The
Hunting of Steven J. Hatfill
Why are so many people eager
to believe that this man is the anthrax killer?
by David Tell
The Weekly Standard
09/16/2002, Volume 008, Issue
01
1 Who is Steven J. Hatfill?
Hatfill is a 48-year-old scientific
researcher who specializes in emerging infectious diseases. Various details
on his r sum -- to say nothing of a televised FBI raid on his apartment
-- have inspired a mini-industry of speculation that he may somehow be
implicated in last fall's deadly anthrax attacks. But as we shall see,
much of that speculation pretends to be something more: certainty of his
guilt, and certainty that in every nook and cranny of his life must be
found some blot or scar or mark of the devil that proves his guilt. The
evidence of his biography, that which is publicly available, cannot sustain
such absolute conviction. But it is an unusual and interesting biography
just the same.
Hatfill was born in St. Louis,
attended high school in Mattoon, Illinois, and studied basic biology and
chemistry at Southwestern College in Winfield, Kansas. After graduating
from Southwestern in June 1975, Hatfill served what Newsweek, citing "a
copy of his military records," calls "a three-year stint in the Army, stationed
in the United States." The Newark Star-Ledger, also claiming to have reviewed
his personnel records, says Hatfill remained on some form of reserve or
National Guard duty until January 1981, but by all accounts his regular
Army active duty ended in the spring of 1978, and a few months later he
moved to Africa, where he would live and work for the next 16 years.
Hatfill spent the first six of
those years in Harare, earning his medical degree from what is now the
University of Zimbabwe. In June 1984, he relocated to South Africa for
his clinical internship and residency -- and for a decade's worth of additional
study during which he was awarded three master's degrees (microbial genetics
and recombinant DNA, medical biochemistry and radiation biology, and hematological
pathology) and completed at least some of the work necessary for a doctorate
in molecular cell biology. Hatfill finally left Africa in the summer of
1994 and spent a year doing clinical research at Oxford University before
returning home to the States for good.
On a postgraduate training fellowship
from the National Institutes of Health, Hatfill worked at NIH headquarters
in Bethesda, Maryland, and other civilian federal laboratories until the
fall of 1997. Then he took another two-year fellowship, this one from the
National Research Council, to the nation's top biowarfare defense laboratory,
the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID)
at Fort Detrick in Maryland. There Hatfill investigated therapeutic responses
to "filoviridae," the family of primate-borne tropical viruses, Ebola and
Marburg specifically, that cause lethal hemorrhagic fever in humans. By
the time Hatfill's Fort Detrick grant expired in September 1999, he had
already undertaken related research at a private-sector laboratory in McLean,
Virginia, Science Applications International Corporation (SAIC), which
does federal biodefense work on contract.
SAIC fired him in March of this
year shortly after a newspaper reporter phoned the company seeking a response
to rumors that Hatfill, whose name had not yet dribbled into public view,
was under FBI investigation in connection with last fall's anthrax murders.
Eight months earlier, an unrelated CIA polygraph examination -- which reportedly
generated unresolved questions about Hatfill's account of his life in Africa
-- had led that agency to refuse him the "top-secret" security clearance
necessary for certain SAIC projects. And, pending review of that refusal,
Hatfill's basic-level "secret" clearance had been suspended, as well. The
extent to which this security issue figured in SAIC's eventual decision
to fire Hatfill remains unclear, however, and there are indications that
SAIC may have been less than fully confident about the move; Hatfill's
attorneys say the company later offered him a financial settlement, and
the company itself has acknowledged having retained him, following his
formal dismissal, as an outside consultant.
In any case, whatever the exact
circumstances of his separation from SAIC, that incident alone had no immediately
damaging effect on his career as a whole. Hatfill quickly found a new and
important job as associate director of the National Center for Biomedical
Research and Training at Louisiana State University. And it was to this
new job in Baton Rouge that he was preparing a final move when, on August
1, the FBI -- with whose earlier anthrax-case inquiries Hatfill had, by
all accounts, cooperated fully -- suddenly executed a court-issued criminal
search warrant at his Frederick, Maryland, apartment. The raid was covered
live on national television.
