Shortly after Detective Colson left, Peter slipped on a jacket and drove across Bend to St. Charles Hospital. He approached the visitor information desk and asked for the office of Dr. Scott Hale.
“Please have a seat in the lobby, and I’ll page him,” the receptionist said.
The lobby was a large, open room with a wall of glass that allowed ample natural light to flood the space. A wide staircase led to the second floor and cafeteria. The furnishings of supple chairs and sofas were grouped in cozy clusters, separated from each other to provide for private conversations. As Peter meandered toward a chair, he saw a white-jacketed physician speaking in hushed tones with a middle-aged couple. Judging by the smile on both faces, he concluded the news was good.
Peter eased his frame into the chair and mentally reviewed what he knew about orchitis, prioritizing his questions. After a few minutes, a bespectacled man with dark brown hair, graying at the temples, approached. He was wearing a white coat and had a stethoscope draped around his neck.
“Mr. Savage?” he said.
Peter rose and extended his hand. “Yes, Peter Savage.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Scott Hale. I understand you have some questions about inflammations of the lymphatic system, in particular the testes?”
“Thank you for taking time to meet with me. When I called the hospital yesterday, they said you might be the best person to talk to. I’m helping a friend trying to identify the cause of a number of cases reported recently in Warm Springs. Have you heard about it?”
Hale shook his head.
“Fifteen cases as of yesterday. The director of the health clinic there has not been getting any help from the CDC, and the Oregon Health Authority says the reservation is out of their jurisdiction.”
“I see,” Hale said, a look of impatience beginning to show.
“I understand that orchitis may be a side effect of the mumps,” Peter said, picking up the pace. “But these patients have been vaccinated, so it would seem that mumps is an unlikely cause. What other causes should we be looking for?”
Hale rubbed his chin before replying. “Well, generally speaking, any inflammation of the lymphatic system could result in localized infection of the testicles. But it is rather rare. I’d have to do some research to give you a better answer.”
“I understand. Let me rephrase the question. Are we looking for bacterial and viral agents, or just viruses?”
“Standard practice is to run cultures for both.”
“My understanding is that the clinic is doing just that, but the results are not available yet.”
“It can take a couple days. But my hunch is that you’re dealing with a virus.”
“What about a reaction to chemicals or foods? Could that result in the reported symptoms?”
“No, not likely,” Hale said, and he shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t offer more specific help.” He stood, and Peter did, too.
“One more question,” Peter said. “Other than the immediate symptoms, are there any lingering effects?”
“Yes. Sterility is the most severe. In cases involving postpubescent men and adults, the rate may be alarming.”
“How high would you think?” Peter pressed.
“Difficult to say, since the contagion has yet to be isolated and identified.”
“Just a rough estimate—would you think 10 to 20 percent?”
“Oh no, not at all. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s 50 percent or more. Good luck with your investigation,” Hale said, and he turned and walked away.
As his words sunk in, a terrifying thought entered Peter’s mind. Most of the patients were adults.
As he made his way back to the Wraith, Peter dialed Lee Moses. “I think we need to talk in person. This may be more serious than I had initially thought. I need to make a quick stop at my home and then I’m on my way to the clinic. Should be there in a little over an hour.”
“Okay, Peter. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Peter parked in front of his condo and put Diesel on a leash. The pit bull loved to ride, and he readily jumped into the sedan. He preferred to ride shotgun—sitting upright and watching the scenery pass by.
The traffic was light, and Peter made good time, arriving at the Warm Springs clinic right on schedule. “Sorry buddy. I have to leave you here, but I won’t be long.” He rolled the windows down an inch to allow for some fresh air. Fortunately, the temperature was still cool, and overheating was not a concern.
Lee met Peter just inside the door. “You sounded concerned over the phone. What did you learn from the doctor?”
“Not as much as I’d hoped. But this is more than just a painful, short-term infection. It’s potentially much more serious.”
“Oh? What did the doctor say?”
“He explained that once a male has gone through puberty, orchitis often results in sterility.”
Lee’s eyes widened. “That’s bad. Most of our patients are young men.”
“I know,” Peter replied. “I may have an idea to help get the resources here that you need. But first, tell me, how are your patients doing?”
“As well as can be expected,” Lee said. “We got ten more last night and this morning.”
“Ten? That’s not good.”
“I agree. At this rate, we could have a big problem on our hands. I called the CDC again this morning.”
“What did they say?”
“Same as before. Wait a few weeks. They think it is a minor bump in the statistics, not a true outbreak. They think it is the mumps, and there is no reason to be concerned because of mass-scale vaccinations.”
“I hope they’re right,” Peter said.
“No, I don’t think so. All but one of the afflicted patients was vaccinated for the mumps as a child. When I told this to the person at the CDC, they said it was probably a weak vaccine. It’s happened before, they said. They do not want to help.”
“And by the time they change their minds, there will be a lot more who have contracted the disease. How are the interviews of the patients and their close family members progressing?”
“We have a lot more data. Thought you’d be interested in seeing it.”
“Yes, of course.”
Lee led Peter to the small office they shared the previous day. Lucy was sitting at one of the desks, inputting data into the spreadsheet. The number of columns had grown considerably over what it was the previous day. Peter looked over her shoulder, reading the pertinent information.
“I don’t see any correlation with the food that was eaten, or the places the victims visited during the days leading up to signs of infection.” Peter leaned in closer. “There has to be something we’re not seeing. Maybe the pathogen is carried in the air or water?”
Lee shrugged. “If that was the case, I would expect to see many more cases as the entire population would have been exposed.”
Peter worked his jaw. “I don’t know what more help I can offer with interpreting this data. I think it’s time we get help from the experts.”
“You mean the CDC? I already explained that they have refused my requests. They don’t see this as a significant occurrence, or a dangerous illness.”
“Then it’s time we change their perception.”
“You have a plan?”
Peter nodded. “I do. Politicians and government bureaucrats hate bad press. So, we’re going to the media. We’re going to tell the press how you have a growing outbreak here on the Warm Springs Reservation, that you’ve asked for help, and have been denied. It wouldn’t hurt to insinuate that Native Americans are once again being discriminated against by the federal government. Hell, call it racist—that could draw headline coverage. With a little bit of luck, the story will be picked up nationally.”
A grin spread across Lee’s face. “I like your suggestion. I will need your help though to elevate the importance of our problem so the Bend newspaper and TV channel will come out here. We are a long way from Bend.”
“Leave that to me. And I’ll also call my congressman and senator. I’ll point out that this is an easy task—all they need to do is say a word or two to the director at the CDC. Won’t cost any political capital, and they can come out looking like a hero to the underdog. It’s all about image. Plus, I’ll remind them I’ve donated to their campaigns.”
“You will do that?”
Peter placed his hand on Lee’s shoulder. “I told you I would help.”
Lee’s eyes glistened. “My people could have benefitted from a few friends like you 150 years ago.”