“According to the prescription bottle you saw, Kippers should have been taking only four milligrams a day,” I said. “But she must have been taking at least twenty and probably a lot more. I wonder if we’ll ever know exactly how many pills she was taking to cope with her stress at the convention. And you saw how she liked to drink.” I shuddered. In spite of my best intentions, I still didn’t like to remember being surrounded by clowns.
“No kidding,” Bambi said. “Well, I think you’re the one who accidentally sent Detective DuPrey in the right direction when you asked if Kippers’s boyfriend had been depressed, too.”
“Maybe so,” I agreed. Turns out the boyfriend Wallace (not a clown, but in fact a casino employee in Las Vegas where he and Kippers lived) had been taking large doses of diazepam and he had switched his own pills with Kippers’s. The two-milligram-sized pills were found in Wallace’s medicine cabinet, in his own prescription bottle.
I read on. The reporter quoted Wallace during his confession as saying, “I didn’t mean to kill her. I just wanted her to relax so she would shut up. Is that a crime?” There was a picture of a distraught- looking man waving his hands about. He was a big, tall guy, like I remembered from Kippers’s photos. I could see why he’d need a giant dose of tranqs. Especially living with Kippers and Gouty.
“I never would have confessed if I was Wallace,” Bambi said, bringing me back to the present moment. “I’d have said Kippers switched the pills herself.”
I agreed with Bambi. I would have accused Kippers of making the pill switch and then I would have lawyered up. (As I mentioned, I watch a lot of crime television since the divorce and I’m a bit of an expert at police lingo. And I know my rights.) Still, it was a crime and the charge would be involuntary manslaughter.
To tell you the truth, my sympathies were with Wallace.
Meanwhile, I knew one marketing director, one publicity employee, one bartender, and a whole bunch of (nervous) clowns who were all no doubt secretly breathing sighs of relief that they wouldn’t be labeled as murder suspects in the death of Kippers the Klown. Because, let’s face it, there’s nothing funny about that. And as for one extra pill in a mug of tea playing a role in the clown’s demise, I am almost one hundred percent certain it made not a whit of difference.
“Has Detective DuPrey called you?” I could hear the smile in Bambi’s voice. “I mean, in an unofficial capacity, now that none of us are on his suspect list anymore.”
She couldn’t see me blushing. “What would make you think that?”
* * * *
Shortly after charges were filed against Wallace, DDP attended a forensics conference in my neck of the woods in the Virginia suburbs of our nation’s capital. He came down for four days at the end of February and ended up staying an extra four days. Seems there were some sights he wanted to see. And I know D.C. very, very well.
I’ve been up to Green Bay twice since then, once for business and once to stay with Bambi and her husband, Lars, so she could teach me how to cross-country ski on what she calls my matchstick legs. Next time, she says, we’re going to the firing range so I can learn to handle a gun properly before she takes me hunting. (And don’t think the twenty-five-ways-to-Sunday irony of going hunting with someone named Bambi escapes me, either.) Bambi has formed an impression I might move to Wisconsin permanently, and she’s appointed herself my self-sufficiency and survival coach.
During both recent visits I spent a lot more time with DDP. He has two kids he’s raising by himself. Seems his ex didn’t like being married, much less to a detective. Shelley is four and Matthew is eight.
Shelley demanded to know why I was named Princess, and I may or may not have allowed her to believe that if I was not, in fact, a Disney princess, I was at least related to them. (The word cousin may have been used.)
And I may or may not have memorized the performance statistics of the entire Green Bay Packers starting lineup to impress a certain precocious eight-year-old with eyes just like his daddy’s. (That part was easy. I’m in marketing, and we eat statistics for breakfast.)
I never imagined myself as a potential stepmother. Then again, I never imagined myself missing a casino jackpot by a buck, aiding and abetting in accidentally offing a clown, or bagging a deer with a woman named Bambi. So I’m keeping an open mind.
Stranger things have happened.
Heck, maybe someday I’ll even tell him why I call him DDP. Then again, maybe Detective Damp Pants never needs to know.
