Boric Acid Murder, The

by Camille Minichino

  I knew John had dated several women in the intervening year, and had planned to take his latest significant other, Carolyn Verrico, on a cruise to Bermuda. I held back the information until I could determine whether that would make him look better or worse in the eyes of the law.

  I wished I knew more about Yolanda Fiore. Was she as sweet and innocent as she looked in the publicity photo—or had she provoked her killer? Was she a blackmailer? A jealous lover? A killer herself, perhaps, murdered by someone defending himself? I winced at how far I’d strayed from reason.

  Matt leaned forward and scratched his chin, a sure sign he was paying close attention. “Is that it?”

  Berger shook his head. “There’s more.”

  I wanted to clap my hands over my ears so I’d hear no more incriminating details, but I needed to know everything if I was going to help John.

  “His prints were on her purse, next to the body.”

  I gritted my teeth. I can deal with that, I told myself. Maybe it was a very old purse, one she’d used when she and John had dated. I’d heard fingerprints last for years.

  But Berger wasn’t finished.

  “And we have a couple of witnesses who claim they saw John and Yolanda having dinner at Russo’s on Thursday, likely only a few hours before she was murdered.”

  I groaned. “I suppose they were arguing.”

  Berger nodded. “Loud and clear.”

  I sat back, trying to push away a feeling of defeat. It didn’t help that I was tired, after a long flight and a hectic ten days in California. I longed for my apartment, a refreshing shower, quiet time with Matt. Not yet.

  I tried to keep my mind off John the murder suspect, and focus on Berger’s summary of the details in the case. Derek Byrne, assistant director of the Revere Public Library and Yolanda’s current boyfriend, told police he’d let her into the library building on Thursday after hours, so she could use the Internet. He left her around eleven o’clock, adjusting the security system so she could leave when she wanted to without setting off an alarm. When the director, Dorothy Leonard, came in early the next morning, she found Yolanda’s body at the foot of the stairs to the basement and called the police immediately.

  I mentally listed the facts of the crime scene as Berger read from the report. Yolanda’s purse with the usual contents—wallet, hairbrush, tissues, cosmetics, keys. Traces of blood on the coat rack near the top of the stairs. No sign of a break-in. Nothing else disturbed.

  My mind drifted to the chief suspect, journalist John Galigani, and to an article he’d written a few months ago on the city jails, housed in the basement of the police department building. Last winter, a prisoner had escaped by pushing the bars away from the decaying old masonry and John took the opportunity to plead for state funds for a new facility. How ironic that he was virtually a prisoner there himself. I pictured him escaping—snapping a rusty old lock in two, running through the building, racing across town, breathlessly climbing the stairs to my apartment for refuge. Would I harbor a fugitive? I wondered, as if I had to make the decision any moment.

  “So we’ve got the letters, the prints, and the alleged argument,” Matt said. I was glad one of us was in the proper mood for objectivity.

  “Right,” Berger said. “And he does have a record.”

  My head snapped up. “A record? John Galigani?”

  Berger moved a sheet of paper to the top of the stack. “Afraid so. He’s been arrested for trespassing and disorderly conduct. Twice, in the last ten years.”

  I sank back on the sofa. “Good Fridays.”

  Berger clucked his tongue. “That’s right.”

  How could I have forgotten? The Good Friday protests against the weapons program at the Charger Street lab. Every year, anywhere from a few dozen to hundreds of protesters were arrested for blocking the entrances to the lab. Rose and Frank were so upset when John was among them, their feelings bouncing back and forth between anger at their son’s criminal behavior and pride that he had such strong convictions. Rose blamed herself for not keeping better track of John’s activities. Frank claimed John’s sociology professors at Boston College put him up to it. Robert and Mary Catherine thought their brother was on something.

  “Now I remember,” Matt said.

  “Once in the seventies twelve hundred people were arrested outside my Berkeley lab,” I said, eager to give a context to John’s actions, make him part of the culture, not a lone criminal, capable of anything.

  “But it does show he’s willing to break the law,” Berger said.

