"Excellent work," Beaton said. "I like your initiative. You're to be commended. That kind of data is not for public consumption. We know our rates have gone up since we've become a tertiary care facility for CMV. They're sending us a high proportion of critically ill patients."

"I'm sure statistics of that ilk would not help our public relations," Hortense said.

"That's the concern," Beaton said.

"Should I have said anything to Dr. Wilson?" Hortense asked.

"No, you did fine," Beaton said. "Did he research anything else?"

"He was here for quite a while," Hortense said. "But I have no idea what else he was looking up."

"The reason I ask," Beaton said, "is because Dr. Wilson has been suspended from CMV."

"That I wasn't aware of," Hortense said.

"It just happened yesterday," Beaton said. "Would you let me know if he comes back?"

"Most certainly," Hortense said.

"Excuse me," Calhoun said. "Is your name Carl Hobson?" He'd approached one of Bartlet's uniformed patrolmen as he came out of the diner on Main Street.

"Sure is," the policeman answered.

"Mine's Phil Calhoun," Calhoun said.

"I've seen you around the station," Carl said. "You're friends with the chief."

"Yup," Calhoun said. "Wayne and I go back a ways. I used to be a state policeman, but I got retired."

"Good for you," Carl said. "Now it's nothing but fishing and hunting."

"I suppose," Calhoun said. "Mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"Hell, no," Carl said with curiosity.

"Carleton over at the Iron Horse told me you had a tattoo," Calhoun said. "I've been thinking about getting one myself so I've been looking around and asking questions. Many people in town have 'em?"

"There's a few," Carl said.

"When did you get yours?" Calhoun asked.

"Way the hell back in high school," Carl said with an embarrassed laugh. "Five of us drove over to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, one Friday night when we were seniors. There's a bunch of tattoo parlors over there. We were all blitzed."

"Did it hurt?" Calhoun asked.

"Hell, I don't remember," Carl said. "Like I said, we were all drunk."

"All five of you guys still in town?" Calhoun asked.

"Just four of us," Carl said. "There's me, Steve Shegwick, Clyde Devonshire, and Mort Abrams."

"Did everybody get tattooed in the same spot?" Calhoun asked.

"Nope," Carl said. "Most of us got 'em on our biceps, but some chose their forearms. Clyde Devonshire was the exception. He got tattooed on his chest above each nipple."

"Who got tattooed on his forearm?" Calhoun asked.

"I'm not sure," Carl admitted. "It's been a while. Maybe Shegwick and Jay Kaufman. Kaufman's the guy who moved away. He went to college someplace in New Jersey."

"Where's yours?" Calhoun asked.

"I'll show you," Carl said. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled up the sleeve. On the outer aspect of his upper arm was a howling wolf with the word "lobo" below it.

By the time David returned home from his visit to medical records, Nikki had begun to feel worse. At first she only complained of stomach cramps, but by early evening she was suffering from nausea and increased salivation-the same symptoms David had experienced during the night. They were also the symptoms reported by the six night-shift nurses and, even scarier, by his six patients who had died.

By six-thirty Nikki was lethargic after several bouts of diarrhea, and David was sick with worry. He was terrified that they'd not gotten her out of the hospital quickly enough: whatever had killed his patients had already been given to her.

David did not share his fears with Angela. It was bad enough that she was concerned about Nikki's ostensible symptoms without adding the burden of a potential link to all those patients who died. So David kept his worries to himself, but he agonized over the possibility of an infectious disease of some kind. He comforted himself with the thought that his illness and the nurses' had been self-limiting, suggesting a low exposure to an airborne agent. David's great hope was that if such an agent was to blame, Nikki had only gotten a low dose as well.

Calhoun arrived at exactly seven. He was clutching a sheet of paper and carrying a paper bag.

"I got nine more people with tattoos," he said.

"I got twenty," David said. He tried to sound upbeat, but he couldn't get Nikki out of his mind.

"Let's combine them," Calhoun said.

When they combined the lists and threw out the duplicates, they had a final list of twenty-five people.

"Dinner's ready," Angela said. Angela had cooked a feast to buoy their spirits and to keep herself busy. She'd had David set the table in the dining room.

"I've brought wine," Calhoun said. He opened his parcel and pulled out two bottles of Chianti.

Five minutes later they were sitting down to a fine meal of chicken with chevre, one of Angela's favorite dishes.

"Where's Nikki?" Calhoun asked.

"She's not hungry," Angela said.

"She doing okay?" Calhoun asked.

"Her stomach's a bit upset," Angela said. "But considering what we put her through, it's to be expected. The main thing is that she has no fever and her lungs are perfectly clear."

David winced but didn't say anything.

"What do we do now that we have the list of people with tattoos?" she asked.

"We proceed in two ways," Calhoun said. "First we run a background computer check on each person. That's the easy part. Second, I start interviewing them. There are certain things we need to find out, like where each person's tattoo is located and whether they mind showing it off. The tattoo that got scratched by Hodges must be the worse for wear and tear, and it has to be located someplace where it could have been scratched in a struggle. If someone has a little heart on their butt, we're not going to be too interested."

"What do you think is the most promising location?" Angela asked. "On the forearm?"

"I'd say so," Calhoun said. "The forearm, and maybe the wrist. I suppose we shouldn't rule out the back of the hand although that's not a common place for professional tattoos. The tattoo we're dealing with has to have been done by a professional. Professionals are the only ones who use the heavy metal pigments."

"How do we run a background computer check?" Angela asked.

"All we need is the social security number and the birth date," Calhoun said. "We should be able to get those through the hospital." Calhoun looked at David. David nodded. "Once we have that information the rest is easy. It's staggering what information can be obtained from the hundreds of data banks that exist. Whole companies are set up in the information business. For a nominal fee you'd be surprised what you can find out."

"You mean these companies can tap into private data banks?" Angela asked.

"Absolutely," Calhoun said. "Most people don't realize it, but anybody with a computer and a modem can get an amazing amount of information on anybody."

"What kind of information would people be looking for?" Angela asked.

"Anything and everything," Calhoun said. "Financial history, criminal records, job history, consumer purchasing history, phone use, mail order stuff, personal ads. It's like a fishing trip. But interesting stuff turns up. It always does, even if you have a group of twenty-five people who are ostensibly the most normal people in a community. You'd be shocked. And with a group of twenty-five people with tattoos, it will be very interesting. They will not be, quote, 'normal,' believe me."

"Did you do this when you were a state policeman?" Angela asked.

"All the time," Calhoun said. "Whenever we had a bunch of suspects we'd run a background computer check, and we always got some dirt. And in this case if David is right and the killer is committing euthanasia, I can't imagine what we'd run across. He or she would have to be screwed up. We'd find other crusades, like saving animals from shelters and being arrested for having nine hundred dogs in their house. I guarantee we'll come across lots of screwy, weird stuff. We'll need to get hold of some computer jock to help us tap into the data banks."