October 5, 2018
Galveston, Texas
The sun woke Chris as it filtered through the curtains that Rosa had embroidered for his bedroom. His phone started to hum. He was pleased to see it was Savannah returning his call.
Savannah Hargrove was a youth minister at First Baptist Church. Her title always gave Chris a laugh. She had been an investigator for Reliable, a giant insurance company. With girl-next-door looks and big Texas blonde hair, she could get anyone to talk to her. She had saved a lot of money for the company by ferreting out false claims. Eventually, she became disgusted with both the lying “victims” and the greedy insurance company that denied even legitimate claims. She made a one-eighty and took a job at the church. She loved her work, and the Baptists loved Savannah.
At a bar favored by the newsroom staff, a coworker of Chris introduced them. Any bar was an unlikely spot for a Baptist, so Savannah could enjoy a few drinks without fear of exposure. In the course of the conversation, Chris learned that she did some work on the side for his colleagues, off the books for both the paper and the church. Her IT skills and resources, maintained after parting ways with Reliable, had become legendary in his office.
“Mornin’ Sugar. Did you miss me after all?”
“Every single day,” Chris answered. He wasn’t fully awake and regretted his playful response immediately. He and Savannah had hooked up once, several years back. It turned out she was looking for more than he had to offer. Since then, she either pretended to or still carried a torch for him. He couldn’t tell which anymore.
He sat up and tried to assume a more businesslike voice. He explained that he wanted her to investigate a few people at the Gulf National Lab.
“Does this have anything to do with the murder of the doctor who worked there?” Savannah didn’t miss a beat.
“Can’t say yet. But I need to know if Dr. Drake’s colleagues are involved with anything outside of work that might smell strange.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard. You’re lucky. Our mission trip to The Valley isn’t for another week.”
Chris knew the valley in question was actually the flats of the Rio Grande floodplain, a destination with plenty of misery for a youth group to alleviate. Chris confirmed her hourly rate and made an appointment to see her at the watering hole the next day.
He showered, then dressed while eating the remaining rice and beans from last night’s meal. When he left, he waved to Rosa, who was being trailed by four young men and their painting gear. She was handing out shoe covers and barking orders as he pulled out. After Chris’s parents retired and moved to be near his sister and the grandkids, they had left Rosa with a small stipend and a bungalow without a mortgage. What she didn’t have was the family to whom she had devoted her life. She was a solterona, a more pleasing word than the English word spinster. About that time, Chris acquired this disaster of a mansion. Knowing he would get nowhere with the endless lists of repairs and keep his day job, he hired Rosa, whom he had known and adored since childhood, as his foreman.
Rosa came to live in a corner of the big house during the interminable restoration. Her Cristobal preferred to live in the garage apartment, which was renovated, and, more importantly, re-wired, so that he could be connected to the media 24/7. She oversaw painters, plumbers, and electricians with an iron hand. Since the majority of the labor force was Hispanic, she was able to give them tongue lashings that reminded them of their abuelas. Chris and she made sure that the kitchen was the first room to be completed. From there, she was able to create meals for the workers, which took the sting out of her frequent chiding.
As he got into his car, he pulled out his cellphone to dial Marnie.
She picked up on the first ring. “This is Marnie,” she answered briskly.
“Chris Hill here. Uh, from last night. I think I can help you on your mission to get into the lab. Can you meet me for lunch to discuss a plan?”
“Sure.”
After they arranged a meeting, Chris smiled and dropped his phone on the front seat. He realized he was looking forward to more than a front-page story. There was something interesting about this woman.
Chris pulled into the parking lot of the newspaper at 8:30. The office was in a 60s building close to the causeway connecting The Island to the mainland. He was dismayed to see that someone had beaten him to his favorite patch of shade. He should get a sign reserving it for The Editor. He had earned that honor.
He’d always thought the current home of the paper didn’t do justice to its history. The paper started in a grand iron-fronted brick building on Market Street where it had been published for eighty years. That elegant structure was the first building in the country built solely for a newspaper. It was the first newspaper in Texas to have a telephone. The Bay City Daily was founded in 1842 back when Texas was still a republic and Sam Houston was its president. It had been in continuous publication, not even missing an edition after the Great Storm. During all those years, it endorsed scoundrels and heroes, made and ruined political careers, and kept on printing.
Chris hurried to his desk where he still kept a Rolodex. It was an anachronism but every time he thought about tossing it, he hesitated. He had never systematically gone through it and transferred contacts into his electronic address book. Today, he was looking for Englebert Salinas. That name was hard to forget. “Sal” Salinas was in charge of public relations for the Gulf National Lab. As he worked tirelessly to get the community to support the lab, Sal confronted growing skepticism about the wisdom of placing a biosafety level 4 lab on a sandbar that was regularly ravaged by hurricanes.
Chris had written a few positive articles about the lab before it opened in 2008 in the face of public safety concerns. The lab remained unscathed by Hurricane Ike that same year. Chris played this up as well as the financial benefits the lab contributed to The Island.
Ten years later, Chris was glad that Sal had not changed his number. Chris explained that he was doing a follow up on the unfortunate murder of the Gulf National Laboratory researcher.
“I’d like to visit the lab and her department to get some background,” Chris said.
Sal agreed, with conditions. “Yeah, Chris, I can make it happen. You need to know we can’t afford any negative press about safety and security. There have been some articles lately about biosafety lab mishaps around the country. Not here, mind you. We could use some good publicity before we open our new BSL4 lab wing. It’s actually great you called, because I’ve been trying to figure out how to get this into the news. I can set you up for a full tour and they’ll let you suit up and everything.”
“Sounds good. I’m mostly interested in finding out more about Dr. Drake as a person. Maybe I could chat with her coworkers and look around her office? I think touring the new lab would be interesting, and I promise not to let any bugs escape.”
“You better not.”
After a pause, Sal added, “The police have been by already, you know.”
“Yes, I would imagine they have been. I’m more interested in the soft side of the story. I’m bringing a very attractive doctor, a friend of Dr. Drake, to help navigate the science. So, is it a go?”
Apparently, that did the trick. Chris’s deposit in the good will bank in 2008 had held its value with accrued interest. He worked out the details with Sal for a visit starting at 4:00 p.m.
“Send over your identification credentials asap so we can get you cleared to come to the lab,” Sal said.
“Will do.”
Chris hung up, called Marnie, discussed ID requirements for clearance, and changed their lunch date to a meeting at 3:30.