Ben took a whiff. “Apple.”
“Yeah. Except actually, it’s ethyl-2-methyl butyrate.” He uncorked another vial. “Try this one.”
Ben inhaled. “Marshmallow.”
“You’d think. But in truth it’s pure ethyl-3-hydroxybutanoate. And methyl-2-peridylketone gives you popcorn. Benzaldehyde smells like almond. And 3-methyl butanoic acid gives you human body odor.”
“Wouldn’t that make a swell hamburger.”
“No, but a hint of it might make a splendid cologne.”
“How can you add these chemicals to food without telling people? Aren’t there FDA rules? Labeling laws?”
Reynolds smiled. “Ever read one of those labels?”
“Only when I’m trying to diet.”
“Next time you check one out, or read the ingredients on a fast-food product, look for the words natural flavor.”
“I thought we were talking about chemicals.”
“We are. But if they come from organic sources, they’re called natural flavors. Even if we’ve worked for months to create those natural flavors in the lab. If they come from inorganic sources, they’re called artificial flavors. Either way, it sounds pretty innocuous, don’t you agree?”
“And you don’t have to explain what they are?”
“Nope. The FDA doesn’t make us identify the ingredients of the flavor additives, as long as they’re GRAS—Generally Regarded As Safe. You wouldn’t believe some of them. Beef extracts are commonly added to chicken sandwiches. So-called natural smoke flavor is often added to grilled chicken breasts. Is that natural? You tell me. Whatever it is, we’re specifically protected from detailing the ingredients—because these formulae are considered trade secrets.”
“Nice loophole.”
“Believe me, it’s true. The fast-food corps are constantly spying on one another, trying to swipe the other guys’ formulae. They hire spies—they’re called kites in the biz—to ferret out their competitors’ secrets. Every aspect of this business is cutthroat. Did you hear about the Kraft Foods pizza case? Kraft sued Schwan’s, claiming they stole their frozen pizza plans. They asked for 1.75 billion in damages.”
Ben whistled.
“We’re expected to do our best to keep these secrets out of the hands of kites. Which is why we have the tight security.”
“We’ve come a long way since Betty Crocker, huh?”
“Oh, not really. Flavor additives go way back. Remember, when Columbus and most of the other early explorers took off, they were searching for spices. Making food taste good was big business even then. We’re doing the same thing they did, except with chromatographs, spectrometers, and vapor analyzers.”
“Is this the kind of work Ray Goldman did? And Frank Faulkner?”
“Frank was a flavorist. He specialized in developing new food flavor formulae. He was one of the best. Sort of a cross between a chemist and a poet. There was talk that he might start his own lab. Before the tragedy. He did some breakthrough work on mouthfeel.”
“Mouthfeel?”
“Oh yeah. Very important. Mouthfeel is the combination of chemicals and textures in the mouth that determine how a processed food is perceived by the consumer.”
“Can that be controlled?”
“You betcha. Mouthfeel men use starches, gums, fats, and emulsifiers to alter the texture of foods.”
Ben considered. “Did you know anyone who might have had a grudge against Frank?”
He shook his head. “It’s like I told the police all those years ago. The murder came as a complete surprise to me. To all of us.”
“What about his personal life? Any skeletons there?”
“Not that I ever heard about. Frank seemed like the model of a family man. So many kids—but he loved them. You could tell that whenever he mentioned them. He’d been very successful and made a lot of money, and he liked to shower it on his family.”
“What about Ray? Any gossip there?”
“Not that I recall. But I didn’t hang with him much. You should talk to Chris Hubbard. He’d know more. They were pretty close.”
Ben pushed out of his chair. “Okay. Is he a flavorist?”
“Sort of. He works in the biological additives department.”
“Biological additives? Do I want to know about this?”
Reynolds walked him to the door, smiling thinly. “Probably not.”
Mike entered the exercise room without knocking.
“We need to talk. Now.”
Sergeant Baxter was seated on the floor, legs crossed, hands pressed against her knees, eyes closed. She did not look up. She did not answer.
“Did you hear me? We need to talk!”
Baxter opened one eye. “Leave me alone. I’m on my break.”
“That didn’t stop you from barging in on my coffee klatch and it’s not going to stop me from interrupting your—” He stopped short. “What the hell are you doing anyway?”
She opened the other eye and sighed. “I’m meditating. Was, at any rate.” She pushed onto her knees and dusted off her backside.
“You meditate?”
“Every day. Keeps me centered. Keeps me from losing control.”
“So that’s how you do it.”
She gave him a withering look. “You should try it sometime, Morelli. You could use a little tranquillity in your life.”
“Actually, I used to meditate. Regularly.”
“A big ol’ macho brute like yourself?”
It was Mike’s turn to wither. “Used to.” Without thinking, he took her elbow and helped her up. Baxter appeared surprised but did not resist. “I was into the hatha yoga thing. And Zen meditation. Back in college.”
“How did you ever get started on that?”
“Oh, it wasn’t me really, it was—” He shook his head. “Someone else.”
“But you stopped.”
