The Palm
Beach Post
Widow
wants answers
By EMILY J. MINOR
Palm Beach Post Staff Writer
Saturday, October 06, 2007
When she looks back - and how
can you not? - it all makes so much sense.
The tubes and the masks and the
FBI agents.
The worried doctors and the sneaky
reporters and the room where they told her the ending.
"I should have known," Maureen
Stevens says now.
But back then, things like masks
and tubes and a box of tissues on a meeting room table just didn't click.
Now, of course, it all makes sense.
It was six years ago Friday that
Robert Stevens, the lovable, affable, kind man that Maureen Stevens adored,
died from breathing in anthrax. And while anniversary dates like these
come and go in our lives, Stevens, 65, pretty, soft-spoken and still brokenhearted,
doesn't need a date on a wall calendar to remember that her husband was
murdered the first week of October 2001.
It's the week that started out
so beautifully in the leafy green nooks and crannies of Charlotte, N.C.
- visiting their son - and ended in that room, the room with the chairs
and the table and the water and the tissues, for the grief that would come.
"Water and tissues," she says
again. "I should have known."
Those were just a few of the clues
that passed by Maureen Stevens during that short week, the one that seemed
to last forever.
But time is a funny thing and
- along with healing her heart, just a little - it tends to make some things
more clear.
Some things about Robert.
The way he was talking nonsense.
The way he practically collapsed into the hospital wheelchair. The way
she did not want to leave him.
Victim list expands
The fall and early winter of 2001
was one of those surreal times in American history that the country just
kind of muddled through. The attacks of Sept. 11 had left us shocked and
anxious, and in the weeks that followed we hung nervously - and in most
cases, foolishly - to every airplane mishap, every stray package, every
olive-skinned man who looked like he wasn't from Nebraska.
Then the anthrax scare ratcheted
up the nation's nerves by about 2,000 percent.
Before his death, Stevens was
a photo editor at American Media Inc. in Boca Raton. The company published
such supermarket favorites as The National Enquirer - Stevens actually
worked for The Sun - at its sprawling office complex. Investigators combed
the AMI building, protected by white suits, headgear with breathing tubes
and green latex gloves that looked as if they could have been bought at
a hardware store in outer space.
Eventually, AMI left the building
for good.
In South Florida, though, there
was another surreal twist. Federal investigators began to realize that
several of the Sept. 11 terrorists had lived here, even learning to fly
at area airports. The government's "spot map" of key terrorist locations
overlapped with our homes and our offices and our schools. For weeks, investigators
thought the two - Sept. 11 and the anthrax - were connected.
Meanwhile, Stevens would not be
the last to die.
Two postal workers at the Brentwood
facility outside Washington - Joseph P. Curseen and Thomas L. Morris Jr.
- died Oct. 22 after apparently becoming contaminated at work. Curseen
was 47; Morris, 55.
And while more than two weeks
passed between Stevens' death and the death of those two postal workers,
the 17 days in between were one bizarre scare after another.
A look back:
Oct. 15, they found anthrax in
a letter sent to Senate Minority Leader Tom Daschle, D-S.D. The Capitol
was shut down. No important government work. No tours. No visits to the
nation's capital by the safety patrol kids of Palm Beach County, the first
time the trip - a rite of passage for fifth-graders here - had ever been
canceled.
Then letters began to appear at
major news agencies in New York City. Among those affected: Tom Brokaw's
assistant at NBC News. The baby boy of an ABC news producer. Dan Rather's
assistant at CBS. An editorial page clerk at The New York Post.
All of them took medication and
survived.
The fourth death was in New York.
Kathy T. Nguyen, 61, a stockroom worker at Manhattan Eye, Ear and Throat
Hospital, died from anthrax Oct. 31.
And then there was Ottilie Lundgren,
94, of Oxford, Conn.
Lundgren died after she opened
a letter inside her home that apparently had been contaminated somewhere
along the way. She died Nov. 21, the day before Thanksgiving.
By this time, there had been 30
anthrax cases nationwide, five of them fatal.
And no matter where these stories
appeared - People magazine, The New York Times, Washington Post, The Columbus
Dispatch - Bob Stevens' name was always at the end of the list.
Six years later, it's still there.
Bob Stevens, 63, photo editor
at American Media's Sun tabloid. Died Oct. 5.
A lifetime of joy
They met on a blind date, and
Maureen Stevens was so unenthusiastic about the prospect, she didn't even
dress up.
"Neither of us wanted to go,"
she says.
She was 30, working in an antique
store in a little town outside London. He was doing freelance photography.
Back then, he handled the high-end cosmetic photos for big-name advertising
clients. They went to a pub called the Shepherd's Hut and, at night's end,
when they both knew they'd found something nice - even without fancy clothes
- he asked to see her again.
Of course, she said.
She tore a small slip of paper
from her address book and wrote down her telephone number for him.
They were both private and unassuming,
each once divorced, and they liked to read and travel and laugh. They got
married Oct. 18, 1974, and the next day he left for America, where he had
a new job with The National Enquirer in Lantana. Maureen Stevens followed
soon after.
At his job for the supermarket
tabloid, it was Stevens who would take a picture of, say, Cher or Prince
or even O.J. and doctor it up a bit, make the star look just a touch better.
Bob Stevens was great at this tabloid technique, and he loved his job and
the people who made that nutty newsroom go round.
But he also loved his family.
He liked to go fishing. He liked to work with wood. He was a sci-fi fan,
even taking what little spare time he had to write a novel of his own.
He was both a perfectionist and
the life of the party.
A lovely twist, really.
"Robert was just an all-around
nice person," his wife says.
