WASHINGTON, D.C.
Platt felt like he’d only been asleep for a few minutes when Bix’s phone call dragged him back out of bed.
“United ticket counter. Reagan National. Meet me there at five thirty. We’ve got a six thirty flight.”
“I’m hoping you mean five thirty this afternoon,” Platt had said looking at his bedside alarm clock that read three forty-five.
“Very funny. I’ll see you there.”
Now seated in first class beside the CDC chief, Platt was pleased to see that Bix looked even worse than he did. Bix’s hair was tousled and his eyes were bloodshot. But Roger Bix in a suit and necktie was serious business even if the tie hung loose. The jacket had come off as soon as they stepped onto the plane and was sent away with a flight attendant while Bix rolled up his shirtsleeves and shoved them above his elbows. Platt wore his uniform as instructed, but he had surrendered his jacket to the flight attendant, too.
It wasn’t until they were in the air that Bix started to explain why they were making an early-morning flight to Chicago.
“I think our friend”—friend being their code word for the anonymous caller—“got pissed by the USDA’s announcement last night.”
“What announcement?”
“You didn’t hear the news?”
“I went to USAMRIID then home.”
“The secretary of agriculture himself said that the school contamination was caused by a negligent kitchen worker who was being suspended.”
Platt thought about poor Velma Carter. “How did they come up with that? We didn’t even mention the woman at our meeting.”
“Exactly why our friend is pissed. So he’s given us a bigger piece of the puzzle.”
“In Chicago?”
“A processing plant on the north side. They get scraps and chunks of beef from various slaughterhouses, combine them, then grind them up. They take the ground beef and make it into patties, meatballs, spice it up for tacos.”
“Let me guess, those get shipped off to schools.”
“If only it was that simple.” He pulled out a thick file from his briefcase. “I’ve been trying to make heads or tails out of this mess.”
“You’re assuming it was the beef in the taquito that was contaminated?”
“Not assuming.”
“Your guys found something?”
“I can’t frickin’ sit around until you lab nerds finish studying your crap and vomit slides. I pushed our anonymous caller. He was feeling slightly guilty. That ridiculous statement from the USDA pushed him to tell me where to look.”
“He told you it was the beef?”
“Suggested. Not told. My lab nerds are checking it out this morning.”
“So why do we need to go to Chicago?”
Bix shrugged. “Maybe this guy isn’t really a whistle-blower. Maybe he just wants to yank our chain. But I got the feeling giving us this tip was huge.”
“So did you have time to check out this processing plant?”
“Family owned. Been in business for fifty years. I tried to pull up the inspection records at the USDA, and get this—I was told that information was only available by filing a request through the Freedom of Information Act because the records must contain ‘proprietary information.’”
“Why don’t they just black it out?”
“That’s what they will do once we’ve filed our request.”
“I thought Baldwin was going to make everything available?”
“That’s what she said, didn’t she? However, I couldn’t reach her this early in the morning. Got her voice-messaging service. Told her to fuckin’ call me. We need an immediate notice to all schools about beef products and we need a recall.”
“So?”
“Didn’t hear from her before I had to switch off my phone.”
“She seemed genuine last night. Give her a chance to do the right thing.”
“I am. But she has less than forty-eight hours.”