The Nitrogen Murder

by Camille Minichino

  Dana’s head hurt, but she tried to focus on what might have upset Marne. Somehow she must have found out about the mix-up on the report and thought Dana really accused Tanisha of being a druggie. But Dana couldn’t believe the cops would bother unless they thought Tanisha was a dealer. And there was no way they could twist Dana’s words into that.

  “What happened in there?” Dana heard.

  A familiar voice. Her boss. Julia Strega had joined Elaine, Gloria, and Matt. Tom Stewart was right behind her. Tom and Julia must have already been in the parlor when Dana arrived.

  “We wondered if you’d even show up, after … you know,” Tom said.

  “No, I don’t know,” Dana said, alert now. Leave it to Tom to get her juices going, queasy or not.

  “We heard the story on the local news this morning, plus all the gossip.”

  Dana hated Tom’s stupid grin and bobbing Adam’s apple and the way he always acted as though he had some secret you were dying to know. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking what the story was. Luckily, Julia was aware of the ongoing tension between Dana and Tom and paired them only when she had no other choice.

  “Could you get me some more water?” Dana asked Matt.

  Tom screwed up his mouth, defeated.

  “Sure,” Matt said. His look was understanding, but Dana knew he wondered why she had let herself get drawn into this infantile game.

  As Dana would have guessed, Gloria took Tom’s bait.

  “What was on the news that we should have heard?” she asked.

  Julia broke in to answer. “It was about the search of Tanisha’s house.” Julia’s hair looked especially red today, a poor match to the peach-colored shirt under her jacket. “They, uh, found incriminating stuff.”

  “Heroin,” Elaine said, sounding in the know, holding her cell phone in a position to be answered immediately.

  “Nuh-uh,” Tom said, clearly pleased with himself. “Supplies.”

  “Supplies?” Gloria asked.

  “Medical supplies,” Julia said. “And meds.”

  “The ones that were stolen,” Tom added. His thin lips disappeared into his cheeks.

  Tanisha had the stolen medical supplies?

  Tom licked his lips, his tongue just missing the pimples at the corners of his mouth. It turned Dana’s stomach.

  Dana ran her hand across her forehead; her palms were sweaty. She watched the room spin in front of her, as if she were in the middle of the centrifuge in her college biology lab. Flowers, chairs, people, purses all flew out from her. Elaine, Gloria, Matt, Julia, Tom, flung to the edge of her vision. Colors mixed, becoming white; the music faded.

  Pass me not, O gentle Savior; hear my humble cry.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The last person who’d passed out in front of me was Matt, early in his cancer treatment program. That ordeal came rushing to my mind as I saw Dana, white as the covers of Elaine’s wedding books, slump to the side, her elbow landing on the arm of the couch, as if she’d made an effort not to fall to the floor.

  Julia Strega took over. No one else tried to help, deferring to the expertise of the veteran EMT. Even Tom stepped back, his movements edgy, more nervous than his own emergency services training would dictate. I wondered if his petulance around Dana might be due to some unrequited affection for her.

  In the space of a few seconds, Julia had loosened Dana’s clothing, thrown her own jacket over Dana’s upper body, and held Dana’s limp wrist in position to take her pulse. I wondered idly if Valley Med’s owner had driven to the service in an ambulance. Maybe she drove one on her daily errands. I tried picturing the small, wiry woman behind the wheel of a massive, screaming van.

  Elaine asked, “Where’s Phil?” in an exasperated whisper, as if her fiance should have been at his adult daughter’s side. Her side, was more likely what she was feeling.

  Julia’s words to Dana were inaudible, except for their soothing rhythm. When she stood up to address us, she seemed satisfied with her impromptu patient.

  “She’s breathing fine, coming around,” Julia said. “Temporary blackout. She’s probably dehydrated.” Close up, past the red hair, Julia looked my age. I pulled at a strand of my unruly, graying waves and reminded myself that it was possible, if I so desired, to revisit the black hair of my youth.

  Matt, who’d left the group when Dana fainted, now handed Julia a bottle of water. “The ambulance is here,” he said.

