Page 20 of Outbreak Protocol
CHAPTER TWELVE
ERIK
Morning arrives with thin Hamburg sunlight struggling through grey clouds, matching my mood as Felix and I prepare to visit Klaus Richter's family.
We've spent hours reviewing his file—fifty-two years old, business owner, married with two adult children.
A man who unwittingly became the epicentre of catastrophe.
"Ready?" Felix asks, handing me coffee in a travel mug.
I nod, taking a fortifying sip. "As ready as possible for telling a family their loved one started a pandemic."
"We're not assigning blame," Felix reminds me gently. "We're gathering information."
His perspective grounds me, as it has repeatedly throughout this investigation. While I see transmission vectors and infection chains, Felix sees people—their stories, their grief, their humanity. Together, we form a more complete understanding than either could alone.
We drive to a modest apartment building in St. Pauli. The neighbourhood shows the growing impact of quarantine measures—empty streets, closed shops, occasional military vehicles enforcing movement restrictions. Evidence of our failure to contain this outbreak quickly enough.
Frau Richter opens the door before we knock. A slender woman in her late forties with prematurely grey hair and red-rimmed eyes, she ushers us inside with the weary resignation of someone who has already experienced the worst life can offer.
"You're here about Klaus," she says flatly.
"Yes," I confirm, introducing ourselves and explaining our investigation's purpose.
She leads us to a small living room filled with family photographs—Klaus smiling beside his wife at various ages and locations, children growing from toddlers to adults across framed moments of captured happiness.
"The hospital said it was some new virus," she says, gesturing for us to sit. "I couldn't even see him at the end."
Felix leans forward, his expression radiating compassion. "I'm truly sorry for your loss, Frau Richter. We're trying to understand how this virus spread so we can help others."
"My husband wasn't the only one who died," she says, her voice catching. "Our neighbor Herr Meyer passed last week. And I heard Frau Schmidt from the bakery is in hospital."
"That's why we need to understand Klaus's movements before he became ill," I explain. "We believe he may have encountered the virus during his travels."
Her eyes widen slightly. "The Kinshasa trip? He went to visit suppliers for our café."
"You own a café?" Felix asks.
"Café Richter on Reeperbahn. Nothing fancy, but we've been there fifteen years." Pride briefly displaces grief in her expression. "Klaus handled the business side and supplier relationships. I manage daily operations."
I pull out my tablet, displaying a map with outbreak clusters. " Your café is centrally located among several early transmission zones. Was Klaus working there after his return from Kinshasa?"
"Every day until he collapsed," she confirms. "He wasn't feeling well, but Klaus never missed work. Said he just needed to push through."
"When exactly did he start showing symptoms?" I ask, mentally calculating incubation periods.
"Two days after returning. He mentioned a headache, then fever the next morning. By the third day, he was having trouble concentrating, but still insisted on going to the café."
Felix makes notes while I update our transmission timeline. Klaus's movements perfectly explain the geographic spread across central Hamburg—a mobile infection source interacting with dozens of customers daily.
"Did he mention anything unusual about his trip?" Felix asks. "Any places he visited or people he met who seemed ill?"
Frau Richter hesitates, then stands. "He brought something back. A gift, he said."
She leads us down a hallway to a small spare room. In the corner sits a large ornate birdcage, empty but clearly recently inhabited—scattered seeds, water bowl, discarded feathers.
"An African grey parrot," she explains. "Klaus said one of his suppliers gave it to him as a goodwill gesture. Beautiful bird, but nervous. Always fluffing its feathers like it was uncomfortable."
My pulse quickens. "Where is the bird now?"
"It escaped when the paramedics came for Klaus. In the confusion, someone left the cage door open. I never saw it again."
Felix and I exchange meaningful glances. Zoonotic transmission—a pathway we hadn't fully explored though we'd speculated could be the case in the beginning.
"Was Klaus in close contact with the bird?" I ask carefully.
"Constantly," she says with a sad smile. "He was fascinated by it. Spent hours trying to teach it German phrases. The bird would nibble his fingers, sit on his shoulder... "
"Did the bird appear sick?" Felix asks.