  I pressed my lips together to avoid speaking before I was ready. I reminded myself that Matt, and even his partner, probably wanted to clear John as much as I did.

  “Is that how it’s perceived?” I finally asked. “Civil disobedience leads to murder?” I hoped my voice sounded more controlled to them than it did to me.

  “You have to think like a DA.” Matt screwed up his Roman nose—only slightly bigger than mine, and with one extra bump—and shook his head. His signal for bad news. “They’re going to pull up everything.”

  I sat back, willing myself to think clearly. I remembered John’s comment on how he’d met Yolanda—she’d been a writer at the Charger Street lab when he’d worked that beat for the Revere Journal. I wondered how her employment there squared with John’s anti-lab leanings.

  “What exactly did she do at the lab?” I asked, carefully phrasing the question. I didn’t want to remind them of another possible motive for John—differing political positions, in addition to a romance gone bad.

  Berger sifted through the papers in front of us. “Here’s a memo that says she was fired a week ago. That’s why she was in the library—to use the Internet since her home computer evidently belonged to the lab and she’d had to return it. Before that her job was to put together material for the lab’s outreach programs. Public Affairs Office, Visitor Center, Education Division, things like that. Here’s a page with Parker’s notes on her latest project.”

  Berger handed me the sheet. I squinted at Detective Ian Parker’s tiny script. His list of questions under “Lab” sparked my interest.

  I read out loud.

  “Controversy?

  “Nuclear reactor—safety issues?

  “Cooling water?

  “Spent fuel pools?

  “Boron (i.e., boric acid)?”

  I breathed deeply and smiled broadly at my partners. “There it is. Yolanda uncovered a problem with boron and she was fired.”

  Matt looked at Berger. “I think that’s an ‘aha,’” he said.

  IT SEEMED TOO GOOD to be true, but I saw myself digging up the boron connection, setting John free.

  “Am I the only guy here who doesn’t know what boron is?” Matt asked after Berger and I spent a few minutes discussing how a work-related controversy could have led to Yolanda’s murder.

  Matt and I both knew Berger would appreciate an opportunity to use his one year of college chemistry. When I first appeared on the Revere Police Department scene to help investigate the murder of a Charger Street lab hydrogen researcher, Berger had resisted.

  “How much detective work have you done?” he’d asked me.

  Matt had answered for me. “About as much science as you’ve done, Berger,” he’d said with a grin. Although I’d proven my worth a few times, I still took great pains to play down my expertise when Matt’s partner was around.

  Berger rubbed his hands together, clearly delighted at the prospect of tutoring Matt, who at fifty-five was at least twenty years his senior. “Boron is the fifth element in the periodic table,” he said. “And the most common boric acid is H3BO3.”

  I wondered if he’d researched boron in his old chemistry text before Matt and I arrived. When he announced, “Boron was discovered by Humphry Davy in 1808 but not identified as an element until 1824,” I was sure he had done some cramming. Most scientists I’d worked with would never pass a test on historical trivia. It was the present that mattered.

 
“The main use of boron compounds is as a bleaching agent in detergents,” Berger said, continuing to sound like a textbook. “The most popular one is called sodium perborate. It’s obtained by mixing boron with two other—uh—some kind of -ides that I can’t quite remember.”

  “Like 20 Mule Team Borax?” Matt asked. “My father always had that around the garage.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “That’s one of the common products that contains boron.”

  Matt looked at Detective Parker’s list. “How’s boron used in nuclear reactors?”

  Berger cleared his throat. I had the feeling he’d come to the end of his expertise on boron. “Gloria probably knows more about that than I do.” He smiled at me, as if to indicate there were no hard feelings.

  “I’m a little rusty, myself,” I said truthfully. It had been a while since I’d read Nuclear News.

  “Do you need some paper?” Berger asked. He pulled a child-size bright red easel from the corner. The image of me sitting on the built-in seat, formed for the one- to three-year-old set, must have hit all of us at once and we laughed out loud—a nice relief for the tension in my muscles.

  Knowing the boron tutorial had to do with John Galigani’s arrest for murder made it less fun to talk science, but I organized my thoughts and went on.