  So Matt had been busy; he hadn’t left the scene from squeamishness as I nearly had. I didn’t often get to see Matt’s emergency skills at work. I allowed myself a pleasant moment, imagining Matt in his uniform days, learning and administering first aid.

  Dana was awake enough to try to reject the gurney ride, but by then two middle-aged men—Hutton Funeral Home employees, by their stiff dress and manner—had arrived and reinforced the notion that Dana needed formal medical attention. I saw fears of liability in the wringing of their hands.

  In a massive regrouping outside the building, Julia and Elaine (by special concession, Julia said) rode in the ambulance with Dana; Tom was to drive Julia’s car; and Matt would drive himself and me in Elaine’s Saab. We’d all end up at the nearest hospital in San Leandro.

  As the red-and-white Valley Med ambulance pulled away, I had a better idea.

  “You and Julia came together, right?” I asked Tom.

  Tom nodded, bouncing from one foot to the other, his muscular arms waving slightly, in time with his head. A whole-body nod.

  “Why don’t I drive you home, Tom? You don’t really need to go to the hospital, do you?” A bright, generous offer from me, followed by a spirited affirmative shake of Tom’s head. “Matt, you can take Julia’s car. I’ll take Tom home in the Saab and then meet you at the hospital.”

  Matt’s smirk told me he saw right through my tactic. “Sounds like a plan,” he said, as we exchanged keys.

  I couldn’t wait to get to know Tom Stewart better.

  I let Tom tell me his life story The only son of a doctor; three older sisters; grew up in rural Arnold, California; award-winning quarterback in high school. He explained how the quarterback had to be very bright, as so many male colleagues had tried to convince me over the years. “Bright” is not playing a game requiring body armor, I’d respond.

  Tom shared with me how he always wanted to be in a helping profession and had thought of med school himself.

  “But, too much time and money,” he said. “And I wanted to, you know, be able to get in there and do my job.” Tom mimed tossing a football for emphasis.

  “No waiting in the dugout for Tom Stewart,” I said, buying into his sports metaphors.

  “That’s baseball,” he said.

  “I knew that.”

  As we shared a laugh, Tom seemed to me a sweet, pathetic creature, and I wondered why Dana disliked him so intensely.

  We rolled west along San Leandro streets toward the I-880 freeway and Tom’s home. Head for Jack London Square, he’d told me. I apologized to Tom for the fitful starts I made after traffic lights and stop signs. I hadn’t driven Elaine’s car in a long time.

  “I’ll bet you’re a great driver,” I said, “having to maneuver an ambulance all day. I’d never be able to do that.” Too obvious? I wondered. But Tom’s proud expression said I was doing fine.

  “You get used to it. The worst part is backing down a long driveway or something, but I’m pretty good in reverse, except one time, I hit a rock, and my partner in the back didn’t shut the door good, and all these rubber gloves fell out and onto the ground.”

  Ah, the segue I’d been waiting for. “Say, what about those medical supplies?” I said, clicking my tongue. “They actually found them in Tanisha’s house? Rubber gloves and things?”

  “Ha,” Tom said, “not rubber gloves, you better believe. Think needles. And meds. All kinds of meds, from nursing homes mostly. You’d be surprised at how often they use morphine in those facilities, for any kind of pain, for mechanical v
entilation, for respiratory failure, for arthritis. You’ll even see Roofies. You know, the date-rape drug.”

  I knew. “I’m surprised. Morphine is at least legal. But Rohypnol? Why would a nursing home have the date-rape drug?”

  “They use it as a mild anesthetic, like maybe pre-op, or even a cure for insomnia.”

  “So, someone”—I did not say “Tanisha”—“steals a nursing home drug and then sells it to someone else?”

  “Yep. There’s been lots of other stuff missing for a few months now, here and there, and everyone was wondering. EMTs always get blamed, you know, and I guess this time they were right.”

  “Why would she steal the meds? Is it that easy to sell them, do you think?”

  I caught Tom’s face, raised eyebrows and crooked grin. “Hello? There’s certainly a market out there.”