No less authoritative a spokesman
than Attorney General John Ashcroft has since confirmed, also on national
television, that Hatfill is a "person of interest" to the Bureau's anthrax
investigation. Hatfill, for his part, at two public press conferences organized
by his attorneys, has vehemently denied any involvement in or knowledge
of the anthrax murders. Despite those denials, however, the past month's
developments and attendant publicity appear to have overwhelmed him. "My
life has been completely and utterly destroyed," he says. Most saliently:
"I'm unemployed" and "my professional reputation is in tatters." Early
last week, having been advised by the attorney general's Office for Domestic
Preparedness not to use Hatfill on programs receiving federal law enforcement
funding, Louisiana State University took steps to
"terminate the employment
of Steven J. Hatfill as associate director of the National Center for Biomedical
Research and Training," which depends on the Justice Department for 97
percent of its annual budget. Just for good measure, LSU also fired the
man who'd hired Hatfill to begin with. University officials deny that these
personnel actions were taken in response to instructions from Washington
to "cease and desist" with respect to Hatfill, but LSU chancellor Mark
Emmert concedes the school's general desire to "fulfill its contractual
obligations to funding agencies."
2. Why is Hatfill a "person
of interest" to the FBI?
That designation, which has no
formal legal meaning or consequence, is not exactly unprecedented in federal
law enforcement practice. But it is nevertheless extremely uncommon, and
the Justice Department has so far declined to offer any official public
explanation for its current application to Hatfill. Nor, apparently, has
the department clarified the matter privately to Hatfill's attorneys, whose
multiple letters of complaint have yet to win a substantive response. Even
when speaking on background to reporters, Justice "sources" routinely defend
the propriety of their approach to Hatfill by insisting that he has not
received "any more attention than any other person of interest to the investigation."
But no other such "person of interest" has ever been identified by name.
And one particularly candid FBI official has conceded to the Washington
Post that "we're obviously doing things related to [Hatfill] that we're
not doing with others. He is obviously of more interest to us than others
on the list at this point."
It's possible to fashion a reasonably
educated guess about why that might be. Most basically, Hatfill -- along
with hundreds, if not thousands, of other people -- fits the FBI's "behavioral
analysis" suspect profile, announced as the anthrax investigation was just
getting underway last November. (For an extensive and skeptical consideration
of that profile, see "Remember Anthrax?" in The Weekly Standard of April
29, 2002.) More precisely, for a window on particular evidence the FBI
may believe makes Steven Hatfill uniquely interesting among American scientists
with training and experience in agents of biological warfare, we now have
at our disposal Newsweek's exclusive report on the Bureau's August 1 apartment
search.
The FBI had conducted an earlier,
prearranged and consensual search of the place in late June and had apparently
come up empty. But during the final week of July, Newsweek says, two things
happened that made the Bureau think it ought to try again. First, agents
exposed police bloodhounds to a set of "scent packs" which had been "lifted
from anthrax-tainted letters mailed to Sens. Tom Daschle and Patrick Leahy
. . . hoping some faint, telltale trace of the perpetrator's smell still
remained months after the fact." The dogs were brought to a series of locations
"frequented" by Hatfill, including a Denny's restaurant in Louisiana, and
at each spot, according to "one law-enforcement source," the beasts "went
crazy." Around the same time, surveillance teams posted outside Hatfill's
apartment building noticed him chucking great lots of stuff into a backyard
trash bin and became worried that he was attempting to destroy evidence.
These two factors, "the dogs and the dumpster," the Newsweek story suggests,
are what prompted the FBI to obtain permission for an involuntary, unannounced
criminal search of Hatfill's property.
Inside the dumpster, agents found
only innocuous personal belongings that Hatfill explained he was purging
in anticipation of his move to Baton Rouge. Inside the apartment, on the
hard drive of Hatfill's computer, agents found the draft of a never-published
Tom Clancy-like thriller the scientist had once toyed with writing in his
spare time. Initial, partial descriptions of the book -- this bit of the
story was broken, very excitedly, by a local television station in Washington,
D.C. -- made it out to involve a deadly biological attack on Congress with
eerie and frightening parallels to the real-life events of last September
and October. Subsequent accounts of Hatfill's novel, however, their accuracy
confirmed to The Weekly Standard by one man who has read the entire manuscript,
suggest a plot centered around mad cow disease and bubonic plague, not
anthrax, with no mention at all of pathogenic powders delivered by mail.
Still, there are the bloodhounds,
one of whom is reported by Newsweek to have "excitedly bounded right up
to Hatfill" on August 1, inspiring an FBI observer to exclaim, "Damn!"
