then gestured at her cameraman. “Give him the clips.” The cameraman flicked the memory card out of his camera and handed it across. Carter accepted it graciously.
“We’ll also need all footage you have on the Lake Fairfax wildfire, which includes media from your smartphone devices. I understand WBN found the animal carcass pattern?”
“Sure. But we already copied what we had for the FBI, and Homeland Security. Which group did you say you were from?”
“We’re from a special branch.”
“Are you a fisherman?” The distinctive low growl of Bishop’s voice interrupted proceedings. Standing up and returning from the water’s edge, the agent now addressed Rob, who was quite obviously a fisherman, dressed in waders, a checkered shirt and a sun hat.
“I sure am. Rob Ackerman.” He held out his hand. Bishop paused for a second, and then — seeming to overcome some kind of inner demon — he tore off his latex glove and shook Rob’s hand.
“What kinds of fish d’you get out here?”
“A mix. Mainly catfish. Some bass. Those over there are bluegill.”
“What’s your hunch?”
“As I said to the lady here, I couldn’t tell you. I ain’t seen nothing like it my whole life.”
“Thanks,” Bishop said lightly.
He stepped past the reporter and eased Carter away. Just then, a series of marked and unmarked backup vehicles pulled into the area. Lynn began to film the hive of activity on her smartphone. A mix of at least twenty FBI agents, police officers and scientists from the Environmental Protection Agency spurred into action, taping off the area. They then proceeded to take pictures of anything resembling evidence. These guys meant business.
About ten yards away, Carter and Bishop stood side by side, surveying the fish kill. Bishop crouched down again, lifting up a specimen to his nose and inhaling. He turned back and looked at Carter with a smirk.
“Don’t say it.”
Bishop dropped the fish and got to his feet. “Smells fishy to me,” he said, evidently not able to resist. He waved up a pH test paper, and it showed a healthy green color. “The water pH is OK, and in terms of fish, there were no marks around the gills, no frothing, so no immediate signs of cyanide or poisons. There’s a funny smell about them. I would think they would smell more.”
“Exactly. Until we know what we’re dealing with here, let’s caution the public about the water quality, have people stay away from the river and lakes until further notice,” Carter said.
“The reservoirs are covered, and a response-team is already monitoring the Potomac in D.C.”
Silence fell between the two agents as they both grasped the enormity of the situation. The famous river running by the nation’s capital might be poisoned. It was almost too terrifying to contemplate.
“What did the CIA pull up?” Carter asked.
“No established terror cells based around here. No unusual net activity. Nothing to point at terrorism.”
“… Apart from a potentially poisoned river running by D.C., a senator from the Committee for Foreign Affairs caught up in a freak wildfire, and some seriously weird stuff happening to animals in the space of a few days,” Carter said.
“Point taken. You think the animals are some kind of message here, too?”
Carter shrugged. “What do your friends at the U.S. Geological Survey make of it?”
“They’ll be running tests for water pathogens today, but the fish are mixed.” His partner looked at him for clarification. “The fish biologist said a disease would kill one species. Here we have about three or four,” Bishop continued.
“So you’re saying it’s a toxin?”
“Not necessarily.” Bishop snapped off his other latex glove.
“We need every one of those wildfire carcasses examined again, too. They must have missed something. The fish and those animals — they’re connected somehow,” Carter added as the agents headed back. “Any new theories how the fire
“We’ll also need all footage you have on the Lake Fairfax wildfire, which includes media from your smartphone devices. I understand WBN found the animal carcass pattern?”
“Sure. But we already copied what we had for the FBI, and Homeland Security. Which group did you say you were from?”
“We’re from a special branch.”
“Are you a fisherman?” The distinctive low growl of Bishop’s voice interrupted proceedings. Standing up and returning from the water’s edge, the agent now addressed Rob, who was quite obviously a fisherman, dressed in waders, a checkered shirt and a sun hat.
“I sure am. Rob Ackerman.” He held out his hand. Bishop paused for a second, and then — seeming to overcome some kind of inner demon — he tore off his latex glove and shook Rob’s hand.
“What kinds of fish d’you get out here?”
“A mix. Mainly catfish. Some bass. Those over there are bluegill.”
“What’s your hunch?”
“As I said to the lady here, I couldn’t tell you. I ain’t seen nothing like it my whole life.”
“Thanks,” Bishop said lightly.
He stepped past the reporter and eased Carter away. Just then, a series of marked and unmarked backup vehicles pulled into the area. Lynn began to film the hive of activity on her smartphone. A mix of at least twenty FBI agents, police officers and scientists from the Environmental Protection Agency spurred into action, taping off the area. They then proceeded to take pictures of anything resembling evidence. These guys meant business.
About ten yards away, Carter and Bishop stood side by side, surveying the fish kill. Bishop crouched down again, lifting up a specimen to his nose and inhaling. He turned back and looked at Carter with a smirk.
“Don’t say it.”
Bishop dropped the fish and got to his feet. “Smells fishy to me,” he said, evidently not able to resist. He waved up a pH test paper, and it showed a healthy green color. “The water pH is OK, and in terms of fish, there were no marks around the gills, no frothing, so no immediate signs of cyanide or poisons. There’s a funny smell about them. I would think they would smell more.”
“Exactly. Until we know what we’re dealing with here, let’s caution the public about the water quality, have people stay away from the river and lakes until further notice,” Carter said.
“The reservoirs are covered, and a response-team is already monitoring the Potomac in D.C.”
Silence fell between the two agents as they both grasped the enormity of the situation. The famous river running by the nation’s capital might be poisoned. It was almost too terrifying to contemplate.
“What did the CIA pull up?” Carter asked.
“No established terror cells based around here. No unusual net activity. Nothing to point at terrorism.”
“… Apart from a potentially poisoned river running by D.C., a senator from the Committee for Foreign Affairs caught up in a freak wildfire, and some seriously weird stuff happening to animals in the space of a few days,” Carter said.
“Point taken. You think the animals are some kind of message here, too?”
Carter shrugged. “What do your friends at the U.S. Geological Survey make of it?”
“They’ll be running tests for water pathogens today, but the fish are mixed.” His partner looked at him for clarification. “The fish biologist said a disease would kill one species. Here we have about three or four,” Bishop continued.
“So you’re saying it’s a toxin?”
“Not necessarily.” Bishop snapped off his other latex glove.
“We need every one of those wildfire carcasses examined again, too. They must have missed something. The fish and those animals — they’re connected somehow,” Carter added as the agents headed back. “Any new theories how the fire
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