  “Really?” From a wide-eyed old lady “Where?”

  Tom made a sputtering sound to go with his duh attitude. “You can go to any street corner in Oakland, for one thing.”

  “That seems dangerous, and not very efficient. Walking around from one corner to the next selling … what? Roofies?”

  “There’s also morphine, remember—a standard supply in a SNF.”

  “A sniff?”

  “S-N-F.” Tom spelled it out. “Skilled nursing facility. Plus you’ll have psychotherapeutics, hypnotics, lots of stuff.”

  “Wouldn’t there be a more organized way to distribute all these meds?”

  “Yeah, well, I couldn’t say.”

  I wondered.

  Matt called my cell phone to tell me Dana had already been released from the hospital. She’d been given a shot of nutrients and told to take care of herself. The consensus was that we needed to take her home to Elaine’s and give her a decent meal. The Italian solution.

  “How was it with Tom, by the way?” Matt asked, as if he’d feared for the young man who’d been in my clutches.

  “Interesting,” I said, glancing over at Tom.

  I’m still with him, said my tone, but one look at Tom, his head leaning on the side window, either nodding off or pretending to, told me I’d gotten all I was going to get from him for now.

  As far as I knew, Elaine Cody had no Italian blood, but you couldn’t tell from the meal she’d prepared. Pasta with a clam sauce, a side dish of sauteed zucchini and mushrooms, and large amounts of focaccia, olive oil, and salad. Maybe it had been Matt Gennaro’s influence in the supermarket they’d stopped at on the way home. My contribution was a stop at a local ice cream parlor to pick up a quart of spumoni and a half pint of their chocolate sauce. It was hard to beat an Italian menu when it came to fattening someone up.

  Dana was a good sport about eating a little of each course while we watched and pretended to count her calories.

  “I’m fine, really. They gave me B-12 at the hospital. I think it was just … everything, you know. Seeing Tanisha, then Marne coming after me like that. And then the supplies.” Dana’s voice got higher with each item she ticked off. “No way in hell did Tanisha steal supplies. She was studying for the firefighters test.”

  I failed to see the connection, but I wanted to believe Dana’s judgment of her friend and partner.

  I’d thought about going up to Mrs. Hall at the service, to see if I could find out more about the search of her home and what led her to believe Dana had prompted it. But what would I have said? I’m with the woman you just threw out. I hoped there’d at least be an opportunity for Dana to talk to her.

  I looked across Elaine’s red-and-white bistro tablecloth at Dana Chambers. Except for her stature, she didn’t resemble her father, and I wondered if her mother had the same classically pretty features, with a small nose and perfect teeth. She seemed outwardly to be doing well, but I sensed a deeper discontent.

  Elaine had thrown herself into meal preparation, but it was clear that she was upset about Phil’s absence. She’d put her cell phone on the kitchen counter while she was cooking, then carried it to the dining room table. I decided to let her bring it up first if she wanted anything from me.

  Another thing about Italian meals, besides the fattening effect, is that they make everyone sleepy. We all turned in early, including Dana, who accepted the invitation to sleep over on the twin bed in Elaine’s office.

  No Internet access tonight, I thought.

  Matt and I had managed a quick debriefing before falling asleep, but there wasn’t much to report on either side. Matt thought it would be a good idea to go to Phil’s house in the morning, and I agreed. My only offering was a bit of detail from Tom Stewart about the stolen medical supplies, and a hunch that he knew more. But a hunch was just that—conjecture, speculation, gut feeling. Nothing I’d built my career in science on.

  I expected to be the first downstairs to make espresso, early on Wednesday morning, but I could tell by the aroma that Elaine had beat me to it, except she’d made regular coffee.

  “Now my espresso machine is broken,” she said. “What else?”

  I understood the stress that would lead her to equate a faulty kitchen appliance, easily replaced, with a missing fiance.

  She picked up her landline phone—checking for a dial tone, I assumed.

  “Still can’t get Phil?” I asked.