The dogs have since become a fixture of news features about the Hatfill
case, invariably accorded the status of potentially incriminating physical
evidence. Realistically, though, the "potential" here is limited at best,
and many forensic experts seem inclined to think it nonexistent. For one
thing, Scott Shane of the Baltimore Sun has phoned the managers of all
12 Denny's restaurants in the state of Louisiana, each of whom insists
that no such bloodhound search as is recounted by Newsweek has ever been
performed on his premises. Furthermore, Shane and the handful of other
journalists who have troubled to consult technical specialists knowledgeable
on the question all report considerable skepticism about the possibility
that any kind of "scent evidence" from the anthrax letters might at this
point remain available for use in a police dog's nostrils.
Those letters were mailed nearly
a year ago, by a perpetrator who apparently left no trace of his fingerprints
and no recoverable sample of his DNA. And, crucially, as Newsweek itself
mentions in passing, without elaboration, those letters have been "long
since decontaminated." Decontamination (by irradiation) would structurally
transform or outright destroy any organic material left on a piece of paper
-- like the skin cells or body oils necessary to construct an evidentiary
"scent pack." So if the scents supposedly lifted from the anthrax letters
were obtained by the FBI after such a decontamination procedure, they are
very likely worthless as a tool of identification. And that appears to
be the case.
Without exception, news reports
from late last year, when preliminary examination of the anthrax letters
was still underway, describe a process by which federal investigators first
collected all extant bacterial spores for biochemical and physical analysis,
next decontaminated the envelopes and Xeroxed enclosures, and only then
delivered that paper evidence to FBI laboratories for forensic testing
and development. In fact, the FBI more or less admits straight out that
it was unable to pursue its standard evidentiary protocols with the anthrax
letters until after they'd been permanently altered by irradiation. Posted
on the Bureau's informational "Amerithrax Investigation" website is an
interview to that effect with Joseph A. DiZinno, chief of the FBI Laboratory's
Scientific Analysis Section (www.fbi.gov/anthrax/dizinno/transcript.htm).
Even assuming, for the sake of
argument, that the Justice Department has somehow managed to recover a
microscopic trace of the killer's characteristic aroma, where the FBI's
sniffer canines have gone barking with the stuff should be interpreted
with a measure of caution. History suggests that bloodhound evidence is
a feast or famine enterprise. It has sometimes, miraculously, helped track
down and save the lives of kidnapped children. But it has sometimes, disastrously,
helped track down and falsely accuse an innocent man. In September 1998,
a dog named TinkerBelle, her nose full of a "scent pack" very much like
the ones employed by the FBI at Hatfill's apartment, led local police to
a Long Beach, California, recreation department staffer named Jeffrey Allen
Grant -- who on the basis of TinkerBelle's wagging tail was promptly arrested,
and advertised throughout the state, as a serial rapist. He would spend
three pretrial months in jail before anyone thought to test his blood against
DNA evidence retrieved from three separate crime scenes. Grant, it turned
out, was not the rapist.
In short: As a bill of particulars
against Steven J. Hatfill, the dogs and the dumpster and the dime-store
novel are rather less than a bolt of lightning. So federal investigators
must have, or must think they have, some further solid reason to make Hatfill
a special focus of anthrax-case attention. We do not know for certain what
that reason might be. But we have a wide array of would-be reasons to consider,
in a variety of combinations. This because, feeling liberated to do so
by Hatfill's public outing as a "person of interest," American journalism
has lately rushed before the nation's eyes almost every unflattering story
and rumor and outr theory that anyone has ever privately advanced against
the man -- up to and including the possibility that he has a history of
white-supremacist violence.
One would like to think that the
FBI long ago tracked down and resolved what's true and false in all this
"information." Whether what's true in it actually ties Hatfill to a multiple
murder, of course, is another matter entirely.
3 Where does the notion that Hatfill
is a racist come from?
Hatfill has lived in two different
African countries formerly ruled by white minority regimes, and he appears
in the past to have claimed a "military background" or "combat experience"
in one of those countries, and "reserve" and "consultant" relationships
with the army of the other. What these claims might mean, and what part
of them is true, are wide open questions that probably can't and won't
be settled until Hatfill comes forward with a clarification. For now, he
is operating under an attorney's instructions not to answer media inquiries
about his past. So there remains a quite considerable leap of speculation
between what is known for certain about Hatfill's student days, on the
one hand, and the widely circulating charge, on the other, that he "served
in the armed forces of two white racist governments," as New York Times
columnist Nicholas D. Kristof has put it. Documentary and testimonial corroboration
of this "fact" (sometimes attached to vaguely sourced "suspicions" that
Hatfill helped the racists kill black people with germs) is very hard to
find, as it happens. And, oddly enough, what little, shaky evidence there
is, insofar as anyone ever bothers to cite it, inevitably traces from --
or through, or back to -- an outfit called the Jewish Defense Organization
(JDO).