Eventually, as their lives here
became more and more grounded with the house and friends and the four children
and then the grandchildren, he liked to make the little ones laugh.
Humor was his forte.
Even today, the grandkids tell
the story about the time Granddad took the bucket of earthworms, spread
out the newspaper on Grandmother's good dining room table and dumped the
whole caboodle all over the place.
What fun to have him in trouble
instead of them!
"I love talking about him," Maureen
Stevens said this week during her first one-on-one interview with The Palm
Beach Post. "I love looking at photographs of Robert."
She added: "This will not be forgotten.
I will not forget what happened to him. I just won't."
And, of course, she will not forget
that first date. Who would?
The small pub. Their instant connection.
The little slip of paper she tore
from her address book that night so she could write down her telephone
number.
After his death - after Robert
Stevens' horrible, wretched death - she found that slip of paper in her
dead husband's wallet.
He'd tucked it away and saved
it.
"Robert was a bit of a romantic,"
she says in her lovely British accent. "He really was."
They thought it was flu
This is not the way it's supposed
to be, not by a long shot.
He's supposed to be here, with
her.
He's supposed to make the trips
back to England to visit family.
He's supposed to be in his wood
shop, the one with all the new tools they were going to buy him, making
something lovely for inside the house.
Instead, here she is, sitting
in her lawyer's office, very much alone, talking about her husband's murder
- the box of tissues within easy reach.
"It's never easy," she says about
doing the interview. "I have a lot of anger in me because I'd like a few
answers.
"Answers would be nice."
Investigators now think Robert
Stevens was contaminated before the couple left for North Carolina that
fall. He'd felt punky during their visit, but they thought it was the flu.
On the way home, the Monday of the week he died, Stevens felt so ill that
he got behind the wheel and drove with exceptional fortitude, apparently
pulling himself together just long enough to make it home.
Back in South Florida, they turned
in early the night they got back because they both felt like they were
coming down with something.
Maureen Stevens awoke in the middle
of the night and found him wandering the house.
It was odd. She knew that right
off.
He was stumbling, speaking in
gibberish, barely lucid. When they got to JFK Medical Center in Atlantis,
she found a wheelchair and sat him in it.
It was really the last interaction
between them.
The next 48 hours elapsed in that
kind of slow-motion surreal blur that happens when personal disaster strikes.
She began to gather the kids, one of whom was overseas at the time. First
the doctors thought it was pneumonia. Then meningitis, because of the cloudy
spinal fluid.
On Thursday, Dr. Jean Malecki
- the county health department director, who would become a dependable
source of truth for her - called her at the house in suburban Lantana.
Maureen Stevens had gone home for a short rest.
We think it's anthrax, Malecki
told her.
"That floored me," Maureen Stevens
said. "I didn't know a lot about it, but I knew it wasn't good."
Newspaper photographers took pictures
- click, click, click - of the handwritten note she'd taped to the front
door telling the kids where she was. There were top-level officials everywhere:
deputies, FBI, officials from the Atlanta headquarters of the Centers for
Disease Control and Prevention.
At their home, reporters scared
away her daughter, who on Friday afternoon took refuge at a friend's house
about 20 minutes away.
"We couldn't go home," Maureen
Stevens said.
It was then, of course, that the
family got the hospital page.
Hurry, they said.
When they got to JFK, she and
the kids were ushered to the private room - the room with the table and
the water and the boxes of tissues.
He was dead, they said.
He'd inhaled the anthrax too deeply
into his lungs.
In the days and weeks that followed,
others at the AMI building, including mailroom worker Ernesto Blanco, who
almost died from anthrax, were put on Cipro, the strong antibiotic used
to treat anthrax.
Maureen Stevens never took it.
"I didn't see the use," she said.
If she had been exposed, she figured,
she'd already be dead. Just like him.
Maureen Stevens still lives in
the same house near Lantana that they bought all those years ago.
The anthrax, they know now, was
on a letter that Stevens had apparently brought to his desk at the AMI
building. He had trouble reading small print, so they imagine he'd held
the letter close to his face.
As the months went on, Maureen
Stevens hired an attorney, a good one, and together they're plodding through
her case, which was filed in federal court.
It boils down to this.
Attorney Richard Schuler is alleging
that the strain of anthrax that killed Stevens was the Ames strain, which
can be traced to Fort Dietrich, the Army's biowarfare defense lab outside
Washington.
Government lawyers have nickel-and-dimed
Schuler's legal team, he says, stalling with motion after motion. But he
thinks it will eventually get to court, and a fairly important piece of
the case should be heard before the Florida Supreme Court early next year.
That ruling will help set the pace for Maureen Stevens' lawsuit.
And then, maybe, she will get
her chance.
Schuler claims the security at
Fort Dietrich was so poor - it was vastly and noticeably improved after
the 2001 anthrax scare, he says - that anyone could have walked out with
anthrax.
You don't need a lot to commit
murder.
Schuler says he's deposed a man
who worked there who said that when he quit, he could have put anthrax
in the box with his personal belongings. No problem.
Top guys in the field, from a
noted handwriting expert to a key anthrax guy, have been told not to discuss
the government's investigation. In court, Schuler will do this questioning
using subpoenas.
That's what Maureen Stevens wants.
Some answers to her questions.
The kids are grown and scattered.
She has still has her quiet pastimes. She likes to read. She gardens. She
enjoys movies and crosswords and she goes to church. Her friends are the
same source of strength they've always been.
"My husband was killed in a horrible
way," Maureen Stevens said this week. "He was murdered. And nobody's that
interested.
"Well, I am."
Every day of every year, six years
running. No calendar needed. |