  She shook her head, close to tears. She reached into her pocket for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. She was dressed casually, which for Elaine meant neatly pressed khakis and a knit crewneck shell. She’d set out four matching mugs with modern geometric designs in muted colors.

  “No answer at work, or home, or cell. I talked to his secretary, but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, put me through to Phil’s boss. I have half a mind to go over there.”

  “Didn’t you say he sometimes has to fly out of the country on short notice? Couldn’t this be one of those times?”

  “He’d have called by now. It’s been almost two whole days. And he promised me he’d be around the next two weeks. I keep thinking about that briefcase I saw in his office.”

  “You said it was empty, right?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t look for secret compartments or anything.”

  I rolled my eyes and screwed up my mouth. Had I done this to my friend? Seeing my clownish look, Elaine came up with one of the first smiles I’d seen in a while.

  Elaine sat on a counter stool and rotated slowly, ninety degrees, back and forth. “What if he just got cold feet, Gloria?”

  The thought stunned me. That my confident, intelligent friend worried about being jilted also surprised me. Though she went in and out of relationships frequently, none of Elaine’s breakups had been dramatic; certainly no last-minute dropouts, on either side.

  And Phil didn’t seem the cold-feet type. I phrased it differently for Elaine, however. “I think if Phil had problems he’d have told you straight out.”

  “You think?”

  I reached out to Elaine. Our hug was interrupted by the swinging door between the kitchen and dining room. Matt, probably needing that first sip of caffeine that seemed to lift the bags under his eyes.

  “Worried about Phil?” he asked.

  I gave him a nod that asked, Can you help?

  He pulled Elaine away from me and put his arm around her. “Listen, do you want me to see what I can do?” he asked.

  The response was what I wanted, but at the same time, it unnerved me. It made Phil’s absence more serious, not just a temporary lapse from a busy guy who lost track of time, or whose cell phone battery was low. He might be in serious trouble or danger.

  I knew that Matt already had an appointment with Inspector Dennis Russell to lay out the flimsy information we had that might be new and useful to the Berkeley PD. My biggest expectation had been that Matt might be able to coax the police into considering Tanisha Hall a murder victim, instead of primarily a drug user or thief who’d been killed.

  Now I had another agenda, which was to find Phil Chambers. I had no idea what the law was concerning missing adults. I could imagine the pol
ice declining to put much effort into locating a healthy, strapping man who was known to be a frequent international traveler and who was destined for the altar in less than two weeks. I suspected that, like Elaine, they’d first latch on to the cold-feet theory. But Phil was also a scientist working on a classified, security-related project. Shouldn’t someone care? Maybe Matt’s presence, as one of their own, would help.

  Apparently Matt’s offer unnerved Elaine, too, since her tears started flowing.

  Right then Dana appeared in the kitchen wearing a lavender chenille robe I recognized as Elaine’s. Her arrival made things worse, as it seemed to occur to all of us at the same time that Phil’s daughter needed to know why Elaine was crying.

  I knew Dana’s short period of grace, which had brought color to her cheeks, was about to end.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  We dropped Matt off at the Berkeley PD—lots of luck, I thought, glad I wasn’t the one headed up the imposing stone steps to the front door—then Elaine, Dana, and I drove to Phil’s house in Kensington.

  The FOR SALE sign on the lawn reminded me how glad I was that Elaine had convinced Phil to move to her house after the wedding, instead of her moving in with him. Elaine’s neighborhood was physically almost an extension of the UC Berkeley campus, a significantly more diverse environment than this small, affluent, mostly white community in the hills to the north. Of course, I reminded myself, Phil hadn’t yet made the move.

  “What are we even looking for?” Dana asked as Elaine produced a key. She scanned the house and grounds, seeming less concerned than I expected that no one had heard from her father for almost two days. Probably because they weren’t in daily contact. Neither Elaine nor I wanted to disabuse her of the notion that there was really nothing to worry about. I also had the thought that Dana couldn’t admit yet another crisis into her consciousness this week.

  “We’re going to check out the briefcase,” Elaine said.

  “And try to find his calendar,” I added. “Or just a telephone number or note that might give us a start to figuring out where he went.”