Boric Acid Murder, The

by Camille Minichino

  When John stood and gave me a silent hug, I felt I was bearing all his weight. From reflex, I patted his back as I’d done when he was a child.

  Rose had resumed her role as hostess, serving iced tea and beer. She’d turned my haphazard fruit basket into an attractive tray of hors d’oeuvres, adding tiny hot meatballs with barbecue sauce. I figured she’d channeled her nervous energy into food preparation. But, unlike me, she didn’t eat everything she cooked.

  “Matt called,” Rose said. “He’ll be here any minute. Robert and Karla went home to get Billy. They’ll be back. And Mary Catherine offered to fly in from Houston, but we told her she didn’t need to do that right now.” Rose waved her hand. “She can come when we’re all happier, when …”

  She drifted off. We were all accounted for. Rose was keeping track of everyone close to her, as she usually did.

  “Any news?” I asked.

  Heads shook all around the room. “Matt said he’d tell us whatever he could when he got here,” Frank said.

  Rose beat a path from the living room to the kitchen, refilling drinks and picking up crumbs. When the doorbell rang, she jumped.

  Matt stood on the threshold carrying a large watermelon and I wondered if he’d also aggravated Rose today. “It’s hot out there. Couldn’t pass this up.” He pretended to toss the heavy ellipsoid to John. I was happy for his cheerfulness, hoping it meant good, or at least neutral, news.

  Rose brought Matt, a teetotaler like me, a bottle of mineral water. All eyes were on him as he addressed the lawyers. “I’m here as a friend.”

  They nodded and gave identical waves of their hands, indicating they understood. I imagined the gesture had a Latin name, something with mano in it, something they learned in law school.

  “They found a box of stuff in your closet, John,” Matt said, his voice soft and caring, but with an unmistakable note of worry. I noted how he appeared to distance himself from them.

  “What kind of stuff?” Rose asked. I saw frustration take over her face, and hoped she wouldn’t turn it on Matt.

  “How did they get a search warrant?” Frank asked. He’d moved toward Rose and put his arm around her.

  The lawyers stood by, not participating in the conversation. I figured they knew what they were doing and that their silence had some legal significance. I imagined them later, in a courtroom, denying they had knowledge of the search warrant or of this conversation.

  “The judge gave it to them, on the basis of some letters found in Yolanda’s apartment, and also on the fact that Yolanda’s briefcase, which she had at dinner with John, was missing.”

  “But what about Derek Byrne?” I asked him. “Didn’t he let Yolanda into the library? Did she have it then?” I knew there were too many questions facing Matt at once, but I wasn’t moved to make it easy for him. The messenger.

  Matt nodded. “Derek says she had the briefcase when he let her in.”

  “So how could John have taken it?”

  “They think he went back later, and—”

  “Why would he want her briefcase?” I asked, aware that ordinarily Matt wouldn’t answer questions that threw him off track. But he was here as a friend, I reminded myself.

  “Well, there might have been more threatening letters. Maybe Yolanda brought them to dinner in an attempt to extract something from John. Maybe she made her own threats, to go to the police with them.” He held up his hands, as if to stem the tide of upset he expected to come his way. “I’m giving you potentials, here, because you asked.”

  Matt turned to John, regaining control of the unsolicited question and answer period. “The good news: no briefcase in your apartment. However, they did find the crate on the floor of your closet. The one with photos of you and Yolanda. Plus, programs that look like they might be from dates. Tickets from concerts, plays. Letters and cards.”

  “So he saves souvenirs. That doesn’t mean he killed her.” Rose crossed the room and stood behind John, putting her hands on his shoulders.

  Matt took a sip of his water and let out a long breath. I realized I’d been holding mine in. This time he kept his eyes on John.

  “There was a stack of clippings from newspapers. Back several years. All with Yolanda Fiore’s byline.”

  “So he keeps clippings. He’s a journalist.” Although Rose moved her hands to her hips in a defiant posture, her voice was pleading. I hoped she wouldn’t lose control.