That group's current role as a
central clearinghouse of Hatfill demonology is never acknowledged by mainstream
reporters who make use of the material -- and for obvious reasons. JDO
is located at the farthest, shadowy margins of American public life. It
was founded in the 1980s as a radical, breakaway faction of Meir Kahane's
already-quite- radical Jewish Defense League (JDL) by a man named Mordechai
Levy. And under Levy, JDO has established a long record of scurrilous,
sometimes even homicidal attacks on its real or imagined enemies. One day
in August 1989, for example, when process servers attempted to present
him with legal papers in a libel action brought against the JDO by a leader
of the rival JDL, Levy mounted the roof of a Manhattan apartment building
and opened fire on his visitors with an automatic rifle, missing the intended
targets and wounding a 69-year-old bystander instead. For which crime Levy
was sent to prison. More recently, in April 2000, Levy pled guilty to charges
of assault after a 12-year-old boy told police that the man had kicked
him in the face and testicles.
Levy and the JDO have not yet
threatened Dr. Hatfill with bodily harm, though visitors to the organization's
website -- every American reporter on the anthrax beat has surely been
there -- immediately discover that its top-featured section (www.jdo.org/hatfill.htm)
includes a lovingly imagined account of some future day, very soon, when
"Dr. Steven 'Mengele' Hatfill," having first "attempted suicide," will
be "awakened at 4 a.m. and transported to a cold, damp, and dirty holding
cell," then tried, convicted, and given a lethal injection, "just like
the lethal injection his former boss, Wouter Basson, gave to hundreds of
black South Africans." This and much, much else besides is contained in
an extraordinary, 50-some-page, always expanding dossier, "soon to be a
paperback book," entitled The Bioevangelist and purporting to prove that
"he did it."
To wit: Hatfill is a "Nazi" who
"participated in genocide." Hatfill's "mentor" at the Godfrey Huggins School
of Medicine was supposedly one Robert Burns Symington, "father of Rhodesia's
biological warfare program." Hatfill helped Symington and the "white supremacist
regime" start an epidemic of anthrax "in the latter phase of Zimbabwe's
liberation war." The White Man having lost that war, Hatfill then took
his wares to the "Medical Special Operations Battalion of the South African
Army founded in 1981 by Wouter Basson," the Afrikaner regime's notorious
biowarfare capo. While in South Africa, Hatfill was a "close associate
of Eugene Terre Blanche," head of the Afrikaner Resistance Movement and
a convicted murderer. And so on.
Trouble is, nothing in the many,
impressive-looking footnotes appended to The Bioevangelist substantiates
these assertions. Nothing links Hatfill to Robert Burns Symington. Nothing
links Symington to anthrax, and nothing explains how Hatfill, then a first-year
medical student with no biochemical laboratory training, could have helped
Symington weaponize anthrax spores in the first place. Nothing links Hatfill
to a "Special Operations Battalion" in South Africa. Nothing links Hatfill
to Wouter Basson. And nothing links Hatfill to Eugene Terre Blanche (Terre
Blanche denies the connection) -- except a risibly amateurish South African
news-service story, which cites a photograph that no one can find, and
an unnamed "former colleague" who says Hatfill once claimed to have run
a Resistance Movement training session (whose leader denies that).
Trouble is, too, that transparent
innuendo like this -- in sanitized, journalism-school, "some say," "is
alleged" form -- has now entered the American news-media bloodstream (thanks
most prominently to New York Times columnist Kristof), casting an awful
cloud of "racism" over Steven Hatfill's head.
Asked by e-mail for his name,
and for additional evidence to buttress his case against Hatfill the "Nazi,"
the author of The Bioevangelist has sent The Weekly Standard a reformatted
version of the same essay, with many additional but entirely peripheral
citations, and he has identified himself as A.J. Weberman.