“Yeah. I had to make some major life changes a while back. I guess that’s one of the things that fell by the wayside. Hadn’t even thought about it for years. Shame, really. I always rather enjoyed that.”
Baxter folded her arms guardedly across her chest. “I’ll probably regret this, but . . . if you’d like, I could show you a few positions.”
Mike considered for a moment, then shook himself out of it. What was he thinking? “We need to talk.”
“You’ve said that three times now. Instead of talking about how we need to talk, why don’t you just say what’s on your mind?”
Good point. “We have to work together.”
“Just now figuring that out?”
“God knows I’ve tried everything possible to avoid it, but it remains true. You may not like it. I don’t like it. But we still have to do it.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “So what do you suggest?”
“I suggest we behave like professionals. No more big scenes in the kitchen.”
“I can live with that. If you think you can restrain that tongue of yours.”
Control, he told himself. Control.
“That means you’ve got to cool it with the nasty reports. Partners don’t do that to one another.”
“Blackwell tore it up. And he told me that . . . that you didn’t say anything. About what happened the other day. What you overheard. I . . . uh . . . appreciate that.”
Baxter couldn’t have looked more surprised if he had proposed marriage.
Mike continued. “We both know you could’ve gotten me into a hell of a lot of hot water. And it must’ve been tempting, especially after my report. But you didn’t.” He paused. “Thank you.”
She waved her hand. “De nada.”
Mike suddenly felt ungodly uncomfortable. Why was it so much easier to deal with this woman when they were yelling at each other? “We’re going to have to find a workable compromise.”
“Sounds good.”
“Even if I don’t necessarily think this investigation is . . . meritorious.”
“What a diplomat you’ve become.”
“Even so, I’ll do my best to see it through in a professional manner. At the same time, I expect you to respect the fact that I’m the superior officer here. I have mucho years in homicide. I know what I’m doing.”
“Granted.” She looked at him warily. “As long as you don’t try to send me for coffee or anything.”
“No problem. I brew my own.”
Baxter smiled, just a little. She picked up her coat and holster from the hook behind the door. “Mind if I ask what brought about this remarkable conversion experience? Did you see a light on the road to Damascus?”
“More or less. Blackwell read me the riot act.”
“And?”
“And he told me to bury the bickering. He wants you to succeed here. And he wants me to help make it happen.”
“I see. So I’m sort of like your charity project or something.”
Mike fought back the irritation. “The only charity I’m working for is me. I’m not trying to be a great guy. I’m trying not to lose my job.”
Her face hardened a bit. “I see. Basically, it’s just more looking out for number one.”
“Basically, yeah. You have a problem with that?”
“No,” she said as she adjusted her holster. “I just—” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
Mike pulled a crumpled scrap of paper out of his pocket. “I found the doctor.”
“The shrink?”
“No. The other one. The doctor Sheila told us about. If you can call him that.”
“What kind of doctor is he?”
“I don’t think I can explain it. You’ll have to see for yourself.”
“How did you find him? Sheila didn’t even remember his name.”
“I’ve been a cop for fifteen years. That’s how.”
“Right, right.” She extended her hand. “Peace?”
He shook. “Peace. Hatchet buried.”
“Good.”
Mike started toward the door. “Well,” he said, trying to sound optimistic, “perhaps my lawyer friend was right. Maybe this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“Don’t push it, Morelli.”
“Right.”
“Fungal cultures?”
The man behind the thick glasses blinked. “That’s right.”
“People are eating funguses?”
“Fungi. Sure. Anytime they go into a fast-food joint, it’s a strong possibility. Biotechnological flavoring is the hot new thing.” Chris Hubbard was younger than Dr. Reynolds, and his youthful exuberance showed when he talked about his work. Rarely had Ben seen anyone become so wild-eyed and rapturous while talking about food additives. “Tissue cultures are used, too. Fermentation. But I think the most exciting breakthroughs are happening with fungi.”
“Be still my heart.”
“Although enzyme-based processes can give you some darn good dairy flavors. Any kind of butter you can imagine. Cheesy butter, creamy butter, milky butter. Anything.”
“Except that none of it’s real butter.”
“Well, not the kind Ma and Pa made back on the farm. The fermentation processes, heating combinations of sugar and amino acids, have also resulted in some dynamite meat flavors.”
“Yum, yum.”
“And the best part is, all of these are considered natural flavors by the FDA.”
“Amazing.” In order to speak to Hubbard, Ben had to submit to more security checks, then be escorted by an armed guard into a lab maybe a tenth the size of the previous one. The only entrance or egress was through a single thick metal-reinforced door. “So if your research is so hot, why do you have such a lousy lab?”
Hubbard leaned closer. “The smaller the lab, the easier it is to secure.”
“I see. Dr. Reynolds tells me you used to hang out with Ray Goldman.”
“True. I considered Ray one of my best friends.”
“Have you seen him lately?”
“No. I haven’t seen him since . . . you know.” He sighed. “I’ve thought about driving down to McAlester and visiting him. But somehow, I never did it. It just seemed . . . I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if he’d be glad to see me or not. So I never went.”
“What did the two of you do? Before he was incarcerated?”
