Dead Rat Walking

Chapter 2-2

The city of Chicago had a rat problem. For years, it was voted the “rattiest city in the United States” by pest control professions, beating even New York City. At night, thousands of Norway rats—rattus norvegicus—emerged from sewers, burrows in the ground, floorboards, and other godforsaken places to feast on garbage.

No part of the city was spared from the brown invaders; infestations were reported downtown, on the south side, and even in suburbs to the north. This year, the rat problem was particularly bad. Rats bit babies as they slept, sensing sweetness on their breath from dried formula. They raided faculty lounges in elementary schools and even roamed the halls during the day. They terrorized back alleys and parking lots; walking to your car in some areas was like re-enacting a scene from a B-list horror movie. The rodents were even known to ride the L from time to time, getting on and off with late-night passengers.

People had had enough. There were protests at apartment complexes, at City Hall, and community centers. The city renewed its “War on Rats” and established a new task force.

People wanted to live in peace. No more Hail Marys before you opened a dumpster. No more smell of rat urine every time you entered an old basement. No more lifting a toilet seat and hoping that you wouldn’t have a floating, wet surprise of the rattus norvegicus variety staring at you. No scratching in the walls at night, or waking up in the morning and finding the unpleasant and odorific surprise of rat droppings in your kitchen.

Not even public safety initiatives could solve the problem. On every alley telephone pole, city workers stuck yellow posters of an evil rat in crosshairs, saying that the area was being treated. Yet bait stations sat unexplored, turquoise rodenticides and wood snap traps inside untouched. The people who bought cats hoping for a quick solution were sorely disappointed, especially when the rats started attacking the cats.

A beacon of hope among the unwelcome, prolific invaders? A nationally-renowned lab in downtown Chicago partnered with universities in Miami and London, and a trade association of pest control professionals and consultants. A lab flush with investment money that, ironically, studied albino rats to solve the city’s rat problem. Though these lab rats were far removed genetically from their wild cousins, they shared many commonalities, namely, social behavior and biology.

Atticus Thurston wrote his dissertation in the basement of an abandoned factory, surrounded by Norway rats. Fierce, brown Norways that weighed two pounds each with banana-yellow incisors. The kind of rats that would make even a gang member jump on the hood of their car and shriek like a little girl.

The novel part of his dissertation was that he released a pack of albinos into the wild to mingle. What happened was frightening: the territorial fights, the fear, the elevated stress levels in the lab rats as they learned how to survive in an environment that not even their ancestors had experienced for hundreds of generations. But eventually, they discovered how to get along, and even thrive.

Thurston's papers set the scientific world on fire.

Now he worked as the lead biologist for Allied Labs, a nondescript private research facility on the 35th floor of the Alsatius Building on State Street, right on the river, in the heart of downtown Chicago, in the heart of the Midwest United States, and in the heart of the rat wilderness. These days, he studied rats' vibrissae and their function in helping them explore. Understanding their navigation habits was key to assisting pest control professionals reduce the rat population, which seemed to multiply every year.

The vibrissae were also where his troubles started. During the height of the rat protests, the local news learned of Allied’s work and asked to interview him.

He gave a tour of the lab. He had been so enamored with the fact that the whole world was watching him, that people finally cared about the one thing he had studied his entire professional life—rats.

He got carried away. He led a young, scarf-clad reporter into “the stacks,” the area where the lab kept rats in tall shelves that opened and closed by rotating large metal wheels. He rolled out a seven-foot-tall tower full of rats. He grinned with delight as the reporter beheld dozens and dozens of frightened white rats. Their jewel-red eyes gleamed among steel and cedar shavings. Their hair—a common response among rodents when threatened—stood on end.

“They live like royalty,” he said. “Wild Norways never have it this good.”

After giving the reporter a play-by-play description of their routine and diet, Thurston made his fatal error. He pointed to a rat in the corner of one of the cages and said, “See anything missing with this fella?”

Of course, he knew what the problem was, but he wanted her to guess.

The cameras were still rolling. He was as buzzed as if he had had two glasses of wine.

“My study right now is with rat vibrissae,” he said.

The woman stared at him. He might as well had squeaked rather than talked.

“Whiskers,” he said quickly. “There's a lot of scientific evidence that suggests that they use their whiskers much like a blind person uses a walking stick. Rats would be legally blind, you see. But more fascinating is what happens if you clip a rat's vibrissae.”

“You clipped its whiskers?” the reporter asked, incredulous.

“Just to see what the effects would be,” he said. “Turns out it creates problems.”

He then told her that he didn't like to do it, and that hurting rats didn't bring him any joy. The lab went out of its way to provide the rats with pain relief, something that had assuaged ethics concerns even among his peers at other labs. He cited an oft-used statistic in the scientific community that millions of lab rats gave their lives for medical purposes to improve our own, and that was never lost on Allied Labs. He just wanted to make a difference.

But the damage had already been done.

The story aired the next day. He and his wife viewed with elation. The story—a one-minute segment within a five-minute report, analyzed what Allied Labs was doing to curb the rat problem.

It did far more than instill confidence in the city's residents. It pissed them off. Royally.

Almost overnight, he received horrible voicemails from people and letters from all fifty states.

“How about we cut off your nose and see how you ‘navigate’”?

“How does it feel to be a murderer?”

“You, sir, are a son of a bitch.”

Thurston took the insults personally. He called the news station to ask for another interview, but the reporter didn’t return his messages.

Ever since, he always believed he was misunderstood. Just like rats.

As he rode the elevator to the granite-walled lobby of the Alsatius Building, he caught a glimpse of a small crowd of protesters across the street carrying placards with his name on them.

Stop abusing rat babies!

Respect Mother Nature!

“Ratticus” Thurston sucks!

They chanted with their fists in the air. Not even the wintry Chicago wind deterred them.

They must've known his schedule. Maybe there was someone in the lab who told them. He was friendly with everyone, but his enthusiasm didn't always translate when it came to research. Was there a “rat” in the lab?

He thanked God that the protesters couldn't see him through the tinted windows of the lobby.

A black security guard with rectangular eyeglasses and a goatee squeezed from behind the front desk to meet him. The security guards in the building barely acknowledged his existence until the protests started. Then they never forgot his face and went out of their way to treat him with deference. Their butts were on the line if something went wrong.

“Ronnie, tell me good news,” Atticus said.

“I had a killer ham sandwich today, and we didn’t have any shoplifting in the stores on the first level,” Ronnie said, “but as it pertains to you, Mr. Thurston, I don't have any good news.”

“It’s that bad?”

“We’ve got an officer out there right now,” Ronnie said. “He's been there since three. Those folks are angry, but they're not causing any trouble. Let's hope it stays that way.”

Thurston paused and looked through the revolving doors outside, where he could see the protesters walking in circles across the street, yelling his name. If he went out there now, it would be bad news.

“I'll call a car if you like,” Ronnie said.

The lab paid for black car service if Thurston ever needed it. It struck him as excessive. Plus, he had an aversion to rich people services. He was just a lab researcher and the son of a secretary and sanitation worker. Riding around in fancy cars just wasn't in him.

“I'll save you a phone call,” Thurston said. “How's the alley today?”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Ronnie said.

“Unless the protesters thought about camping out at the loading bay, I'd say that's a pretty good escape route, wouldn’t you?”

Ronnie sidled over to the front desk and glanced at the security cameras. He picked up the phone and had a brusque conversation with someone. After he hung up, he looked at Thurston over the tops of his glasses and said, “Suit yourself, but once you set foot out of that alley, I can't do a thing for you.”

“I wouldn't dream of asking you to do more,” Thurston said, waving.