Page 45 of Wild Fever

"Who has access to this network?" I asked.

"At this hour, just me, Bryan, and Dr. Cameron. Of course, there are the technicians on the day shift and two other security guards. We work in eight-hour shifts.”

"Has anybody else been on the property this evening?" I asked.

"Not that I'm aware of.”

"Alright,” Daniels grumbled. “I don't want anybody touching the system until we’ve had our computer forensic team take a look at it.”

Bryan and Dr. Cameron had noticed the commotion and stepped toward us.

"What seems to be the problem?" Cameron asked.

"It looks like someone has deleted security footage from the time of the incident forward," the sheriff said with a tight face and an accusatory tone.

Dr. Cameron looked astonished. "That's not possible."

He moved to the computer terminal, his fingers angling for the keyboard.

"Nobody touch anything!" the sheriff said. "I want a full forensic investigation of the network.”

Dr. Cameron's face twisted with annoyance. "I’m going to remind you that there are 18 viable patients left in this laboratory. I have a fiduciary duty to protect them. I cannot, and will not, allow you to disrupt this operation. I understand you want to preserve evidence. But you're going to have to work with us.”

Daniels didn't like it, but Cameron had a point.

“Just FYI," the sheriff said. “When my nerd herd gets here and starts digging through the system, they'll be able to tell if anything was deleted and when. Everything leaves a digital footprint. So if you’ve got any funny ideas about tampering with evidence, I'd advise against it."

"I can assure you, Sheriff, as I said before, my intention is to offer full cooperation and transparency. But I would ask for discretion in this matter. Poor media coverage could make it increasingly difficult for us to function. And that would be a great disservice to humanity."

"At this point, I'm not so sure about that," Daniels said.

I gave Zach a card and told him I might have more questions for him.

Brenda and her crew began the process of transferring the remains from the stasis tubes.

We interviewed Bryan next. He was a skinny guy in his early-30s with short, curly brown hair, glasses, and a narrow face. He wore a white lab coat with jeans and a T-shirt underneath. His nervous eyes darted about, and it was hard for him to make eye contact. The lab was cold, but sweat had misted Bryan’s skin.

We escorted him across the room, away from the control center and the commotion.

“What went wrong?” I asked.

“I don’t know. One minute, everything was fine. The next, everything went to shit.”

“Can you explain why it took so long to respond to the system failure?”

Bryan hung his head and stared at the floor. He looked like a little kid who had broken out a windowpane with a baseball and was about to get scolded. After a long beat, he said, "This is all my fault. I take full responsibility. I was on the phone with my girlfriend. I stepped away from the terminal for a few minutes. I was so preoccupied with our argument that I lost track of time. Usually, everything goes fine at this time of night. We’ve never had a problem before. By the time I got back to the desk, I saw the alert. But it was too late." His eyes brimmed. "Am I in trouble? Am I going to go to jail?”

“The system gives visual and audible alerts,” I said.

“I stepped outside,” he said in a sheepish voice.

"Did you purposely sabotage the cryo-pods?"

His brow wrinkled. "No! Of course not."

"Do you know what went wrong?"

Bryan shook his head.