Carbon Murder, The

by Camille Minichino

  “Tachyon.” Matt stretched out the syllables, seeming to like the sound of the word. Then he snapped his fingers. “That’s what I had. Tachycardia. Rapid heartbeat. That’s what caused the fainting.”

  Of all the particles of physics, I’d picked the one that matched Matt’s reaction. “Maybe there is something to the idea of being on the same wavelength,” I said.

  Matt smiled. “And I almost know what a wavelength is. Is this tachyon one of those particles no one has actually seen yet, but there are a million papers written that predict it and how much it weighs, and everything about it, so when it shows up, we’re ready?”

  I gave him an approving look. “I didn’t know you’d been listening.”

  “I hear everything,” he said.

  “I know. It’s what you do.” I reached over and tucked the thin cotton blanket around him, taking the opportunity for a long, if awkward, embrace.

  “Remember when I first met you—you’d come up with all those facts, like Einstein’s birthday, or some atomic number?”

  “March fourteenth, and the number is six for carbon,” I said.

  He laughed. “Aren’t you going to draw me some pictures?”

  I took a pen and small notebook from my purse and sketched the standard graphic of a carbon atom, or any atom—the familiar solar system model with negatively charged electrons orbiting a positively charged nucleus. It always bothered me to perpetuate a model that had been superceded in the 1920s, but the old representation was easier to picture than the “clouds of charge” of the new physics. I consoled myself with the fact that for some phenomena, the solar system paradigm still worked.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me how no one model accounts for all behavior, and you’re using the simple model to make a point?”

  “Like human behavior,” I said. “Your field.”

  Matt knew my deep-seated belief that we would always have better physical models than human models. I thought of Wayne Gallen, and how psychology couldn’t possibly describe his behavior using the same model as the one for Matt Gennaro’s behavior.

  “Tell me about Buckminster Fuller. A good quote, maybe.”

  “Fuller was only five two,” I said.

  He laughed, and raised his arm in the air. “Let’s hear it for short men,” said the five-foot-seven detective.

  “Here’s a quote, as near as I can remember it: ‘When people discard the notion that ownership is important, they will not be burdened with possessions. The less we own, the greater our mobility.’”

  “Didn’t Jesus say that?”

  “And Chairman Mao, I think.”

  Matt pointed to the clock. Dr. Rosen was late. “My doctor is probably making a prom date,” he said.

  I smiled. “She is young, isn’t she? But that doesn’t mean you don’t have to follow her orders and go to bed when you get home.”

  “I’m ready to promise anything as long as they let me out of here,” he said.

  “Isn’t the food scrumptious?”

  Matt frowned. “Even your cousin’s fruitcake is better.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her.”

  Enough, I thought. This was the kind of hospital small talk people made when someone was dying. “Are you up for some real work?” I asked him.

  “You bet. What do you have?”

  I reviewed Jake Powers’s remarks, the ones Matt had missed when he inconveniently lost consciousness. I used the notepad to emphasize key words and possible links.

  “So you think this bute is the key? Maybe an illegal drug? And the vet you met at the high school is involved?”

  I nodded. “The trouble is, there doesn’t seem to be enough at stake to kill someone over it. You remember what Lorna Frederick said about prize money and—”

  “What is this?” A loud, reprimanding voice. Jean Mottolo, nee Gennaro, entered the room. She was in nicely tailored casual pants and a thick Irish sweater, comfortable for driving, but not inappropriate if a prospective client came her way. She stood at the foot of Matt’s bed, arms folded, and glowered at me. “I can’t believe you’re making him work. Don’t you care at all about him?”

  I was dumbstruck. First, I’d forgotten she’d said she’d be coming to the hospital, and second, I hadn’t been scolded in a long time.

  Matt recovered from the outburst quickly. He pointed to an orange chair stuffed under the television set. “Jean, pull up that seat please, and sit down.”

  Jean obeyed, breathing heavily. She’s nervous and worried about her brother, I told myself.

  “I’m sure you didn’t drive all this way to upset us.” He took her hand. “You know I wouldn’t be ‘working,’ as you call it, unless I wanted to. What’s going on with you, Jeannie?”

  I’d never heard Matt call his sister “Jeannie” and suspected it was meant to recall happier days of their childhood. I could see her body respond to the endearment. She took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry, Gloria,” she said, using the correct words, but in a tone that sounded like a homework assignment from her brother. She swiveled her head to face first me, then Matt, and back to me. “What’s going on is, I feel very left out of all this. Is there something you want to tell me?”

  Matt and I looked at each other. “I told you everything I know, on the phone, Jean,” I said, proud of my adult behavior so far.

  “How nice of you to call my sister, Gloria,” Matt said, with a teasing smile to both of us.

  I went on, needing to finish my defense. “The doctor will be by in a few minutes and then Matt should be able to leave, but I didn’t know that until I got here.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Then what do you mean, Jeannie?”