4. Who is A.J. Weberman?
During the 1970s, A.J. Weberman
was briefly famous (in certain circles) for having decided, by virtue of
extremely close, drug-fueled analysis of the lyrics to Bob Dylan songs,
that Dylan was a heroin addict. In an effort to prove the point, Weberman
then began collecting . . . things. He took out newspaper classified ads:
"If anyone has a sample of Dylan's urine, please send it to me." He once
broke into Dylan's home to confront the singer. And, most notably, he developed
a habit of going through Dylan's garbage can and publicizing whatever he
found. Weberman retains a casual interest in Dylan even today, it would
seem. (A Dylan song plays in the background on the JDO Bioevangelist web
page, if you have the right browser.) But Weberman eventually suspended
his full-time practice of Dylan "garbology," moving on to the trash bins
of such as Jackie Kennedy and Norman Mailer. And Weberman then, at some
point, abandoned garbology altogether -- and hooked up with Mordechai Levy
and the JDO.
It was from the rooftop of A.J.
Weberman's apartment building that Levy sprayed lower Manhattan with automatic
rifle fire that day in 1989; the two men were named co-defendants in the
libel action Levy was attempting to evade. And it was with A.J. Weberman
as named co-defendant that Levy and his organization were very recently
and successfully sued for libel again -- by a man whom JDO's website had
called a "pathological liar" and "psychopath." Six months ago, a Brooklyn,
New York, jury unanimously assigned Weberman responsibility for $300,000
of a total $850,000 judgment.
5. A.J. Weberman aside, might
Hatfill actually have served a role in the Rhodesian or South African armed
forces?
Yes, but the facts are murky and
the "racism" now being automatically ascribed to Hatfill in this context
is unsubstantiated.
Hatfill first traveled to Africa
as a college undergraduate when he took eight months off from school --
at the recommendation of his Methodist pastor, friends say -- to change
the bedpans of indigent villagers at a volunteer mission hospital in Zaire.
Which is not the sort of thing one would expect to find in the background
of a man who, three years later, is supposed to have taken up arms on behalf
of Rhodesian white supremacists. Be that as it may, Hatfill next showed
up in Africa around the summer of 1978 to begin his M.D. program in Salisbury,
Rhodesia (now Harare, Zimbabwe), drawn, those same friends say, by the
interest in tropical medicine he'd developed in Zaire, and by the convenience
of study in an English-speaking country. Now floating around the Internet
is what appears to be a version of Hatfill's curriculum vitae dating from
sometime after 1998, and that document refers to "active combat experience
with C Squadron Special Air Service" during his medical school years. Also
floating around the Internet is what appears to be a biographical sketch
Hatfill may once have sent his Southwestern College alumni magazine, which
mentions a "military background" in both the SAS and another Rhodesian
unit, the Selous Scouts. Finally, Newsweek says that interviews and "military
records in Zimbabwe" indicate that Hatfill "did serve in the military in
Rhodesia" in some unspecified capacity.
But here things get tricky. Nothing
has yet emerged to corroborate Hatfill's association with the Selous Scouts.
The Associated Press reports that "sources linked to Rhodesian security
forces have no memory of [Hatfill]." A.J. Weberman reports, without explanation
or comment, that an "SAS web site" has "denied that [Hatfill] was ever
a member" of that squadron. And National Public Radio reports that a forthcoming
United Nations Institute for Disarmament Research study by South African
expert Chandr Gould will throw "cold water" on any suggestion that Hatfill
fought with elite troops of the "white minority government" of Rhodesia
-- or had anything to do with an anthrax epidemic. Gould has apparently
located and interviewed the man who was Hatfill's direct superior in the
Rhodesian army, and that man rejects the notion that Hatfill's duties were
at all unusual or important or sinister.
Which stands to reason. Because,
though the fact appears to have escaped the attention of everyone else
who has so far publicly commented on the subject, by the time Steven Hatfill
enrolled at medical school in Rhodesia, the country was no longer governed
by a white-minority regime. African Methodist bishop Abel Muzorewa had
already taken charge of a biracial transition government, whose majority-black
army was fighting a desperate counterinsurgency war against Soviet-bloc-backed
guerrillas led by the hideous Robert Mugabe. Before Hatfill's first year
of med school was done, Muzorewa had been elected prime minister outright,
in a successful popular election protected from violence by the Rhodesian
army. And ten months later, in another election, this one highly irregular
but also, nevertheless, protected by the Rhodesian army, Mugabe replaced
Muzorewa as prime minister and quickly imposed a dictatorship on the newly
renamed Zimbabwe. Hatfill would stick around for another four years.
