the funeral home an hour ago,” she said. “However, because of the risk of possible infection, the city has ordered a cremation. The funeral home was instructed to take universal biohazard precautions. I called them myself and spoke with them, and they know how to do that.”
“What do you mean, biohazard precautions?” Eunice Moran said. Her voice sounded like breaking glass.
“I’m sorry. Your daughter may have had a contagious disease.”
“What kind of disease?” Mr. Moran asked.
“We don’t know. We don’t even know if it was contagious. What I’m here to do right now—I know it’s hard—is, I need to ask you some questions about what your daughter did and where she went during the past days and perhaps weeks, while your memory is fresh. We want to try to find out if she was exposed to something.”
Mrs. Moran held her husband tighter. Finally she said, “We’ll try to help you.” She nodded at a chair. “Please sit down.”
Austen sat on the edge of the chair. “Can you think of anything Kate did lately that might have exposed her to something infective or toxic? Did she travel in a foreign country recently?”
“No,” Mrs. Moran said.
“Was she receiving chemotherapy for cancer?”
“Kate? No!”
“Was she taking any strong or potentially toxic medications?”
“No,” Mrs. Moran said.
“Did she receive any vaccinations recently?”
“No.”
“Did she eat any shellfish or unusual foods? Visit any unusual places?”
“Not that I can think of,” Mrs. Moran said.
There was silence.
“Had she been outdoors in the woods, hiking or camping, where she could have been bitten by a tick?”
“No.”
“Did Kate have a boyfriend?”
They weren’t sure. They said that Kate had been going out with someone her age, a boy named Ter Salmonson.
Austen wrote the name down in her green epi notebook and got his phone number from Mrs. Moran.
“She broke up with Ter, I think,” Kate’s mother said.
Austen asked if they could carefully review Kate’s movements over the past two weeks. The parents were vague. Kate’s life had been quiet. She had friends, but she wasn’t a heavy socializer. She was a fan of rock music, and her parents had forbidden her to go to certain music clubs, but there had been no real trouble over that.
“There’s another question. This is hard for me to ask. Do you know if Kate used drugs?”
“Absolutely not,” Mr. Moran said.
“She didn’t smoke pot or anything?”
“I don’t know—I don’t think so, no,” Eunice Moran said.
Kate took the subway to school every day. She would come home late in the afternoon. She’d go into her room, listen to music, talk with friends on the telephone, do her homework, have supper, do more homework, sometimes surf the Web and send e-mail, go to bed.
“I’ve been very busy with my work,” Jim Moran said. “We haven’t done much as a family together lately.”
“Did she go
anywhere
recently?”
“The only thing I can think of is her art project for Mr. Talides, her teacher.” Mrs. Moran answered. “It’s a construction thing or something, and Kate was going around buying her boxes and things—when?” She turned to her husband.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Moran said.
“Last weekend, I think. She was buying things in SoHo and on Broadway and at the Sixth Avenue flea market, I guess. Mr. Talides was—” Mrs. Moran’s voice cracked. “I can’t stop thinking—I’m sorry—he tried to save her.”
“Do you know, did he attempt C.P.R.?”
“He had forgotten what to do, that’s—that’s what he told me when he called. He was very upset.”
Austen made a note to herself to interview the art teacher right away. He might have been exposed. On the other hand, she was beginning to get an uncomfortable feeling that this could turn out to be a wild-goose chase, that she had been pushed into some kind of hopeless problem by Walt Mellis. An unsolved outbreak. One of those blips that never gets
“What do you mean, biohazard precautions?” Eunice Moran said. Her voice sounded like breaking glass.
“I’m sorry. Your daughter may have had a contagious disease.”
“What kind of disease?” Mr. Moran asked.
“We don’t know. We don’t even know if it was contagious. What I’m here to do right now—I know it’s hard—is, I need to ask you some questions about what your daughter did and where she went during the past days and perhaps weeks, while your memory is fresh. We want to try to find out if she was exposed to something.”
Mrs. Moran held her husband tighter. Finally she said, “We’ll try to help you.” She nodded at a chair. “Please sit down.”
Austen sat on the edge of the chair. “Can you think of anything Kate did lately that might have exposed her to something infective or toxic? Did she travel in a foreign country recently?”
“No,” Mrs. Moran said.
“Was she receiving chemotherapy for cancer?”
“Kate? No!”
“Was she taking any strong or potentially toxic medications?”
“No,” Mrs. Moran said.
“Did she receive any vaccinations recently?”
“No.”
“Did she eat any shellfish or unusual foods? Visit any unusual places?”
“Not that I can think of,” Mrs. Moran said.
There was silence.
“Had she been outdoors in the woods, hiking or camping, where she could have been bitten by a tick?”
“No.”
“Did Kate have a boyfriend?”
They weren’t sure. They said that Kate had been going out with someone her age, a boy named Ter Salmonson.
Austen wrote the name down in her green epi notebook and got his phone number from Mrs. Moran.
“She broke up with Ter, I think,” Kate’s mother said.
Austen asked if they could carefully review Kate’s movements over the past two weeks. The parents were vague. Kate’s life had been quiet. She had friends, but she wasn’t a heavy socializer. She was a fan of rock music, and her parents had forbidden her to go to certain music clubs, but there had been no real trouble over that.
“There’s another question. This is hard for me to ask. Do you know if Kate used drugs?”
“Absolutely not,” Mr. Moran said.
“She didn’t smoke pot or anything?”
“I don’t know—I don’t think so, no,” Eunice Moran said.
Kate took the subway to school every day. She would come home late in the afternoon. She’d go into her room, listen to music, talk with friends on the telephone, do her homework, have supper, do more homework, sometimes surf the Web and send e-mail, go to bed.
“I’ve been very busy with my work,” Jim Moran said. “We haven’t done much as a family together lately.”
“Did she go
anywhere
recently?”
“The only thing I can think of is her art project for Mr. Talides, her teacher.” Mrs. Moran answered. “It’s a construction thing or something, and Kate was going around buying her boxes and things—when?” She turned to her husband.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Moran said.
“Last weekend, I think. She was buying things in SoHo and on Broadway and at the Sixth Avenue flea market, I guess. Mr. Talides was—” Mrs. Moran’s voice cracked. “I can’t stop thinking—I’m sorry—he tried to save her.”
“Do you know, did he attempt C.P.R.?”
“He had forgotten what to do, that’s—that’s what he told me when he called. He was very upset.”
Austen made a note to herself to interview the art teacher right away. He might have been exposed. On the other hand, she was beginning to get an uncomfortable feeling that this could turn out to be a wild-goose chase, that she had been pushed into some kind of hopeless problem by Walt Mellis. An unsolved outbreak. One of those blips that never gets
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