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San Diego, California, USA
1st of April, 4:10 p.m. (GMT-7)
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Charlotte Dumont retreated to her office on the top floor of the administrative heart of the San Diego Zoo after the latest spate of meetings and interviews, and collapsed into her chair. The past forty-eight hours had been a nonstop whirlwind of activity: statements to the press, interviews that aired on local and national news, and carefully worded tweets—vigorously vetted by their public relations department to remind everyone of the zoo’s commitment to the safety and wellbeing of the animals, staff, and patrons without sounding tone-deaf. An animal attack was every zoo director’s nightmare—the only way it could have been worse was if a zoo guest or volunteer had been attacked.
This morning, she reassured the panicked board of directors that safety protocols had been followed and department heads were already starting the necessary audits—both for the zoo’s benefit as well as to appease the larger community of responsible zoos and aquariums. The zoo expressed heartfelt well wishes for Zookeeper Estevez’s speedy recovery, but that didn’t stop California’s Division of Occupational Safety and Health from opening a formal investigation “to determine whether or not any occupational safety and health standards were violated and/or contributed to the incident.” They inspected the work area and requested a mountain of paperwork as proof of employer due-diligence—work schedules, vaccinations, TB checks, safety protocols, and staff training of said protocols, to start.
And then there was the matter of what to do with the animals—some were requesting they be put down, others used this tragedy to call for animal freedom and rally against the “zoo establishment.” The zoo was not required to immunize the pronghorns against rabies since they were permanent residents and not exposed to wild animals, but thankfully Mr. Estevez was vaccinated. According to guidelines, a ten-day observation period could be used to rule out the risk of potential rabies exposure to humans as long as the animal had a low probability of rabies. Within hours after the attack, she had set up a quarantine for observation and had the exhibit and pens scrubbed per protocol.
Unfortunately, the pronghorns became aggressive as soon as the sedatives wore off and refused their normal food. This deviant behavior could not go uninvestigated, and with a heavy heart, Dumont agreed to surrender the animals for euthanasia and testing for rabies. While the test only took twenty-four to seventy-two hours, it required killing the animal to obtain at least two samples of brain tissue—one from the brain stem and another from the cerebellum—and not all facilities had the setup for that kind of precise extraction and tissue preparation. The closest processor was in Los Angeles. The lab at UCLA had agreed to perform the tests, but the technicians didn’t work on weekends. Dumont accordingly arranged for transport today after the zoo closed.
And now, as if she didn’t have enough on her plate, the FBI wanted to see her. She had just enough time to use the restroom and take something for the headache that had been looming over her all day. A crisp knock fell on her door at precisely 4:15 p.m., and her assistant brought in the visitor. A solid woman in a dark gray suit emerged through the doorway. Wide in the shoulders and hips, the slightly crumpled suit framed the tall agent while she provided her identification for Dumont. “Hello, I am Special Agent Martinez from the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Dr. Dumont?” Dumont scanned the badge and photo ID; the picture matched the brunette in front of her.
A bob of the director’s head indicated she was satisfied with Martinez’s credentials, and Martinez tucked away her ID in the inner pocket of her suit. “That’s me,” Dumont answered, and extended her right hand. “I am Charlotte Dumont, director of the San Diego Zoo.”
Martinez shook her hand and did a quick assessment of the woman in front of her. Somewhere in her late forties, Charlotte Dumont was impeccably dressed in a sleek Armani suit and Prada pin-heeled Mary Janes. She carried herself with poise, and her posture and demeanor projected power. She armed herself with her polished appearance: her manicured hands, flawless makeup, and styled hair all declared this was not a person to be trifled with.
Dr. Dumont’s assessment of Martinez was less thorough—a firm handshake and steely brown eyes indicated she was a serious person who wasn’t going to waste her time. Dr. Dumont smiled and motioned to a leather couch to one side of the room. “Please, take a seat. Can I offer you anything to drink? Coffee, tea, water?”
Martinez politely declined and did a quick visual sweep before sitting. Dr. Dumont’s coroner office was spacious with a wraparound desk tucked to one side, granting the director unfettered views of the zoo below from the bank of windows. In addition to a computer and organizational materials, there were obligatory family photos on the desktop. Three framed diplomas hung on the wall behind it, calligraphic evidence of Dr. Dumont’s academic achievements strategically placed where one could not help but see them if they were addressing her at her desk. A full-sized bookshelf stood against the nearby wall bearing folders, tomes, and tasteful animal-themed arts and crafts.