The curriculum vitae alluded to
above indicates that while Hatfill was subsequently living in South Africa,
which was itself then undergoing a troubled but ultimately triumphant transition
to majority rule, he may have been "assigned to" a reserve medical unit
of that country's army, and may also have been a "consultant flight surgeon"
with an air/sea rescue squadron of its air force. No independent confirmation
of these claimed experiences has yet appeared, and nothing more is known
about what they might have entailed -- or when, exactly, they might have
occurred. It might bear mentioning, however, that Nelson Mandela was president
of South Africa when Hatfill finally departed for England and home.
Then, too, it might bear mentioning
that some -- or more than some -- of the military adventures attributed
to Hatfill could well represent pure fancy or embellishment on his part.
Newsweek reports that the U.S. Army Special Forces duty he once claimed
on a r sum submitted to NIH was exaggerated; an Army spokesman says Hatfill
"flunked out" of Special Forces school after just one month. Relatedly,
and potentially more damaging a reflection on his character, the Ph.D.
Hatfill listed on that same r sum has never actually been awarded to him
for some reason -- though his dissertation research seems incontrovertibly
real, having been published and cited in more than one medical journal
or report, and though he later took steps to correct his federal personnel
records.
Just the same, however discreditable
they might be, and assuming that's what we're dealing with here, inaccurate
boasts about past accomplishments, even when a man is attempting to secure
a government job, are not enough to raise an inference that the fellow
is a racist or a murderer.
6 Let's get out of Africa. Hasn't
it been established that Hatfill had experience with and access to anthrax
while he was working at Fort Detrick?
No. Hatfill maintains that he
has never worked with anthrax bacteria or seen a sample of the organism
outside of photographs. He further maintains that he knows nothing about
either the bug or the disease it causes beyond what he has randomly picked
up in the normal course of his scientific career -- and, lately, in the
normal course of reading about himself in the newspaper. So far as we know,
these avowals remain completely uncontradicted. Which fact cannot by itself,
however, resolve the question whether Hatfill might, while at Fort Detrick,
have been able secretly to gain access to the installation's anthrax and
then steal a quantity of spores; it is next to impossible to prove that
something can't have happened. Still, the scenario seems more than a little
dubious.
Most of us remember the blizzard
of stories that appeared last winter about a history of lax security at
the Detrick laboratories. Most of us do not remember that most of the security
lapses at issue in those stories, and all of the worst ones, dated back
to the early 1990s. And that the principal evidence adduced for those lapses
was derived from documents released in connection with an employment-discrimination
lawsuit brought against USAMRIID by a scientist who claims the agency had
fired him without cause. And that this man, along with another, similarly
disgruntled ex-USAMRIID researcher involved in another, similarly bitter
wrongful-discharge suit, were the primary quoted sources for last winter's
"Fort Detrick in Chaos" exposes.
It is true that even current Fort
Detrick scientists, some of them, have lately told reporters that they
can conceive of methods by which they might, if they wished, sneak out
of the labs with samples of those pathogens they are authorized to use
in official experiments. But making off with pathogens they are not authorized
to use is a very different matter. Current and former officials familiar
with security arrangements at USAMRIID tell The Weekly Standard that the
place has considerably tightened up since the early 1990s. Even before
last fall's anthrax attacks, key cards issued to Fort Detrick scientists
granted them access only to their own labs and associated facilities --
and were programmed to set off security alarms whenever misused. Steven
Hatfill was a virology researcher when he worked at Fort Detrick. Consequently,
as USAMRIID has publicly confirmed, he was never authorized to enter the
bacteriological buildings where anthrax was kept and studied; he was never
tasked to perform anthrax-related work of any kind; and he was never issued
vials of anthrax for his own, private use.
Finally, as the New York Times
reported on June 23, FBI technicians, through some form of radiocarbon
dating, seem to have satisfied themselves that last fall's anthrax letters
contained powders prepared from a freshly grown batch of bacteria, no more
than two years old. If so, that would suggest that the perpetrator cannot
have acquired the anthrax spores from which he cultured his weaponry any
earlier than September 1999. Hatfill's National Research Council Grant
at Fort Detrick, by its formal terms, ended that same month. But according
to numerous published reports, Hatfill was no longer working at USAMRIID
by then. He had been full-time at SAIC since the previous February.
