Dr. Winchell, a volunteer with the Snohomish County Department of Health, walked into the Seattle FBI office at precisely 9:15 am. His meeting was for 9:30, which gave him plenty of time to find his way to the appropriate place. It turned out that his meticulous planning was unnecessary. Inside the front door was a reception desk with two men, rather burly looking, seated behind it. Upon his entry, they ‘invited’ him to introduce himself and his purpose for visiting. Once he had they asked him to take a seat, conspicuously in their field of view, while the appropriate agent was notified of his arrival.

Twenty minutes later a lean man with short-cropped brown hair and piercing dark blue eyes came to him. They shook hands and the man introduced himself as Agent Rynard. He had Dr. Winchell sign in at the desk before escorting him into the depths of the building.

Dr. Winchell wasn’t sure what to expect. He was always rather amused at the popular portrayal of government offices - according to Hollywood, they were more often than not luxurious offices overflowing with space and privacy. Nothing could be further from the truth, of course. The average government peon worked in what amounted to a cubicle - a small one. His desk space at the Health District, which he shared with three other part-time volunteers, barely had enough room for his chair behind it. They joked constantly that it was an encouragement to lose weight since out of the four of them only one could fit behind the desk comfortably.

This building was a rather pleasant surprise. It wasn’t floored with ostentatious marble or anything like that, but the tile was clean and in good repair. The walls were a bland institutional white, but it was obvious they’d been painted sometime in the last decade. The few rooms he got the chance to peek into showed two or three desks, but they weren’t crammed in like sardines, with enough room for visitors to sit comfortably. Overall, it might have passed for a successful, if not wealthy, business. A definite step up from your average government hellhole.

The unpleasant surprise came when Agent Rynard escorted him into an interrogation room. It wasn’t one of the fancy ones you see on TV either, with bland white walls and a tile floor that matched the hallway. The only thing that gave away its purpose was furniture - a single metal table with a conspicuous hook on one side and two metal chairs, one of which was bolted to the floor. Not happy, but willing to play along, Dr. Winchell seated himself on the side designed for the subject of interrogations.

Agent Rynard was barely seated before he began. “Before we begin,” he said seriously, “You should know that this interview is being recorded. That’s why we’re using this room if you’re wondering. To be clear, you have contacted the FBI to report what you believe to be suspicious activity. Falsifying such reports is in itself a crime. You may leave or recant your statement at any time. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” said Dr. Winchell.

“Then let’s begin. My name is Agent Mitch Rynard, of the Seattle FBI office. I am a member of the Anti-Terrorism Task Force. You, Dr. Winchell, contact me late yesterday afternoon and requested a meeting. You refused to specify what the meeting was about, save that you believe you had evidence of terrorist activity. Is this correct?” Agent Rynard’s speech, which could have come out pompous and officious, instead sounded like the rote droning of a bored sales agent. The tone of voice, paired with his slouched posture, telegraphed Agent Rynard’s opinion of his potential information. Rather than be offended, however, Chuck Winchell reminded himself that this agent probably had to deal with crackpots and jokers every day of the week. If one in a hundred was a valid tip, Chuck would be amazed.

“That is correct,” said Dr. Winchell.

“Very well,” said Agent Rynard, “Let me hear it.”

As succinctly as he could, Chuck laid out his own experiences with the Immortal Mysteries School. He described the investigation the Health District had undertaken, focusing specifically on the actions of the investigators. By the time he finished, it was obvious Agent Rynard’s patience was wearing thin.

“Why should the FBI care?” he asked finally, unable to stay silent any longer.

“Here’s the thing,” said Dr. Winchell, “I talked to those investigators. They decided the environmental risk that night on the ferry. They were certain, very certain, that they could not be overheard. Yet the next day when the evacuation order was delivered, they discovered that the school already had a property prepared to house the children during the evacuation.”

Agent Rynard just stared at him, unimpressed. Chuck couldn’t help waving his hands to emphasize his point. “Don’t you see? The only way they could have known and prepared was if they were conducting some form of surveillance! I checked on the property in question. They leased it that very night. When I spoke to the realtor to confirm the story, they complained about having to sign the deal in the middle of the night.”

“Quick question,” said Agent Rynard. “How did you get the court order to evacuate the school?” The agent managed to restrain it, but there was an obvious condescending tone to his voice.

“We contacted the Snohomish County Prosecutor and they got a Judge to issue it,” said Dr. Winchell.

“Did it occur to you that every prosecutor’s office in the nation leaks like a broken sieve? Their lawyers probably knew about the motion before the judge did.” Now the condescension was obvious, the agent wanting to castigate Dr. Winchell for wasting his time.

“That’s not possible,” said Dr. Winchell. “The investigators didn’t return to Everett until after midnight. The prosecutor’s office was closed. It would have to have been done the next morning after the school had already leased the new building. And even if they managed to lease the building, how did they furnish it so quickly?”

“Efficiency is not a crime, Dr. Winchell,” said the agent dryly. Despite that his tone had changed a bit, softening just a fraction. It was obvious that his point about the prosecutor’s office had struck home. “Who else did they discuss the evacuation order with?” asked Agent Rynard.