  “Boron is what we call a neutron poison.”

  “So it’s no good for neutrons?” Matt asked.

  I shook my head, aware the term was confusing. “Just the opposite. It absorbs neutrons. That means it doesn’t allow them to interact with each other, or with whatever other nuclei are in the way. It’s important in a nuclear power plant because we don’t want runaway reactions.”

  “Right,” Berger said.

  “Huh?” Matt asked.

  “We need to be able to control the reactions of the neutrons. Putting a neutron absorber like boron into the system does that for us. Usually components will be made of boron, and a solution of boric acid will be used in cooling and waste systems.”

  “OK. That’s enough for now,” Matt said.

  “But I’m just getting started.”

  “Later.” His grin took the edge off the abrupt curtailment of my lesson.

  “We’ll have to look at Yolanda’s notes,” Berger said. “Whatever she might have had with her in the library when she was killed is gone. There were no notes or disks near the body.”

  “No briefcase?” Matt asked.

  Berger shook his head. “Nothing like that. But I’m sure Parker’s checked her apartment and I don’t know what he found there. Sorry you’re out of the loop here, Matt. Rules are rules, I guess.”

  Matt nodded. “It’ll be hard not to get involved. But I have plenty to do. There’s Rigione, Peters, Gong, Sforza …” He wiggled his fingers, indicating there were too many other cases to count.

  I tried to determine if Matt felt as acquiescent as he sounded, but his face was turned from me.

  The noisy whoosh of a minivan door floated through the screen door. I looked out the picture window and caught a glimpse of Roberta, Berger’s wife, unfolding an elaborate stroller, with enough pockets and shelves to rival a lab locker. I was thrilled to hear Matt’s next suggestion.

  “We probably should be going. I’m sure Gloria’s exhausted from her trip.”

  After a brief visit in the driveway with Roberta and Cynthia, Matt and I waved good-bye to the family. The nuclear family, I mused.

  “Are you really going to recuse yourself from this case?” I asked as I buckled myself into Matt’s Camry.

  He nodded. “Department policy.”

  Good thing I’m not in the department, I thought.

  THREE

  AS HE PULLED ONTO Broadway, Matt turned and gave me a wide smile. “Nice work, letting Berger in on the chemistry lesson,” he said, reminding me of his own attractive qualities.

  “I’m glad you’re not egotistical,” I told him.

  “You mean you’re happy I’m not sensitive about my ignorance?”

  I laughed. “Something like that. By the way, have you been to the library lately?” I used a nonchalant tone, as if I hadn’t been plotting a trip to the crime scene for the past hour.

  Matt reached over and rubbed my shoulder and upper arm, a proprietary gesture that I loved, although it had taken several amorous evenings for me to stop wishing I had leaner, firmer biceps for the occasion. His, after all, were in similar soft, cushiony shape.

  “You’re thinking there’ll be a uniform there and he’ll let us in,” he said.

  “Exactly.”

  “And since we’re not on the job, you must want to check out the New Releases shelf?”

  “Right again.”

  We took a slight detour down Pleasant Street, past the police department, and parked on Beach Street near the front of the Revere Public Library. Bereft as I was of any literary sense, I had always admired the building itself, which dated from 1902, according to the numerals on the new-looking sign—brick—red printing on white—that decorated the front lawn. In my day, Revere High had been next door to it, before being rebuilt in another location a few years ago. I guessed I hadn’t visited this spot since Rose had dragged me to a fund-raiser around the holidays. I remembered hearing about plans for remodeling and expanding the library, and the importance of preserving the architectural lines and materials of the original Georgian structure. The Carnegie style, they’d called it, after philanthropist Andrew Carnegie.

  Now the beautiful building was a crime scene, but the only indication of that was the uniformed officer sitting on a brick ledge that protruded from the left front of the edifice. No yellow tape, no sign on the door. I didn’t even notice a cruiser in the vicinity. A coffee run in progress, I guessed.

  “The director probably wants to keep it low-key,” Matt said. “A highly publicized murder is not the best way to inspire donors.”