ELEMENTAL CHAOS, by M Evonne Dobson
A single firework shoots out of the clay volcano on the table next to ours, exploding above student heads. The loud boom echoes around the courtyard between Iowa College’s towering buildings and overhead walkways. Before the sound fades, a second firework rips skyward. Smoke fills the air as bits of volcano glob rain down. The judges and nearby high school exhibitors scatter, tables overturn. The volcano’s owner stands in the fiery maelstrom, stunned. Another round goes off near his face.
I tackle him, and his skinny body folds under me. Shoulder to shoulder, my schoolmate Kyle and I drag the frozen kid under his display table. A fourth, fifth, then sixth explosion rocks.
Small white cubes ping the tabletop, doing a hail bounce onto the ground. I reach out for one. Rock salt fired from the volcano. If it rifle-bullets into your skin? It’ll hurt. Take a direct hit into the eye? You could lose it.
Volcano Kid shakes underneath me, screaming, “I didn’t do that! I didn’t do that!”
* * * *
An hour later, I’m sitting in a private conference room with Luis. He and I share history. He is Iowa College’s head of campus security, and this January he’d agreed to mentor my high school team of crime solvers. We’d helped in a suicide/murder case. It was a one-off, but then cases kept happening. Today, I’m Luis’s ace in the hole, an on-the-spot witness.
“I believe him,” I say about the Volcano Kid. “He was terrified.”
“I agree, Kami. Sam posted video that caught the explosions.”
Sam is a charter member of my crime-solvers group, but he’s also a blogger/journalist. “Let me guess, he posted on the Internet first?”
“The Chicago Times Online picked it up, and then bumped it to television.” Luis growled. “And it’s probably the best evidence we’ll get because there are no courtyard security cameras. We’ll collect selfies and social media videos, but it’ll take time.”
Sam’s been ecstatic since the Chicago Times arranged for a reporter to cover today’s statewide science convention and to mentor him for the day. Sam gained their attention after our first case report went viral.
“You were ground zero,” Luis says. “Who spiked the volcano?”
Rubbing my hair, I touch a small bump on my head. When did that happen? Ouch. “Could be anyone—anyone with science knowledge. If the chemicals were powder and simply mixed in, there’d have been one vaaabooom. That didn’t happen, so I figure the volcano was stuffed with chemical-paste doughballs that went off one by one. Volcano Kid isn’t capable of pulling that off.”
“That takes planning,” Luis says. “Who knew a volcano would be here? I mean that’s baby stuff for a competition at this level, right?”
I nod. “But each student’s project is posted on the convention website after their school registers them. And you’re right, a volcano is elementary, but every year one new school enters their no-way-ready students. Non-geek judges who are mayors or other celebrities vote for them at the school level, but when the kids get here with actual scientists doing the judging, volcanoes can’t cut it.”
“Start at the beginning. Tell me the sequence—who, what, where.”
And I relive the past. . . .
* * * *
The college lets the state high school science con use its coliseum and the area adjoining it. Once a year, the courtyard is crammed with frantic students setting
up projects before the judging begins. Overhead, small blimps soar, tethered by lines to wranglers below them. There’ll be a blimp race later. It’s state fair-type fun—but torture for the competitors.
On my knees, I unwrap my science project to display it on Kyle’s and my table. For the umpteenth time, he lets out a juvenile and irritating muahaahaa. I cringe and wish I were anywhere else on the planet. He’s unpacking his cardboard boxes containing his handwrought machines. They come out one by one like shiny brass Christmas gifts, designed to professional standards. The steam engine and the companion devices scream out Touch me! I’m cool! I shove my twitchy fingers into my jeans’ pocket.
Someone shouts, “Kam!”
My name is not Kam, and only one person calls me that—an irritating creep from Fort Daryl named Ferd. My project squeaked by his last year to win the whole competition. His voice is nasal gross. “So Geek Girl screwed up! Second place, huh?”
He’s right, second-place projects never take home the big prize. Last year as a sophomore, I placed first at my school’s fair, then went on to win here, too—highest honor in the whole state of Iowa. This year, I’m an also-ran. Kyle took first place at our school. Nothing bites more.