“That will be all, Melissa.” Dumont nodded her curious secretary out of the office. “Please, close the door behind you and hold all calls.” Dr. Dumont heavily sat down in her chair. “How can I be of assistance to the FBI?”
“We are interested in the attack that occurred two days ago and would appreciate San Diego Zoo’s full cooperation in our investigation,” Martinez stated plainly. “We’d like to start by asking you and your staff some questions, take a look at the site of the attack and the security video, and obtain a list of suppliers and recent changes in personnel.”
Dr. Dumont was taken aback by the request. “This sounds rather serious for what was an unfortunate accident, albeit a tragic one. However, I’m more than happy to answer any questions you have and give you access to the zoo’s property. Naturally, I’ll have to check with our legal department before surrendering any information on our employees. May I ask what piqued the FBI’s interest in this matter?”
Martinez met her curious gaze. “Animal attacks with a similar profile have recently occurred at other zoos in the US. We need to determine if they are independent events or somehow related.”
“Other zoos?” Dumont inquired with genuine surprise. She was unaware of any similar attacks.
“Happy Farm Petting Zoo in Tempe, Arizona, and Hillcrest Park Zoo in Clovis, New Mexico,” Martinez rattled off without having to consult her phone—a fact that did not go unnoticed by Dr. Dumont—and she paused to see if the names meant anything to the director, to no avail. “Much smaller operations, compared to the San Diego Zoo,” she continued, “but all involved herbivorous ungulates attacking people. That is why we are requesting suppliers and staff related to the pronghorns—to cross-reference with the other institutions to rule out any type of accidental exposure.”
“Accidental...” Dumont grasped the implication of what Martinez had elided. “Does that mean the FBI thinks it is possible this attack was orchestrated?”
Martinez kept her face neutral, but appreciated the director’s facile mind. “It’s early days, and we are investigating all possibilities.” She leaned in. “Did you or the zoo receive any threatening communications preceding the attack?”
Dumont’s brow furrowed and she looked side to side, the first hint of a crack in her professional demeanor since Martinez had entered her office. “There is always a fringe element that objects to zoos on philosophical or ethical grounds, but I’m not aware of a recent uptick from the anti-zoo fundamentalists. Quite frankly, the zoo has a great reputation in animal care and conservation efforts, and we have a lot of community support—over half a million members.”
“Any disgruntled employees that were let go in the past six months, or recent hires in the past six weeks that have failed to come into work since the incident?”
Dumont glanced at her wristwatch. “Our HR director is gone for the day, but I could certainly ask her to speak to you tomorrow.” Martinez pulled out her phone to make notes. “Ms. Diana Hartfield,” the director added.
Martinez’s fingers swiftly tapped over her screen without looking down. “Would it be possible to take a look at the enclosure and pens this afternoon? Perhaps meet with security?”
Dumont picked up her phone and pressed two buttons. “Melissa—please call Brandon to escort Agent Martinez to Elephant Odyssey, and see who is working security today. Also, make an appointment for Agent Martinez with Ms. Hartfield for tomorrow morning.” Martinez heard the indistinct garble of a reply through the phone. Dumont set down the receiver and paused before speaking. “It doesn’t make any sense; I could understand if it was a bomb threat, a shooting, a protest, or even an attack on our website—we have a lot of online traffic on our zoo cams, and a sizable amount of our ticket sales are made online as well. But if this was deliberate, that would mean biological sabotage—something that would affect the animals.”
“As I said before, we are considering all angles,” Martinez spoke matter-of-factly before lightening her mood and nodding to the diplomas behind the director. “I see you’re a Buckeye?”
The distracted director blinked back into the conversation and half-turned her head until she realized what Agent Martinez was referring to. “OH-IO,” she chanted the call-and-response with a smile. “A long time ago. I miss it sometimes,” she said with a nostalgic smile, “but I don’t miss Ohio winters.”
