It was practically dark as Georgia headed toward her car, keys in hand. Despite the bartender’s hostility, it had been a productive day. Georgia had made contact with an employee in Dispatch, who seemed reasonable and might—just might—be able to help her identify who took Lot 78440-Y from Kalamazoo to Chicago and whether anything unusual had occurred during the journey. She hadn’t blown her cover as a reporter, and it was early enough that she and Jimmy could go out for a late dinner when she got home.
She was about to unlock the car door when a shadow cast by the light from the bar loomed in front of her. Someone was coming toward her. She clutched her keys more tightly. Attached to her key chain was a retractable razor blade she could release and use as a weapon. She’d been carrying it for years.
She whipped around. “Back up. Now.”
A man, still shrouded in shadow, stopped short but didn’t back up. She released the razor blade.
“I said back up.”
The man raised his hands in the same surrender gesture she’d used in the bar and took a step back. “Hey, I just wanna talk.”
“About what? Who are you?”
“I drive for the company. I heard what Ginny said to you. That wasn’t right.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So, I just wanted you to know it wasn’t personal.”
“Sounded pretty personal to me. She like that with everyone she doesn’t know?”
“Ginny’s a hot-head. Always has been. And everyone’s spooked about this virus now. Once you get to know her, though, she’d give you the shirt off her back.”
“I guess we wear different sizes.” Georgia walked around so the light would be angled on his face rather than hers. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Keith.” Now that she could see him better, he seemed to be somewhere in his thirties. He wore a full beard, which looked red in the dim light, and a helmet of kinky hair the same color. Pale skin and a doughy body, already showing the effects of sitting on his butt all day eating junk food.
“Last name?”
“Bromley.”
“So you’re a driver?” When he nodded, she said, “Are you with FedEx or UPS?”
“UPS,” he answered. “Why do you want to know?”
“Can you answer a question for me?” Without waiting for a reply which could have been ‘no,’ Georgia barreled on. “When you reach your final destination, who drives the vaccines to the places they’ll actually be administered? Is your truck or van refrigerated? Who checks to see? Do the people who pick up the medicine know how to handle it?”
“Um, that’s about four or five questions.” He scratched his beard, letting his fingers get lost in the brush. Then, “What’s that got to do with your story about hero truckers?”
Had she gone too far? Screwed up her cover story? She backtracked. “A lot, actually. I’m hoping to find one or two of those guys and fold them into the article. Just thought I’d start with you. I know you hand them over to someone.”
He pondered it. “Yeah, but we don’t ask questions. Most of the time, we’re at some kind of warehouse or loading dock, and we just unload the shit and drive to the next place.”
“You know anyone I could talk to? That’s why I came here in the first place.”
He slid his hands in his pockets. “Listen. You know the company doesn’t want us talking to the media. You’re the first one I’ve met. Why’d you decide to do that story now?”
She reminded herself the vaccination deaths weren’t yet public knowledge. He probably didn’t know about them. “Why not? You guys are patriots, you know? Saving the country from this horrible plague. People should know that.”
“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t go that far. We’re just doing our jobs.”
She wondered if he was blushing. In the dim light she couldn’t tell. “Hey, do you think I could call you if I have any more questions? We can keep it off the record if you want.”
He shrugged. But his body language shifted toward her. Was this his way of flirting with her?
“Great.” She smiled and whipped out her newly bought steno pad. “What’s your cell?”
He reeled off a number. She wrote it down.
On the drive home Georgia thought about the three people who died from their vaccinations. The two men had died in quick succession. Which likely meant two doses from the same vial had ended up in their arms before anyone suspected trouble and halted the entire process. Emily’s collapse occurred mere seconds after she got the shot. Probably before another person was vaccinated with whatever was in the same vial.
Depending on the company that produced the vaccine, the average vial contained five or more doses. Each dose was 0.3 to 0.5 milliliters each. One milliliter was less than one-fifth of a teaspoon. And the amount of actual vaccine was one-third to one-half of that. A tiny, tiny amount. Which was further diluted with water before going into the syringe.
And yet thousands, if not millions, of people had been hired to transport and administer the tiny amount of life-saving vaccine to people all over the country. Were all of them trained to handle the vaccine? Did all the people hired to administer the shots know what exactly they were doing? Even if a huge company like Jefferson Medical kept extremely thorough and accurate files, it would be impossible for them to know about every anomaly or problem. And if they did, would anyone at Jefferson Medical release that information to the government? Or a reporter? Or a PI? And what about Doctor Blackstone? Why hadn’t he filed an adverse reaction report? Why had he done a runner?
Bottom line, despite feeling productive and meeting Keith Bromley, who might be useful at some point, she wasn’t much closer to answers than before.