back to the farms where they were grown, so the farms could be shut down and their wares pulled from the shelves. Salmonella had to be traced back to the chicken coop, so every egg could be recalled. It could be the difference between one victim and thousands.
Stanton and his team didn’t even know what animal source to concentrate on. Cows’ prions could obviously cross the species barrier, so beef was the first suspect. But pigs had prions remarkably similar to those of cows. And a prion disease called scrapie had killed hundreds of thousands of sheep throughout Europe; Stanton had long feared lamb might one day carry mutated prions to humans too.
Once they figured out
what
got John Doe sick, the real work of containment would begin. The unnatural way meat was processed and packaged meant flesh from a single animal could be distributed across thousands of different products and end up all over the world. Stanton had traced meat from a single cow to jerky in Columbus and hamburgers in Düsseldorf.
“I want people on the ground checking all the local hospitals,” he told Davies. John Doe was the only case so far, but prion disease was difficult to diagnose, and Stanton was convinced there could be more out there. “See if they’ve had any unusual cases of insomnia. Or any other unusual admissions. And check the psych ERs for anyone coming in with delusions or strange behavior.”
Davies smiled. “That would be everyone in L.A.” After matters sartorial, making fun of the Southland was his primary amusement.
“What else?” Stanton asked.
“Cavanagh called.”
As head of prion investigations for the CDC, Stanton reported to the deputy director. Emily Cavanagh was known for
“I’m not here,” she called after him. “You have no idea when I will be back.”
A minute later, Rolando returned with a curious look on his face. “It’s a translator service from a hospital,” he said.
“What do they want?”
“They have a sick man who was brought in three days ago, and no one’s been able to talk to him. Now somehow they’ve concluded he’s speaking Qu’iche.”
“Tell them to call the church in the morning,” she told him. “Someone over there can translate for them.”
“They told me the patient keeps saying one word over and over again, repeating it like some kind of mantra.”
“What word?”
“Wuj.”
12.19.19.17.11
DECEMBER 12, 2012
FIVE
T HEY REPEATED THE GENETIC TESTING AT THE PRION CENTER . John Doe’s chart, lab tests, and MRI scans were scrutinized at CDC headquarters in Atlanta. By the following morning, after all-night meetings and emergency conference calls, the doctors all agreed with Stanton: The patient had a new strain of prion disease, and it came from tainted meat.
After dawn, Stanton reviewed the case with his deputy, Alan Davies, a brilliant English doctor who’d spent years studying mad cow across the Atlantic.
“Just got off with USDA,” said Davies. They were in Stanton’s office at the Prion Center. “No positive tests for prion at any of the major meat packagers. Nothing suspicious in the herd records or feed logs.”
Davies wore the vest and pants from a pin-striped three-piece suit, and his long brown hair was so perfectly set on his head, it looked like a toupee. He was the only lab rat Stanton had known who wore a suit, his way of showing Americans how much more civilized their British cousins were.
“I want to see the tests myself,” Stanton said, rubbing his eyes. He was having trouble fighting his exhaustion.
“That’s just the big farms,” Davies replied, smirking. “USDA couldn’t cover all the small farms if they had a year. Never mind the sheep andpigs. Somewhere out there, some careless bugger is probably still grinding up contaminated brains or whatever the hell else and shipping them to God-knows-where.”
Tracking the original source was crucial in any food-borne illness. Vegetables with
E. coli
had to be traced back to the farms where they were grown, so the farms could be shut down and their wares pulled from the shelves. Salmonella had to be traced back to the chicken coop, so every egg could be recalled. It could be the difference between one victim and thousands.
Stanton and his team didn’t even know what animal source to concentrate on. Cows’ prions could obviously cross the species barrier, so beef was the first suspect. But pigs had prions remarkably similar to those of cows. And a prion disease called scrapie had killed hundreds of thousands of sheep throughout Europe; Stanton had long feared lamb might one day carry mutated prions to humans too.
Once they figured out
what
got John Doe sick, the real work of containment would begin. The unnatural way meat was processed and packaged meant flesh from a single animal could be distributed across thousands of different products and end up all over the world. Stanton had traced meat from a single cow to jerky in Columbus and hamburgers in Düsseldorf.
“I want people on the ground checking all the local hospitals,” he told Davies. John Doe was the only case so far, but prion disease was difficult to diagnose, and Stanton was convinced there could be more out there. “See if they’ve had any unusual cases of insomnia. Or any other unusual admissions. And check the psych ERs for anyone coming in with delusions or strange behavior.”
Davies smiled. “That would be everyone in L.A.” After matters sartorial, making fun of the Southland was his primary amusement.
“What else?” Stanton asked.
“Cavanagh called.”
As head of prion investigations for the CDC, Stanton reported to the deputy director. Emily Cavanagh was known for
Similar Books