"Not exactly sick. Just... agitated. Pulling at its feathers. But it ate normally, made plenty of noise."
I examine the cage more closely. "Would you mind if we took samples from the cage? It might help us understand the virus better."
She shrugs. "Take whatever you need. I've been meaning to get rid of it anyway."
While Felix continues interviewing Frau Richter about Klaus's final days, I call Sarah to request sampling equipment. Within thirty minutes, she arrives with collection kits and protective gear.
We carefully swab the cage bars, food dishes, perches, and collected feathers. Each sample is sealed in viral transport medium and labeled for urgent analysis.
"If the bird was infected but survived, it could provide crucial insights," I tell Sarah quietly. "Possibly even antibodies we could use for treatment development."
"I'll put these at the top of the priority list," she promises, securing the samples in a transport container.
After finishing our interview and thanking Frau Richter for her assistance, Felix and I drive directly to the lab.
I spend the journey updating our transmission models to include zoonotic origin with subsequent human-to-human spread—a hybrid pattern explaining both the virus's unusual genetic structure and its rapid dissemination.
"It makes perfect sense," Felix says, navigating through empty streets. "Birds carry numerous viral pathogens but often remain asymptomatic carriers. If this parrot was infected but resistant..."
"...it could hold the key to understanding viral immunity," I finish. "And potentially developing treatment protocols."
At the lab, Sarah and Yuki are already processing our samples using advanced PCR techniques and electron microscopy. We join them, reviewing preliminary results as they emerge .
"Positive viral RNA in multiple samples," Sarah confirms after several hours. "Definitely present in the cage environment."
"What's fascinating," Yuki adds, "is the viral load. Higher concentration than human samples, but with genetic markers suggesting active immune response."
"The bird was fighting it off," I realize. "Successfully maintaining infection without succumbing to disease."
"Exactly," Sarah nods. "And look at these antibody profiles from feather follicle samples."
She displays a molecular model showing unique antibody structures binding to viral proteins, effectively neutralizing them through mechanisms different from mammalian immune responses.
"Avian immunity pathways," I murmur, staring at the models. "Of course—birds have different immunological architecture than mammals. This virus jumped species but encountered resistance in its avian host."
"Could we synthesize similar antibodies?" Felix asks, leaning forward intently.
"Better," Sarah replies, eyes bright with scientific excitement. "We could potentially isolate the genetic sequences encoding these resistance factors and develop targeted therapies based on them."
For the first time since this outbreak began, I feel something dangerously close to hope. Not a complete solution, but a genuine scientific lead—a biological foothold against this devastating pathogen.
"We need to find that bird," I say decisively.
Felix turns to me, eyebrows raised. "In a metropolitan city of 5.1 million people under pandemic conditions?"
"Not necessarily the exact bird," I clarify. "But others of the same species. African greys are common exotic pets. If this immunity factor is species-wide rather than individual..."
"We could sample captive populations," Yuki finishes, already typing commands into the research database. "There are at least six exotic bird importers in Hamburg alone."
"I'll coordinate with veterinary services," Aleksandr offers from across the lab, where he's been monitoring our discovery with growing interest. "We'll need specialized collection protocols."
Within hours, our team transitions from searching for patient zero to hunting for the biological key that might save countless lives. Laboratory equipment hums with renewed purpose as scientists who've been working ceaselessly for days find fresh energy in this promising direction.
Late that evening, Felix and I stand alone in the quiet lab, reviewing preliminary results from our first avian samples.
"We're onto something," I say softly. "These birds carry natural resistance factors that could revolutionize our treatment approach."
Felix takes my hand, his touch grounding me as always. "From tragedy to hope," he says. "Klaus Richter unknowingly brought both death and potentially its cure to Hamburg."
"The scientific symmetry is remarkable," I acknowledge.
"The human story even more so," Felix adds, reminding me again why we complement each other so perfectly.
Tomorrow we'll continue this new investigative path, searching for the biological mechanisms that might save Hamburg and beyond.
Tonight, I allow myself to feel cautious optimism alongside exhaustion—and profound gratitude for the partner beside me who ensures I never lose sight of the human dimension in this scientific battle.
ERIK