finger pointing out the gaping defect where the steam from the boiling brain had blown out the back of the head. The ghastly picture filled the 60-inch flat-screen on the wall.
“The crispy critter was gravely ill with Ebola but died of two gunshot wounds to the back,” as he showed the open chest with the bullet hole in the heart.
Ferguson sat up a little straighter, as if he hadn’t expected such a graphic report.
“The purpura is clearly seen here on the liver,” Joe went on. “And spleen,” and changed again. “This electron photomicrograph shows filovirus in liver tissue taken at autopsy. Cultures of blood were positive, and radioimmunoassay showed an immune response to filovirus.” He closed the file and opened another. After years of lecturing to medical students, using material much duller than this, Joe was a master at arranging slides to document and highlight his monotone lectures.
“The bullets were .32-caliber, and the ballistics matched perfectly the French MAB .32-caliber automatic found in the pants of the second subject.” He showed a picture of Jacques and the automatic beside his right front pants pocket.
“Judging from the angle of the entry and exit wounds, the assailant stood behind the victim while he was seated and fired two shots, the same number missing from the magazine. Death was within two minutes, though incapacitation would have been immediate. The fire came later.”
“Was there any sign that anyone else was on the island, either then or before?” asked one of the officers at the other end of the conference table.
“No sign of anyone else. Two plates, two cups, two sleeping bags. Of course, there could have been someone else at some time in the past. The buildings were over a year old,” Boyd answered.
“The other individual provided us with the interesting narrative you have read,” Joe returned to the slides. The picture showed Jacques, now nude, supine on the ground, his long skinned penis draped across his lower abdomen and pointing to a small tattoo of a leopard on his hip. The laboratory notebook was just beyond, open to the handwritten notes. Joe went on to show the internal organs and describe the positive cultures and immune response to Ebola. He ended the section with the brain, exposed by the electric saw and exhibiting “typical petechial and subependymal hemorrhages.”
When the bloated monkey, chest and brain exposed, appeared, Ferguson excused himself and went to the bathroom down the hall. Boyd and Joe exchanged smiles.
A strong friendship had begun when they took off their biohazard suits and stood there in urine soaked undershorts, feeling dirty and exhausted. Boyd stripped off nude and walked to the edge of the rocks and jumped into the ocean. Joe followed, and when Raybon got there with the Zodiac, they were splashing about like kids. They’d landed with half a ton of equipment, and were leaving nude with two body bags and a sealed box no bigger than a briefcase. The rest burned brightly on the island. Raybon and Davann, napping all day, now preflighted the Albatross, and they were off on a seven-hour flight to Diego Garcia and three weeks of drinking beer and fishing while checking each day for a rash to develop; a rash that would signal the end of their days.
Feguson returned. “So, what made that man’s face so grotesque?” he asked, as if he’d not been puking in the bathroom for 10 minutes. The monkey picture was still on the screen.
“Gulls, sir.”
“What?”
“Seagulls, sir. They pecked his eyes out. Ate his lips, sir. He was sitting there on the beach for nearly a week,” Boyd responded, respectfully but fighting to maintain a straight face.
Joe said, blandly, “The clinical information is pretty standard from here on, sir. We can skip the next six monkeys and go right to the equipment, if you like.”
“Ah, good idea. Yes. Can’t get bogged down
“The crispy critter was gravely ill with Ebola but died of two gunshot wounds to the back,” as he showed the open chest with the bullet hole in the heart.
Ferguson sat up a little straighter, as if he hadn’t expected such a graphic report.
“The purpura is clearly seen here on the liver,” Joe went on. “And spleen,” and changed again. “This electron photomicrograph shows filovirus in liver tissue taken at autopsy. Cultures of blood were positive, and radioimmunoassay showed an immune response to filovirus.” He closed the file and opened another. After years of lecturing to medical students, using material much duller than this, Joe was a master at arranging slides to document and highlight his monotone lectures.
“The bullets were .32-caliber, and the ballistics matched perfectly the French MAB .32-caliber automatic found in the pants of the second subject.” He showed a picture of Jacques and the automatic beside his right front pants pocket.
“Judging from the angle of the entry and exit wounds, the assailant stood behind the victim while he was seated and fired two shots, the same number missing from the magazine. Death was within two minutes, though incapacitation would have been immediate. The fire came later.”
“Was there any sign that anyone else was on the island, either then or before?” asked one of the officers at the other end of the conference table.
“No sign of anyone else. Two plates, two cups, two sleeping bags. Of course, there could have been someone else at some time in the past. The buildings were over a year old,” Boyd answered.
“The other individual provided us with the interesting narrative you have read,” Joe returned to the slides. The picture showed Jacques, now nude, supine on the ground, his long skinned penis draped across his lower abdomen and pointing to a small tattoo of a leopard on his hip. The laboratory notebook was just beyond, open to the handwritten notes. Joe went on to show the internal organs and describe the positive cultures and immune response to Ebola. He ended the section with the brain, exposed by the electric saw and exhibiting “typical petechial and subependymal hemorrhages.”
When the bloated monkey, chest and brain exposed, appeared, Ferguson excused himself and went to the bathroom down the hall. Boyd and Joe exchanged smiles.
A strong friendship had begun when they took off their biohazard suits and stood there in urine soaked undershorts, feeling dirty and exhausted. Boyd stripped off nude and walked to the edge of the rocks and jumped into the ocean. Joe followed, and when Raybon got there with the Zodiac, they were splashing about like kids. They’d landed with half a ton of equipment, and were leaving nude with two body bags and a sealed box no bigger than a briefcase. The rest burned brightly on the island. Raybon and Davann, napping all day, now preflighted the Albatross, and they were off on a seven-hour flight to Diego Garcia and three weeks of drinking beer and fishing while checking each day for a rash to develop; a rash that would signal the end of their days.
Feguson returned. “So, what made that man’s face so grotesque?” he asked, as if he’d not been puking in the bathroom for 10 minutes. The monkey picture was still on the screen.
“Gulls, sir.”
“What?”
“Seagulls, sir. They pecked his eyes out. Ate his lips, sir. He was sitting there on the beach for nearly a week,” Boyd responded, respectfully but fighting to maintain a straight face.
Joe said, blandly, “The clinical information is pretty standard from here on, sir. We can skip the next six monkeys and go right to the equipment, if you like.”
“Ah, good idea. Yes. Can’t get bogged down
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