7 Hasn't it been established that
Hatfill had an up-to-date anthrax vaccination at the time last fall's letters
were mailed? No. All Fort Detrick laboratory workers are required to undergo
vaccinations against a broad range of pathogens, including anthrax bacteria,
whether or not it's something they're likely ever to come in contact with.
The standard course of immunizations for anthrax involves six initial shots
over a period of eighteen months and then one regular booster shot every
succeeding year. Hatfill, through his attorneys, says that his last anthrax
shot came in late 1999, and that he hasn't had a booster since -- which,
if true, means that he was out of sequence and many months overdue for
the relevant vaccination when the anthrax killer was putting last fall's
powders together. Yes, the scientific literature, such as it is, suggests
that anthrax vaccinations may continue to provide certain individuals,
in widely varying degrees and according to factors that aren't yet fully
understood, with significant protection against disease -- even after a
final booster shot has "expired." But that is not a bet you'd think an
experienced scientist like Hatfill would be willing to make.
Of course, Hatfill could be lying
about his vaccination history. But, so far as anyone can tell, there isn't
any basis on which to level such an accusation.
8 Hasn't it been established that
Hatfill once commissioned a secret study detailing exactly how a terrorist
could effectively ship anthrax through the mail? No. The now-infamous "blueprint"
study by retired U.S. bioweapons scientist William Patrick III, commissioned
by SAIC on Hatfill's recommendation in February 1999, was treated as a
case-breaking blockbuster when its existence was first publicly disclosed
more than three months ago. "Whoa, something may be going on here," burbled
"bioterrorism expert" Kyle Olson on ABC News; "our attacker may very well
have used this report as something of a -- if not a template, then certainly
as a rule of thumb." Reactions like Olson's look foolish in retrospect,
though. According to the latest published reports, vouched for to The Weekly
Standard by a scientist who's read the Patrick study and is familiar with
the circumstances under which it was written, the document seems not to
have discussed, much less revealed, any sensitive information about how
one might best use the postal service to kill someone with anthrax. Rather,
Patrick's (very short) report was designed to serve as the first draft
of a mass-distribution advisory pamphlet concerning the public health and
emergency response issues raised by a then-much- publicized wave of anthrax
hoax letters mailed to abortion clinics. Clinic employees around the country
were being hosed down with misted bleach by well-meaning but ill-informed
local police and ambulance crews. Hatfill, SAIC, and Patrick thought the
nation could and should do better.
Whatever technical information
was included in Patrick's draft, incidentally, he appears to have put there
on his own initiative. Hatfill did not request it. And none of it constituted
a missing scientific ingredient for the preparation of anthrax terror letters.
9 If the allegations addressed
in items 6 through 8 above haven't any certain foundation, where are they
coming from, and why have they so often been repeated as fact by the media,
without attribution or elaboration? Excellent question. Each of these "suspicions"
about Hatfill -- and many others, too, like the now thoroughly debunked
X-Files story concerning a "conveniently located but remote location" where
Hatfill skulked around "without risk of observation" last year, only to
leave the place "contaminated with anthrax" -- have originated with, or
been most aggressively circulated by, Barbara Hatch Rosenberg, a professor
of environmental science at the State University of New York in Purchase.
We have met Rosenberg before in these pages. But it is time to amend her
entry in the anthrax Who's Who. Rosenberg directs a working group on chemical
and biological weapons for the Federation of American Scientists (FAS),
and so she has generally been identified, here and elsewhere, in news accounts
of the FBI's Amerithrax investigation. That practice must end forthwith,
because it has become terribly unfair -- to the Federation of American
Scientists. At least since mid-June, the group has properly and palpably
and publicly recoiled from Rosenberg's heedless, one might even say unscientific,
defamation campaign against Steven Hatfill. "I would like to make clear
that Rosenberg's remarks on this topic do not represent the views of the
Federation of American Scientists," FAS president Henry C. Kelly has announced.
"FAS opposes any effort to publicly identify possible suspects or 'persons
of interest' in the anthrax investigation outside of a formal law enforcement
proceeding," the Federation's website now honorably proclaims.
Rosenberg's most energetic and
irresponsible media accomplice in the Fry Hatfill crusade, Nicholas Kristof,
should need no introduction. And, alas, the institution with which he is
most obviously affiliated definitely does not yet deserve protection or
respite from the criticism his Hatfill work may have engendered. On August
26, New York Times editorial page editor Gail Collins briefly descended
from Olympus to tell the rest of us mortals what the paper of record thinks
about the many fascinating ethical questions raised by Kristof's months-long
series of Hatfill slanders. Collins said this: "We have confidence in our
columnists." Which is an unfathomable journalistic
judgment, really. As was the
Times's willingness to run Kristof's columns in the first place.
