Free Taji's Syndrome by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

exception of one man who works at a restaurant across from Coronado, a place called The Galley.” He shook his head slowly. “I’ve put in a call to L.A. and another to Sacramento. One more case and we have to alert Environmental Diseases in Atlanta.” This time he spoke with real concern. “God, I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
    “Me, too,” Sylvia admitted. “Timmons will have a fit.”
    “Humanity has always been his long suit,” Mike said sarcastically.
    Sylvia put the stack aside. “I’ll take care of them in a bit. By the way, take care driving home. It’s a mess out there and once the rush hour starts, it’s going to snarl all the way to Mexico.”
    “Great.” She glanced at her wall map, at the day-glo green labels indicating addresses of those with the new syndrome. “Most of them are within a two-mile radius still; that’s something.”
    “And with the exception of the guy at the restaurant, they all work in the same general area, or go to school there.” Mike stood up and went to the map. “Now, we have found toxic sites here”—he indicated an area ten miles north of the city—“and here”—this time his finger was east of San Diego near Spring Valley—“but nothing where these guys live.”
    “So that’s no help, unless they all go out there for picnics.” She stared at the map as if it was deliberately withholding information. “We’re overlooking something. There’s got to be a commonality somewhere.”
    “Well, Jeanine Hatley took ballet from Isabeau Cuante,” said Mike.
    “And the rest? Did they take ballet?” As soon as she spoke, she was sorry. “That was a bitchy thing to say. I beg your pardon.”
    “What would Great-Aunt Lucy think?” said Mike, rolling his eyes heavenward in simulated horror. “I don’t blame you for snapping. It’s shitty to be stymied this way.”
    “Agreed.” She pursed her lips. “Do we have histories on the families of the victims? Have they been tested for signs of the syndrome?”
    “A little hard to do when we’re not sure what we’re looking for,” Mike reminded her gently.
    “Well, have they been checked, period, just in case? Look for hangnails and dandruff if nothing else turns up.” She folded her arms. “Complete histories, and neighborhood reviews, to find out if anyone else has had something like this that we might not have seen yet, and then . . . oh, hell.” To her chagrin she had to stop because her mouth was quivering and her eyes were moist.
    “Hey, Sylvia,” Mike said, putting his hand on her arm. “We’ll find out what it is and we’ll stop it, right?”
    “Sure,” she said miserably. “Next week at the latest.”
    “That’s my pal,” Mike said, patting her arm. “Remember that and it’ll be easier to get the job done.” He touched the map, covering the area where the cases were. “At least it’s contained, whatever it is.”
    “So far,” she reminded him. “I guess since we’ve had teenaged victims we’d better contact the schools as well. I hate causing panic like that.”
    “I’m not too crazy about it myself. But you’re right. It’s probably necessary.”
    “If Timmons decides that we’re being alarmist,” Sylvia wondered aloud, “do you think he’ll interfere?”
    “Only if the sun rises,” said Mike in a resigned tone. “I’m going to get back to my office, and I’ll stop by before I head for home.”
    “Okay,” she said, already reaching for the phone memos, her mind on the next stage of her investigation.
    “If you need a hand . . .”
    “Thanks,” she said, waving vaguely as she punched in the number on the first memo.

    —Elihu Dover—

    “I wish I knew what to tell you.” Dover shoved his hands more deeply into the pockets of his tweed jacket. “Your sister is in failing health, and I don’t know yet what the cause is.”
    Sven Barenssen swallowed hard. “Will she have to go to the hospital? We don’t have insurance, you know.”
    Dover frowned