Hubbard averted his eyes. “Well . . . this is . . . rather embarrassing.”
Aha, Ben thought. At last, I’ve uncovered the nasty. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but I need to know everything that might possibly be relevant.”
“Still . . . I don’t see any reason . . .”
What is it? Ben wondered. Sexual degradation? Petty larceny? “I’m sorry, but I have to insist. And if necessary, I’ll have to subpoena.”
Hubbard drew in his breath. His teeth clenched tightly together. “Well . . .”
Yes . . . Yes . . .
“We used to play Scrabble.”
Ben stared at him blankly. “That’s it?”
“Yeah. Humiliating, isn’t it? You probably thought we were hot young studs out on the town, carving a swath through all the beautiful babes. But no. Most nights we were rearranging tiles and figuring out a way to get rid of the Q.”
“I see . . .”
“It’s particularly embarrassing because people already have this stereotype that scientists—and particularly chemists—are really boring. And what do you know? It turns out to be true.”
“There must’ve been something else. . . .”
“Not much. Mind you, we got really good, there toward the end. We were in a league.”
“A . . . Scrabble league?”
“You bet. They’re all over the country. All over the world, actually. We got together twice a week to play and practice. Compare strategies. Memorize word lists.”
“Fascinating.”
“Did you know there are ninety-six legitimate two-letter words? Knowing them is the key to the game. A well-placed two-letter word can score better than a seven-letter bingo.”
“Do tell.”
“Ray was one of the best. He had all the word lists down cold. He was so organized, you know? Not all that social, but very organized. And he was a master of the anagram. He once scored three bingos in a single game. That’s when you lay down all seven of your tiles at once. You get a fifty-point bonus for that, you know.”
“Sounds like you two took this seriously.”
“We did. We were tournament-rated.”
“There are tournaments?”
“Lots of them. We’d qualified for the nationals. Then Ray ran into that spot of trouble. . . .”
Being arrested for murder. Yeah, that could spoil your Scrabble career. “What did you think when Ray was arrested?”
“I couldn’t believe it. I mean, sure, Ray had his eccentricities. Oddities. But a mass murderer? No way.” Ben noticed that his fingers were fidgeting. “I mean, surely not.”
“You don’t seem totally convinced.”
“Well, I mean, I wasn’t there, was I? You never really know what anyone might be capable of doing, given the right circumstances. But I couldn’t believe that Ray did . . . that horrible crime.”
Ben shifted around in his chair. This conversation was starting to make him feel distinctly uncomfortable. “Tell me about these eccentricities of Ray’s.”
“Oh . . . gosh . . .” Ben could tell the man already regretted having said anything. “It’s hard to explain. Once or twice we went out together. Single bars, that sort of thing. I was unmarried back then. And this was before Ray met Carrie.”
“You knew Carrie?”
“Oh yeah. Wonderful woman. She really loved him.”
“She dumped him.”
“Well, honestly, what can you expect? When your fiancé is on death row, that doesn’t augur well for the marriage. Still, I always wondered if there wasn’t maybe . . . I don’t know. Something else going on. Something he did or said.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I’m just babbling.”
Was the man intentional
ly frustrating him, or did it just work out that way? Ben couldn’t be sure. But he made a mental note to follow up on this. “Tell me about these singles’-bar outings. What was so odd about Ray?”
“Maybe odd isn’t the right word. He just . . . didn’t react the way other people do. Particularly about women.”
“Give me an example.”
“Oh, like, I’d see some hot-looking chick in a slinky dress and I might wolf-whistle or make some approving remark about a part of her anatomy. But Ray would say things like, ‘Yeah, I’d like to knock her down and give her what she wants.’ You know, stuff like that.”
Ben felt his mouth drying. “And what did you think when he said this?”
“Not much at the time. I just thought of it as one of Ray’s quirks. Frankly, chemists aren’t always the most socially well-adjusted people on earth. But then, after the murders, I began to wonder. . . .”
“If Ray was really the killer.”
“No, no!” Hubbard held up his hands. “I’m sure he wasn’t. I just . . . you know. You can’t help but wonder.”
“Did Ray make any other violent remarks?”
“Just more of the same. ‘If I could get her in a room alone, I’d wipe the smile off her face.’ Or: ‘I could take that clown out with one kick to the kneecap.’ Like that. I mean, I can’t say I never heard anything like that from a man before. Guys will be guys, especially after a few drinks.”
“Did Frank Faulkner go on any of these barhops?”
“Frank? No.”
“But you knew Frank.”
“Yeah, but he ran in higher circles than we did. He was older and had already become a huge success. He was the company’s bright young thing. Already rich as hell, too.”
“Did you know of anyone who might’ve had a reason to kill him?”
“No. I suppose his early success could stir up a lot of jealousy. Resentment. But to kill him? Surely not.”
“What did you do on these bar outings?”
“Oh, precious little, believe me. I don’t think we ever once picked up a woman. I’m not sure we ever even spoke to one. We just watched mostly. Swilled drinks and admired from a distance. Which was not so bad, actually. There are worse things than watching a parade of shapely female calves pass by.”
Death Row Page 17