“They informed their boss who informed the Administrator. He approved the request.” Dr. Winchell hesitated before adding, “To my knowledge they didn’t speak to anyone else about it that night.”

“So besides the investigators, two other people knew. Either of these individuals could have called and informed the school or, more likely, their lawyers. It’s fairly common for the people in these positions to make a courtesy call so that the affected parties can get out in front of things. While this sounds like a special case, it wouldn’t be inappropriate for them to do so.” Agent Rynard’s analysis sounded like a slamming door to Chuck. He couldn’t let it go. He knew, down to his very bones, that something was wrong with that school.

“I admit, I can’t say for certain that didn’t happen, but how did they manage to furnish an entire building for three hundred kids in less than seven hours? Work like that should take weeks. And what about the initial incident? We have no explanation for what happened to those kids, none at all.” Dr. Winchell was starting to lose his composure, desperation leaking through as he tried to convince Agent Rynard that he should investigate.

“There are plenty of mystery illnesses,” said Agent Rynard. “This sounds like those cases from the midwest a few years ago. We get alerts about it, something called AFM. The CDC has been working on it for the past five years.”

“We checked that,” said Dr. Winchell. “None of the symptoms match. The students showed very few symptoms. More alarming was the attitude of the caregivers - all were completely convinced that the children were ‘just sleeping’. They gave remarkably accurate estimates for when the children would ‘wake up’.” Dr. Winchell took a deep breath before continuing, knowing that what he would say next couldn’t just be swept under the rug. “Having seen all the facts and witnessed the response from the school, it is my professional opinion that the student’s condition was deliberately induced.”

“Deliberately induced? Why would they do that, doctor?” asked Agent Rynard. Something had perked him up, but whether it was the accusation itself or the fact that he was making it, Chuck couldn’t say.

“We’ve found no cause for their condition so far. The field tests came back negative for all the infections that we test for. The school and its environment show no obvious reason for their condition. We searched the grounds thoroughly and found nothing. The lab tests are still coming in, but at this point, we expect to find nothing. But what I keep coming back to is their physician’s assertion that the children were just sleeping and the accuracy of his prediction for their waking. It doesn’t make any sense unless he knows something he isn’t telling us. Their medical records were suspiciously sparse, without a single test being run when the children fell ill, save a brain scan to verify normal activity.”

“So, what, they caused these children to fall ill deliberately?” asked Agent Rynard, skepticism lacing his words.

“It is the only explanation my colleagues or I could come up with that can explain what happened to those children. We don’t have a guess as to why, but I believe it’s possible that they were undergoing some type of experiment, one that they refused to disclose.” Fervor lit Dr. Winchell’s eyes as he spoke the words, his voice low and serious.

“Well, Dr. Winchell,” said Agent Rynard, breaking the dramatic tension casually, “You’ve certainly piqued my interest. Is there anything else?”

Dr. Winchell just looked at him for a moment, dumbfounded. Was he getting the brush-off? Was Agent Rynard simply going to usher him out the door and say good riddance? The most he had gotten was that he’d ‘piqued his interest’, hardly a promise of action.

“No, that’s all,” said Dr. Winchell dejectedly. The man seemed to deflate as he accepted that Agent Rynard would do little or nothing regarding his report. This had been an utter waste of his time. Still, he had to know for sure. “Are you going to open an investigation?” he asked.

“That isn’t up to me to decide,” said Agent Rynard calmly as he led Dr. Winchell from the room. “I’ll put together a report and pass it on. There will likely be at least some background work done, though. Someone will call the Administrator and ask if he passed along the news, that type of thing. Once that’s done they’ll make an official decision on an investigation.”

Dr. Winchell practically vibrated with the knowledge that someone would at least call the Administrator. If they could say with some certainty that the school couldn’t have known about the evacuation order until the following morning, then it was a fair guess that they were monitoring the investigators. That would be enough, he was sure, to get an investigation going.

Agent Rynard escorted Dr. Winchell to the lobby, shook his hand one more time, and left him there. He then returned to the depths of the building where his office was located, a conference room that had been repurposed for him and his partner. Most people assumed that the ‘Terrorism Task Force’ was a broad net filled with dedicated agents dutifully monitoring every bit of potential intelligence. The truth, here in Seattle at least, was much different. The vast majority of their job boiled down to checking out second-hand reports of mislabeled cargo for potential contraband. The port authorities found plenty, but they didn’t tend to look for the more exotic things, which is where Agent Rynard came in. The other one percent of his job included dealing with crackpots convinced that someone was out to blow up this or that, of which he was almost convinced that Dr. Winchell was one. Almost.

The truth was that by the time the crackpots made it to his interview room, they had worked out most of the kinks in their stories, twisting and interpreting facts until their crazy conspiracy theories sounded just plausible. Of course, they all fell apart at the first touch of an actual investigation. None bore actual scrutiny. Dr. Winchell’s story didn’t feel like that, didn’t have that flimsy, over-wrought and over-perfected feeling to it. It was rough with lots of unknowns, something most conspiracy theorists rushed to fill in with speculation and ‘data’.

It would probably amount to nothing, but at the very least making a few calls would break him out of the mind-numbing routine of reading about how much fertilizer was being imported and where it was being shipped. He was willing to admit that it was important work, but he’d be damned if it wasn’t boring.