Kristof has passed many of Barbara
Hatch Rosenberg's rumors about Hatfill directly onto the pages of the nation's
most important newspaper, with hardly a paraphrase, and without ever once
giving the man an opportunity to explain himself in advance. Some of Rosenberg's
fairy tales Kristof has actually "improved," as when, in the July 2 Times,
he proposed that Hatfill's "isolated residence" may have been a "safe house
operated
by American intelligence."
And other bits of especially lurid business Kristof appears to have come
up with all by himself: Hatfill was "once caught with a girlfriend in a
biohazard 'hot suite' at Fort Detrick, surrounded only by blushing germs."
Nice turn of phrase. But how, pray tell, can we be sure it's true -- since
so much else that the phrasemaker has written is already beginning to stink?
10 Where will the Hatfill investigation
go from here?
Hard to predict. One does detect
signs, however, that even the most obsessional of Hatfill's private-sector
stalkers -- and the Justice Department officials whose recent indiscretions
make them look very much like stalkers, too -- have started to feel pangs
of nervousness about the project. Okay, maybe not A.J. Weberman. But Barbara
Hatch Rosenberg, while still ridiculous and screechy as ever, is suddenly
squirmy and defensive, as well. "No question, it was the FBI who outed
him," she feebly insists. "I have never said or written anything that pointed
only to one specific person. If anyone sees parallels, that's their opinion."
Yeah, sure, lady. Nicholas Kristof mumbles briefly to the Baltimore Sun,
"I stand by the columns." But he is otherwise nothing but gooey, hypocritical
piety: There must be "a genuine assumption that [Hatfill] is an innocent
man caught up in a nightmare" -- and we don't want to go ruining people's
lives "by tossing their names out there before they've been subject to
any kind of criminal process," do we? Tu quoque, mister.
One "law enforcement official"
admits to the Los Angeles Times that, "to be honest, we don't have anybody
that is real good [as a possible anthrax suspect]. That is why so much
energy has gone into Hatfill -- because we didn't have anybody else." Other
"senior law enforcement officials" express "embarrassment" to the New York
Times over last week's e-mail directive to Louisiana State University,
acknowledging that the Justice Department "acted improperly" by demanding
the firing of a man who isn't even technically suspected of a crime. Yet
another "senior Justice Department official" tells the Wall Street Journal
that Attorney General Ashcroft "blundered" when he called Hatfill a "person
of interest."
Fine, honest words, all of them.
But to what practical effect, at this point? How many millions of Americans,
you wonder, must already have seen a nightly telecast or two, noticed a
lowered voice about "Rhodesia" or an eyebrow raised about "bloodhounds,"
and moved quickly from these hints to the only and obvious and probably
indelible impression: that Steven J. Hatfill, M.D., must be some kind of
monster?
11 Should we be ready to exonerate
him, then? Should the FBI no longer be thinking about Dr. Hatfill at all?
That's not the point, really.
If it's truly the case that "we don't have anybody that is real good" --
if the Justice Department, after a massive, historically unprecedented
hunt for evidence, still isn't ready to consider ruling anybody in as a
serious suspect in the anthrax murders -- well, then it can't, as a matter
of prudence, be ready to rule all that many people out as suspects, either.
Some terrorist or group of terrorists has sent virulent bacteria through
the mail and killed five Americans more or less at random. The FBI can't
very well simply stop looking for the perpetrator. The FBI has to keep
nosing widely around. It has to keep checking out "persons of interest,"
in the old-fashioned, informal, pre-Hatfill sense of the term. And in the
old-fashioned, informal, pre-Hatfill sense of the term, yes, Hatfill himself
might well be such a person.
But he might simultaneously be
as innocent as a lamb. And if so, the way things have worked out, hasn't
he been done a horrible wrong?
Under the system of justice we're
supposed to enjoy, according to the canons of journalism we're supposed
to observe, and by the rules of simple decency A.J. Weberman and Barbara
Hatch Rosenberg's mommies are supposed to have taught them, none of us
at this point should ever have heard the name Steven J. Hatfill.
David Tell is opinion
editor at The Weekly Standard |