Kyle and Ferd have a lot in common, both being brilliant and goal-oriented, but dorky, out-of-place socially, and generally disliked by all. I can say that because I’m a geek, too, but I have friends.
Kyle says hi to the guy, but OCD Ferd taunts me, “So, your project is a locker filled with junk, right?” He’s got a bulky backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Her chaos locker is more than that!” Kyle says. “The math she put together! And that ‘junk’ represents her data sets. But mine...”
Then he bores me, vomiting out endless details on his project. Still, Kyle had defended my chaos theory exhibit to the Ferd. Who would have thought? He’s been a pain all year, hiding his steam-engine project, taunting me about my chaos locker, and then grinding salt into the wound by winning at home.
Ferd ignores Kyle and powers his way around the table, closing in with his baconator breath. “My year, Kam.”
I so want to land a power kick to his belly, but I don’t.
Our school’s newest student teacher, Call-Me-Matt, joins us. He showed up last week out of nowhere and has been way too excited to meet everyone. “And who is this, Kami?” he asks with his typical overeagerness. His enthusiasm is annoying as hell.
Before I can answer, Ferd switches to Ivy League recruit, introducing himself and sticking his paw out to shake hands. Call-Me-Matt is friendly but his eyes keep roving the jammed bodies of students and projects. Matt bothers me because he doesn’t fit. He’s ripped, not string-beany like the typical student science teacher. Ferd glances over his shoulder, maybe to find out what Call-Me-Matt is looking at, and his eyes stop at Kyle’s professional engineering goodies.
Ferd gasps, bites his lip, and hugs his backpack. In a second, he’s flipped from arrogant prick to vulnerable and scared kid, going weird as he cradles the pack like a teddy bear. Before I can ask questions, Ferd peels off into the crowd.
A voice over the loudspeaker says, “Ten minute warning. Ten minutes. This is your last notice.” Around us, student excitement rockets up, paired with fear. Kyle drops one of his posters, and then drops it again.
“You’ll do fine, Kyle.” I unload my trifold poster board and duct tape it to the table.
He flashes me a serious look. It could mean shut the hell up or a milder give me a break. I ignore him.
Sam wanders past, trailing his reporter, a guy named Johnston, who stops at run-of-the-mill exhibits, ignoring the more complex ones. Johnston fiddles with everything as the awkward duffel slung over his shoulder bangs against the tables. He stops for a few minutes, admiring the unfreaking-believable how-did-it-make-it-to-state-finals volcano project beside me. The Volcano Kid’s holding his poster board, not sure how to secure it.
Call-Me-Matt drops to his knees with his silver toolbox open, revealing glass bottles of powders and liquids, plastic tubing, and other stuff. He says to the terrified kid, “Don’t worry. I’ve got duct tape. We’ll get you set up in no time.” Then Call-Me-Matt takes off to help other students.
On the other side of our table, three red-haired girls are unloading trays of legumes. Their poster board shows a detailed drawing of root systems with small white bubbles latched onto them. One tray is tight with seedlings; the other has a teen-sparse beard look.
I nod my head toward the trio and take a stab at my tablemate. “Your competition, Kyle. Ag projects in the Midwest have an innate edge.”
He blanches and polishes harder on his mini-steam engine—no comic book laugh now. I grin, positioning a tiny replica of a school locker in front of my tri-fold. Next to it, I set out some of the junk I’d collected this past year—everyday items either tossed away or saved as high school mementos. For me, they are data sets, but the meat of my chaos-theory project is the pages and pages of mathematical projections bound into three separate reports. Each pinpoints a single bit of data that had a huge mathematical consequence later, like the butterfly wing flapping in Brazil that creates a tornado a year later in Texas.
Then the real buzz starts.
Kyle gasps, “Oh my God. The judges came out.”
“Yep.”
The judges spread out with score sheets on clipboards to grill each competitor on the decisions they made, challenge their science basics, and attack the projects. The students will defend like doctoral candidates.
