Plum Island by Nelson DeMille Read Free Book Online

this group wasn’t assembled in the mobile command post, but was sort of out of sight in the kitchen.
    Max, incidentally, had spiffed himself up for the Feds and/or the press by putting on a tie, a silly one decorated with nautical
     flags. Elizabeth was still wearing her tan suit, but had removed her jacket, revealing one holstered .38 and two holstered
     36 Ds.
    A small black and white TV sat on the counter, tuned to one of the networks, the volume low. The lead story was about a presidential
     visit to some strange place where everyone was short.
    Max said to the two guys, “This is Detective John Corey, homicide,” and let it go at that without mentioning that my jurisdiction
     began and ended about a hundred miles west of here. Max indicated the dark suit and said, “John, this is George Foster, FBI
     …” He looked at Mr. Bluejeans and said, “… and this is Ted Nash, Department of Agriculture.”
    We shook hands all around. I informed Penrose, “Giants scored in the first minute of the third quarter.”
    She didn’t reply.
    Max motioned toward the box of cups and asked, “Coffee?”
    “No, thanks.”
    Ms. Penrose, who was closest to the TV, heard something on the news and raised the volume. We all focused on the screen.
    A female reporter was standing in front of the Gordon house. We missed her lead-in and caught, “The victims of the double
     murder have been identified as scientists who worked at the top-secret government animal disease laboratory on Plum Island,
     a few miles from here.”
    An aerial shot now showed Plum Island from about two thousand feet. It was bright daylight, so it must have been stock footage.
     From the air, the island looked almost exactly like a pork chop, and I guess if you wanted to stretch an irony about swine
     fever…. Anyway, Plum is about three miles at its longest, and about a mile at its widest. The reporter, in voice-over, was
     saying, “This is Plum Island as it appeared last summer when this station did a report about persistent rumors that the island
     is home to biological warfare research.”
    Aside from the hackneyed phrases, the lady was right about the rumors. I recalled a cartoon I’d once seen in
The Wall Street Journal
where a school guidance counselor says to two parents, “Your son is vicious, mean-spirited, dishonest, and likes to spread
     rumors. I suggest a career in journalism.” Right. And rumors could lead to panic. It occurred to me that this case had to
     be wrapped up quickly.
    The reporter was now back in front of the Gordons’ house, and she informed us, “No one is saying if the Gordons’ murders were
     related to their work on Plum Island, but police are investigating.”
    Back to the studio.
    Ms. Penrose turned off the volume and asked Mr. Foster, “Does the FBI want to be publicly connected with this case?”
    “Not at this time.” Mr. Foster added, “It makes people think there’s a real problem.”
    Mr. Nash said, “The Department of Agriculture has no official interest in this case since there is
no
connection between the Gordons’ work and their deaths. The department will issue no public statements, except an expression
     of sorrow over the murders of two well-liked and dedicated employees.”
    Amen. I mentioned to Mr. Nash, “By the way, you forgot to sign in.”
    He looked at me, a little surprised and a lot annoyed, and replied, “I’ll … thank you for reminding me.”
    “Anytime. Every time.”
    After a minute of public relations chitchat, Max said to Messrs. Foster and Nash, “Detective Corey knew the deceased.”
    Mr. FBI immediately got interested and asked me, “How did you know them?”
    It’s not a good idea to start answering questions—it gives people the idea that you’re a cooperative fellow, which I’m not.
     I didn’t reply.
    Max answered for me, “Detective Corey knew the Gordons socially, only about three months. I’ve known John on and off about
     ten years.”
    Foster nodded. Clearly he