  She looked at Matt, tilted her head toward the door and reception area beyond. “The nurse told me your fiancée was in here.”

  Matt and I looked at each other and burst into a reasonably decorous laugh; the rattle of the food carts passing by provided the perfect background music.

  Matt held up his hand in a let me explain gesture. “We told them that because hospitals have a hard time with people who are unrelated. You can’t get information, can’t come and go—”

  “So it’s not true?” Jean sat back, apparently immensely relieved.

  “I haven’t gotten down on one knee yet, but … did you think we were just temporarily playing house?”

  Jean gave a loud sigh. “So are you getting married or not?”

  I stood and picked up my purse, headed toward the door. “Anyone want a cup of coffee?” I asked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  It felt so good to have Matt back from the hospital. He sat in the living room wrapped in a new flannel blanket I’d ordered on-line, but his color was returning, and his appetite was excellent. Even I had a hard time eating two whole cannoli in one sitting, but he managed, within an hour of being home.

  “Don’t want to insult Rose,” he said, as if she were present to witness any restraint.

  Jean had left his hospital room by the time I got back from the vending machine with a coffee-colored beverage. She had a client to see in Medford, she’d told Matt, and would be back to Fernwood Avenue in the afternoon. I didn’t ask how the marriage conversation turned out. It seemed ironic that the subject had been instigated by a nurse who happened to be on duty when Matt was wheeled in.

  When the doorbell rang, Matt flicked his blanket off and went to answer. The simple movement lifted my spirits, and I felt great hope that his previous listless behavior was due to the medication that had put him in the hospital. The doctors had yet to tell us what would replace those drugs, but a moment of respite was welcome.

  “Looking good, buddy,” I heard George Berger say, as the two men walked toward the living room.

  Berger reached down to the plate on the coffee table and scooped up the last cannoli, the one both Matt and I had avoided because of the chocolate chips mixed into the cream. Not authentic, but Berger wouldn’t know that.

&nb
sp; He offered a treat of his own, wrapped in a blue RPD folder. “We got a transcript from the Houston PD. They had a joint interview with the party who hired Nina Martin and an FDA inspector. They’ve released the text to us.”

  I made a grabbing motion, and Berger pulled the file back, teasing. “Martin was hired by a woman named Penny Trumble. That’s going to be PT in the margin. And the interviewers are just listed as HPD for Houston PD, and FDA, for …”

  The last words, fortunately unnecessary, were buried under chewing sounds.

  “Thanks for dropping this by,” Matt said.

  “Okay, have fun. And be prepared. Nina Martin was in Revere about a horse.”

  “A horse,” Matt and I said, almost at the same time, with different tones. Mine was questioning; his was more like I thought so.

  Berger had eaten his entire cannoli standing at the table. He brushed his hands together, sending powdered sugar into the air, and gave us a wave. “I got to take my nephews to soccer.”

  “If you need me to explain icosahedrons …”

  Berger smiled. “Thanks, Gloria. I’ll let you know.”

  I turned immediately to Matt. “You sounded as though you expected a horse.”

  He shrugged. “Not exactly, but I have been asking myself what are the possibilities why Nina would have Lorna’s phone number. One would be the connection to Lorna as a scientist, and the other would be to Lorna as a horsewoman. Trouble with you is, you always think science is the only thing someone does.”

  I cleared my throat. “Is that a criticism?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No. Let’s get to the transcript.”

  A transcript. Something official, how different, I thought, from what we had so far—a wayward email, babbling from under Wayne’s handlebar mustache, Jake’s casual remarks at dinner. I rubbed my hands together the way Elaine would do when she saw a new hardback by one of her favorite writers. Berger, who was turning into my best friend, was smart enough to bring a copy each for Matt and me. We retreated to our reading corner and turned pages almost simultaneously, skipping the boilerplate such as time and place, and getting to the heart of the matter.

  HPD: So you hired Ms. Martin when your horse died.

  PT: Yes, Lucian Five. He was an Andalusian.

  HPD: That’s a breed?

  HPD: You have to say it out loud for the tape. PT: Yes, Andalusian is a breed. He had the most beautiful mane.

  HPD: And the animal lived on the ranch with you and your niece?

  PT: Yes. My brother’s girl. She stays with me and works on the ranch full-time. The Trumble X Ranch.

  HPD: Okay. So you thought something was funny about how the horse died?

  PT: Yes, it was horrible. He … beat himself to death, flailing around inside his stall. He tore the stall apart. We heard the noise, but thought it was just the wind since it had been stormy all evening; then in the morning, there he was. There was so much blood, and his face was disfigured …

  I imagined PT was upset at reliving such a horrible scene. Nothing the transcript would pick up, however. We needed video, I thought, for a true representation of an interview.

  FDA: Ms. Trumble, you said that just before this, you’d had a veterinarian install a microchip in the animal’s body?

  PT: Lucian Five.

  FDA: In Lucian Five’s body.

