Georgia took another break and drove to the gym where she’d been working out since she was a cop. She parked on Clark Street in Andersonville, a laid-back but thriving neighborhood on the north side of Chicago. Although it was originally a Swedish neighborhood, it was now home to dozens of ethnic restaurants, serving everything from Swedish meatballs to Middle Eastern kabobs. It also included her favorite Chicago bookstore where she frequently bought gifts.
The gym occupied the third floor of a nineteenth century row house. Stark fluorescent lights shone through steam-fogged windows, illuminating everyone who was pumping iron or working the machines. The place gave off that rank gym odor, and no one dressed in the fancy outfits North Shore women wore when working out. In fact, she was usually the only woman there. It had been closed for most of the lockdown but recently reopened. Georgia cheerfully greeted the regulars, who stood in the same spots working the same circuits they did before the place was shuttered.
She warmed up with some cardio then worked out with weights. Thirty minutes later she went to a boxing ring in the back of the gym. She laced up, then did two rounds on the punching bag, waiting to see if her spotter, who was also the boxing coach, might show up. A stooped, gray-haired man who looked like Burgess Meredith, he would admonish her to shadow box in front of a mirror. Concentrate on her footwork. Her upper cut. Her shovel hook. Hook across. Step, slide, jab. Step, slide, punch. “And don’t forget to dip when you slide, and bob and weave when you’re still. And—oh—remember to stay relaxed at all times,” he would add cheerfully. Georgia would curse him under her breath.
He wasn’t there, but a young black man wanted to spar. She agreed and proceeded to have her ass kicked in two rounds. When she finally gave up, she fist bumped him with her glove.
“Great work there, pal.”
He looked proud but swallowed his smile.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m never gonna make it even to an undercard. You, on the other hand…”
He grinned then. “Hey, anytime lady,” he replied. “I’m here almost every day since they reopened.”
She grabbed a kabob sandwich for lunch from the Mediterranean restaurant across the street, put it in her lap unwrapped, and drove back to Evanston, wolfing down a bite at a time. It was gone before she parked the car. She had about two hours before she needed to pick up Savannah. Enough time for a couple of calls.
She looked up the number and dialed. The line was picked up right away.
“What now? We just sent the fax,” an irritated male voice said.
“Is this quality control for Jefferson Medical?”
“Oh. Sorry.” The voice lost its irritation. “Yup. Riggins speaking.”
“Hello. I’m calling from VAERS. My name is Jackie Hollub.”
“Who? Where?”
“You know the Vaccine Adverse Response Reporting System. FDA? CDC?
“Yeah, yeah. Hard to keep them all straight.”
But that’s your job, Georgia thought. “I’m calling about a report that was made about two adverse responses to the Covid vaccine down in the Chicago suburbs…” She paused and clicked a few keys on her laptop “…about a week ago in Northglen. The doctor administering the vaccine was Blackstone. Richard Blackstone.”
“Lemme check.” There was a long pause. Then he said, “You sure it was Jefferson?”
“That’s what it says. Lot 78440-Y.”
She heard him sigh. “Okay. Hold on.” He sounded reluctant. After another long pause, he said, “I don’t see anything. At least not on my end.”
“Really? It says it was sent to you on…um… March 11.”
“There’s nothing here. At least in Kentucky.”
“Isn’t this corporate quality control?”
“We don’t have a corporate system. It’s all plant based.”
“I see. So they transferred me to you.”
“Yep.” Another pause. “You said Lot 78440-Y, right? That could have come from our Kalamazoo facility. Reports get filed according to their location. Try up there.”
“Can you give me that number?”
He rolled off a number.
“The only plants you manufacture the vaccine are here and in Kalamazoo, right?”
“Right.”
“Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.”
She tapped her fingers on her laptop. When she’d called the corporate number for Jefferson Medical quality control, they transferred her to the Kentucky plant. Did that mean they had no in-house corporate quality control executive? Or did the person in charge of safety have one of those obscure titles where you couldn’t figure out what they did? She stopped tapping. It didn’t matter. She preferred talking to people face to face. They were usually less tight-lipped. With less corporate speak. Plus, she could read body language and could tell when someone was hedging. Or lying.
She checked online. Kalamazoo was only a two-hour drive from Chicago.