*****
Wilson slowly walked the path through Elephant Odyssey, getting a lay of the terrain, noting the security cameras and the entrances into the restricted areas. Today was the first day this section was open to the public since the attack, and traffic was busy. The pronghorn exhibit was obscured with scrims but that didn’t stop people from approaching and whispering, drawn to tragedy like flies to dung. He bought a bag of overpriced roasted nuts and took a seat watching the elephants with the closed exhibit in his periphery. He wore a hat, wig, and sunglasses, and kept watch for Lukin. His disguise was complete with some cheap zoo-branded clothing for which he’d paid not-so-cheap prices. Anyone who might recognize him would never believe he’d dress so tackily.
His phone vibrated in his pocket—a text from Martinez. Poss cnx. Cecila Marshall and Charlotte Dumont nee Kendall. Both did graduate work at Ohio State during mid-90s. SM dig?
Wilson tapped out a terse reply. K. Access?
Martinez: To pen - will salt. L8r security for video. Appt w/ HR tmrw am. L?
No sign. Wilson tapped out. He stood and made another circuit while his phone dialed the Salt Mine’s outside line.
“Discretion Minerals, how may I direct your call?” a friendly female voice chimed from the other end of the line.
“This is Davis Watson, calling for my messages.” He skirted the edge of gawkers.
“Good evening, Mr. Watson. How is the weather?”
“Fine, but it could turn at any moment.”
The operator moved to the next set of questions. “And the food?”
“A little too spicy for my taste but palatable.” Wilson spied a quiet nook away from the crowd.
“Any souvenirs?”
“Just a shirt that says ‘I’m with stupid.’”
“One moment.” The line went silent as Wilson found a spot in a quiet nook behind some overgrown foliage in the relatively secluded spot at the far end of the elephant care center.
A clipped male voice picked up the line, “Good evening, Fulcrum. Search parameters?”
“Cecila Marshall and Charlotte Dumont, maiden name Kendall, Ohio State University in the mid-90s.” The voice repeated back the information, and the line went dead once he obtained Wilson’s confirmation.
Wilson emerged from his hidey-hole and blended into a group of people exiting the elephant care center. He returned to his previous lookout, but had to pass the bench entirely as it was currently occupied by none other than one Alexander Petrovich Lukin.
*****
“Well, that’s it—you’ve seen everything behind the scenes,” the strapping head zookeeper declared with a heavy Australian accent. It made Martinez’s insides flutter in a way that was unhelpful in the middle of an investigation.
“Thank you for the tour, Mr. Evans,” Martinez replied.
“Please, call me Brandon.” He gave her a broad smile that went all the way to his baby blues. “Is there anything else you would like to see? Dr. Dumont instructed me to show you whatever you wanted.” The double entendre was killing her.
“I would like a peek at the actual enclosure, even though it’s been cleaned. It was covered on my way in.”
“Sure, right this way.” He motioned with an outstretched arm as a disembodied voice shouted from behind them.
“Brandon, where is the paperwork for the transport team?”
“It’s in the blue folder, in the outgoing box,” he answered back.
“No, it’s not,” the faceless speaker countered.
Brandon sighed. “Did you even look?”
“Of course. That’s how I know it’s not there.”
Brandon placed a hand on Martinez’s back, guiding her in the general direction. “It’s right through that door. It has a two-latch system that opens on the inside—simple for humans to operate, but not so much hoofed animals.” He winked at her before going deeper into the building.
Martinez slipped into the enclosure and oriented herself, matching the physical space with the video of the attack posted online. She pulled out her vape pen-cum-saltcaster, lined up the notches, pressed the button, and started with the path of attack. A short blow dispersed a thin mist of salt; Martinez held her breath. She waited for the salt to settle, but no design emerged. She tried again at the privacy lean-to where the animals could retreat when the ogling masses got to them, but there was no sign of magical activity. She moved to the watering hole where food was placed—if something supernatural was added to their intake, there could be traces of it still. Martinez loosed another wave of salt and watched intently, but again nothing shifted.
She clicked her e-cigarette back to normal when she heard the latch engage behind her. “Sorry to leave you on your own,” Brandon apologized. He flipped his eyes to her vape pen. “You smoke?”
“Trying to quit,” she sheepishly replied as she tucked the device away. “It’s harder than it looks.”
“Well, good for you,” he spoke with enthusiastic encouragement. “Can’t quit if you don’t try. If you’re done here, I can walk you over to security.”
Martinez gave a final panoramic look. “I think I’ve got everything I need here.”