  PT: Yes, on the side of his neck under the mane, so if he had a bad initial reaction, like a rash or anything, it would be hidden by the hair. FDA: Because if the rash showed, there might be points taken off at the show, is that correct? PT: Yes, dressage judges can be influenced by how well your horse appears to be taken care of, the grooming, how intricately his mane is braided, even the rider’s outfit.

  FDA: And you took very good care of Lucian Five? Had regular checkups, that kind of thing?

  PT: Of course. I know what you’re getting at. Lucian Five had the best in medical care. I’m telling you it was that chip.

  FDA: Can you tell us why you had that chip implanted?

  PT: One of the vendors at a show I was at was offering a very good deal. And I’d read about how it was important for identification in case Lucian Five was lost or stolen. We’d be able to prove it was really Lucian Five.

  FDA: What makes you think the microchip was responsible for your horse’s death?

  PT: Lucian Five was fine before the implant. He’s an older horse, and he’s allergic to a lot of things he could take when he was younger. Some common sedatives act as a stimulant for him. He can’t even take bute, except in very small doses. He didn’t react right away, so maybe the chip was like those time-release cold capsules. I’m not a vet, but I’ve been around horses and vets all my life, and I know there was something strange about that chip.

  Bute. It might as well have been written in red. I highlighted it on my copy of the transcript, so it was at least in pink. I looked over at Matt, who seemed engrossed, and not sleepy. And anyway, Trumble had mentioned bute only peripherally. Nothing to stop for right away.

  FDA: So you hired a private detective. Why not report the incident to whoever takes care of medical regulations for shows?

  PT: They just care whether some competition rule was violated. I wanted to know what happened to my horse. I wanted some proof that the chips were responsible, so I hired Ms. Martin to find out what they were made of, or something—without alerting the vet who put it there. She specializes in crimes against animals, and she said she would take care of reporting her findings to the proper authorities, once she figured out what happened.

  I put the transcript on my lap and stared up at the ceiling, as if the textured white paint swirls were the repository of all my knowledge.

  Matt stopped, too. “Here’s one big loop closed,” he said.

  I nodded. “From a dead horse in Houston to Nina Martin in Revere with horsewoman Lorna Frederick’s phone number in her pocket.”

  “So it’s possible her murder and all the other side problems have nothing to do with the Charger Street lab. It could be just Lorna the equestrian who’s involved,” Matt said.

  I was only too eager to dismiss Lorna the scientist from wrongdoing. I hated having members of my profession caught at being less than perfect. Much more acceptable if Lorna the horsewoman committed the crimes.

  “The FDA link is strange,” I said.

  Matt nodded. “I see your thinking. According to Jake Powers, the regulating body for drugs in show horses is USA Equestrian. So why did Nina have an FDA card in her pocket?”

  “Presumably, USA Equestrian monitors drugs that are already approved by the FDA, and they would only care about certain dosages that would affect a horse’s performance.”

  “I’m thinking Nina Martin must have stumbled upon something bigger than a horse show,” Matt said.

  “A drug that’s regulated not only by horse show rules, but by the US government.”

  “Then how do Wayne Gallen and his warnings and pranks fit in? Was he just blowing smoke to get close to MC?” Matt asked.

  I blew out my own smoke, in the form of a loud, confused sigh, and shook my head. “And the Alex Simpson email? And the reference to bute in the transcript?”

  “But according to what Jake said, bute is almost like aspirin, so who knows?”

  “Has Houston been able to connect Rusty Forman to anyone?”

  “Negative. It’s like he walked out of prison and flew to Revere to kill Martin.”

  We both shrugged and returned to the transcript.

  FDA: You said the vet who did the implant was a Dr. Owen Evans?

  PT: Right. He’s new, but my old doctor retired and recommended him.

  FDA: And Ms. Martin told you she was going to investigate Dr. Evans.

  PT: Yes, when she made her initial report to me. She said she planned to look into other deaths of Dr. Evans’s patients, and also the people who made the microchip. Next thing I knew she was off to Houston Poly. She was such a nice lady, born right here in Houston, a real Sou
thern lady, if you know what I mean, even though she was in a kind of unladylike line of work. Do you really think she was murdered because of this investigation?

  HPD: Is there anything else you can tell us about the circumstances? Anything else you think we should know about? PT: I don’t think so.

  “Well, there it is,” I said.

  Matt looked up. “Yes?”

  “Nina was looking into a vet, and that took her to Houston Poly where we know she signed up for MC’s class. So her vet investigation must have led her to the Houston Poly buckyball people. Remember she asked MC to put her in contact with someone who could help her with her fullerene paper.”

  Matt nodded in a way that said he was with me, and maybe ahead of me. “And there’s a vet on the payroll at the Charger Street lab.”

  “Vet plus scientists in Houston and vet plus scientists in Revere.”

  “Lorna the scientist and Lorna the horsewoman.”

  “I love it when we’re both right,” I said.

  When the phone rang, neither of us wanted to stop the momentum.