  “Is he planning to open on Monday?”

  “She,” Matt said. I slapped my forehead, figuratively. Matt’s grin told me he was pleased he’d caught me in a sexist assumption. “Dorothy Leonard’s had the job since the first of the year. She’s spearheading the plan for renovation and expansion.” I’d forgotten the name on the police report. Jet lag, not old age, I told myself. And lack of interest, I admitted. I’d never used public libraries on a routine basis since they couldn’t compete with a lab or university for the specialized books and periodicals I liked to read.

  In spite of thirty years of effort by my well-read friends, I’d never sustained an interest in fiction or any other nontechnical reading. The farthest I strayed from a book with numbers was to scientific biography.

  Once inside the building—a small wave of Matt’s hand was all it took to get us access—we were surprised to find we weren’t alone. The impeccably dressed Director Dorothy Leonard greeted us as Matt and I climbed the half flight of stairs from the entryway to the main floor.

  “Working late?” Matt’s smile said they were well acquainted.

  Professional associates, I assumed. Hoped.

  “I lost a lot of time yesterday and some things won’t wait,” she said, in the resigned tone of one who didn’t like working on a Saturday night. Several inches taller than Matt and me, Leonard wore smart slacks and a blazer, in taupe, and seemed the kind of woman who did the dishes in a similar outfit. I was conscious of being in my airplane clothes—green knit pants and top, now sticking to my body in disconcerting places. After ten days in the dry heat of California, I had to reacquaint myself with the humidity of Massachusetts in June. Even in Leonard’s imposing presence, however, Matt seemed perfectly comfortable in his casual pants and faded brown polo shirt. I figured he must have learned the attitude in detective school.

  “This is Dr. Gloria Lamerino,” he told her. “A science consultant for the department.”

  Leonard nodded in my direction. A polite gesture, with no warmth or accompanying greeting. I hoped her apparent lack of interest in me stemmed from the distraction of dealing with mu
rder on her premises and not disgust at my appearance. I was glad I’d at least left my cane in Matt’s car.

  She invited us into her office, an ample room a half flight up from the main floor, on the mezzanine level. My eyes ran over the rich mahogany furniture, an art deco lamp, and a large bay window onto the back lot. The ugly orange carpet seemed out of place, as if it might be a temporary fix while the city government replenished its stock of the pleasant, light blue fabric that lay over the main floor.

  But it was the walls that captured my attention. They were covered with nearly a dozen art prints of the old Revere Beach Boulevard. Bluebeard’s Palace. The Virginia Reel. Carousel horses. Popcorn and cotton-candy stands. The Cyclone roller-coaster, seen from a car on its topmost hill. DO NOT STAND UP warned a cracked wooden sign. Several views of the ocean side included boxy old cars lining the street, dumping out bathers in cumbersome black suits. The colors were muted, as if they’d aged along with the people in the scenes.

  I wanted the prints, and it showed.

  “I can get you a set,” Matt said softly. He pointed to a chair and I guessed I’d missed an invitation to be seated.

  I made a note to request another detour before Matt took me home—to the real Revere Beach Boulevard, a mile from my apartment. The Atlantic Ocean would always be the ocean for me, even after thirty years by the Pacific.

  “I can’t stop thinking about what happened here,” Leonard said to Matt. “It’s too … bizarre.”

  It, I assumed, was finding Yolanda Fiore’s body in her establishment. I wondered at her choice of bizarre until Matt explained. “Mrs. Leonard’s husband was killed by a fall down the same staircase.” He turned to her. “About ten years ago, wasn’t it?” he asked.

  Leonard nodded, running a well-manicured hand through her short gray-blond hair. Unlike mine, the gray in Leonard’s hair seemed strategically placed, designed by a professional. “An accident that time, of course. And, fortunately, I wasn’t the one who discovered Irving’s …” She hunched her shoulders, as if to ward off a sudden chill, and swung her chair halfway around to look out the window onto the back property. I thought she left us for a moment to visit an earlier decade, and her husband’s death.