When the judges approach the Legume Sisters on our left, Kyle drags his sweaty palms on his khaki pants. I take pity, because if it’s between Kyle or Ferd, I want Kyle to win. I pull out a hand-sized baby powder pack, the kind gymnasts use.
“Here,” I say as I hand it to him. “Remember to shake every judge’s hand.” A confident attitude can seal a win.
I notice Volcano Kid dumping baking soda into his volcano. Then he pulls out a vinegar bottle and lifts it to the top.
“Wait! Don’t pour it in yet!” I say. But it’s too late. He’s added the vinegar. His volcano spews foam. The rotten smell drifts toward us. The poor kid’s chemical reaction will be over before the judges make it to his station. On our other side, the Legume Sisters and judges are beaming.
Deep breath. Kyle and I will be next.
* * * *
Back in the conference room with Luis, I say, “And then the feces hit the fan. . . . After the fireworks stopped, we came out from under the table like tornado survivors. Tables were upset and projects ruined.
“My poster was riddled with ashes, smoking. As I watched, it ignited. I stomped it out, but it’s smudged and barely legible. Two other student projects were on fire. Call-Me-Matt put them out, using a tiny freaking fire extinguisher from his Boy Scout science case.”
Luis says, “And that’s when...” He points to some red and green slips of paper on the table between us, near a bag of doughnuts.
“Yeah. In the confusion afterward, there was this ear-splitting kapow. Everyone dove for cover again. Little squares of paper crinkle-rustled as they trickled into the courtyard.” The green ones read, γῆge; the red ones, πῦρpur. I’d Googled the words in the explosion aftermath. “They’re Greek symbols for the elements earth and fire—two of four elements the ancients believed made up the world. Between the fireworks, rock salt, and flying slips of paper, it was chaos.”
“Kami, we’re lucky the injury count is low: a couple twisted ankles, a few abrasions from diving under tables, and one student is at the hospital for rock salt shrapnel in her arms.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “And then a voice on the loudspeaker said, ‘Just a prank gone wrong. The judging will continue.’ But things weren’t normal. Local police and your security team swarmed the courtyard. Anyone near ground zero was asked to a private interview.” Once I’d finished mine, Luis asked to spe
ak to me.
Luis leans forward. “It may not be a prank. There was a recent Homeland Security warning, very soft, about science fairs like this one. There have been threats made against the winners.”
He pauses while I take that in. Homeland Security?
“No one wants to believe this was terrorism,” he continues, “but we’re keeping an eye on the finalists, just to be safe. Kami, do me a favor? Stay next to them. You’re our inside source. We’re on it for protection, but we want you sitting with the finalists, watching.”
That sends my eyebrows up. “I won’t make it to the finals. My display is trashed.”
Luis crams a doughnut in his mouth and talks around it. “Got you covered. Just do your thing. Sell your chaos exhibit to the judges.”
And I’ve got a free pass to the finals.
* * * *
Half an hour after our talk, I’m back in the courtyard. Local news services are everywhere. In the media crunch, Sam, Kyle, and I stand by our table, waiting for the judges. Everything is behind schedule.
“Good job on the explosion video,” I tell Sam.
“Not everyone thinks so. I sent it direct to the producers before Johnston filed his story. They put it on the net, and I got the credit.” He frowns.
“That’s bad?” I ask.
“Johnston is pissed. And get this: he named the prankster,” he air quotes, “‘the Elemental Terrorist.’ It’s stupid and cheesy, but with the terrorism angle, his online webcast—that I recorded for him—got bumped live with breaking news. And guess what I found out? He’s supposed to be at the Helsinki terrorism conference, but he got in trouble. Ended up here instead, having to hang out with me.”
Sam backs away as the judges walk up with their clipboards and pens. They talk to Kyle, then to me. My display is trashed, but I have the data reports to show how chaos theory works in large data systems. Luis asked me to sell it, and I do.
When the judges retreat to the coliseum and Sam leaves to find Johnston, I decide to give Kyle the credit he deserves. “No matter what happens, your steam engine is awesome.” He breaks into a wide smile. “And the little companion machines you made, like the fan, those are cool.”
Murder Most Conventional Page 26