  “John?” Matt addressed him quietly, and I supposed he wished he had the suspect to himself. I was pleased and surprised that the lawyers still hadn’t interfered, except through body language. Nick Ciccolo rubbed his fists together as he paced in front of the fireplace. Mike Canty bit his knuckles, a gesture that made me wonder if he was half Italian. In another situation, Rose would have filled me in on his ethnicity on the spot.

  John raised bloodshot eyes to Matt. “I cared about Yolanda. I never wanted to break up. I know it was silly to keep that stuff, but I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong.”

  “How did he know someone was going to kill her? Maybe I should go upstairs right now and see what I’ve kept, just in case someday …” Rose turned away, clearly making a great effort to stay calm and rational. Every time she addressed Matt I worried that she’d lash out at him, or dismiss him, as she’d done to me. I figured Matt was used to more abusive treatment than Rose would ever mete out, but I felt sorry for him nonetheless.

  “I think Matt needs time alone with John, and maybe Nicky and Mike,” Frank said. “I’m going back to my office for a while. How about you, dear?”

  Rose responded to Frank’s pleasant tone with a weak nod, while he rubbed a spot high on her back, as if he were giving a secret marriage code. I’d always admired their great trust and affection for each other and hoped it would carry them through what must be very painful for them.

  In spite of the mood, I smiled to myself. It occurred to me that I was building a similar relationship with Matt. Unless I’d thrown it away last night. I realized I’d been avoiding Matt’s eyes since he’d arrived, and we hadn’t exchanged a greeting.

  I hadn’t had romance in my life since my engagement at twenty-one. That had ended with the death of my fiancé three months before the wedding. I’d handled the tragedy beautifully—I ran off to California and didn’t come back for more than thirty years. So much for mature responses.

  “I’m going to take a walk,” Rose said. She looked at me, a plea written across her face. I was torn between wanting to stay for the interview and the desire to comfort my friend and renew our closeness. I plotted how to have the best of both worlds—go with Rose for now and grill Matt later for details. If we were still on speaking terms.

  “Count me in,” I said to Rose, earning a smile from her that lit up the room.

  AT EIGHT O’CLOCK, Matt showed up at my apartment with the beginnings of a feast—fresh basil from Rose’s garden. The aroma did wonders for the air in my flat since it had been closed up for ten summer days.

  I noticed he didn’t have a change of clothes with him. I was still unclear about my feelings. One minute I wished he’d whisk me away to St. Anthony’s and make me his bride, the next minute I wanted to run to California again. It seemed romance was no easier at fifty-something than at twenty-something.

  While we prepared a large bowl of penne and tomatoes, I searched Matt’s face for signs of displeasure—or relief. Was he upset that I’d ignored his proposal to live together? Or was he happy I hadn’t taken him up on what he’d intended as a joke? I read nothing in his expression, and imagined he was calling upon years of practice in interview rooms to maintain a neutral demeanor.

  I retreated from the personal issue and welcomed his briefing on the session with John and his lawyers.

  “The bad news is John doesn’t have an alibi for the time after about eight-thirty Thursday evening, when he says he dropped Yolanda off at the library,” Matt told me.

  He says. I understood Matt’s caveat. He used it out of habit, b
ut I didn’t like the implication.

  “He went straight to his apartment, did some reading, etc., etc. He says Yolanda told him Derek Byrne would let her in, which checks with Byrne’s statement. Byrne says he let her in around eight-thirty, stayed and worked a couple of hours himself, and left her a little before eleven.”

  He flipped through his standard-issue notebook, as if this were an ordinary case. What did I expect? I wondered. A bigger pad since the chief suspect was our friend? A smaller one since he wasn’t guilty? A special color?

  “What’s Derek’s alibi for after he left Yolanda in the building alone, allegedly?” I had a few caveats of my own.

  Matt smiled. “Allegedly, Byrne went home to his place on Reservoir Avenue. His alibi’s not a lot better than John’s, but he doesn’t have a motive. Apparently Byrne and the victim were getting along fine. No problems noticed by anyone who was interviewed.”

  “Maybe he saw John drop her off and got jealous, and …” I trailed off, embarrassed at the flimsy excuse for a motive.

  Matt had the courtesy not to follow up. “Did you get anything from your trip to the lab?” he asked.

  “Just a bad feeling from a public affairs officer. No surprise there. I still have Yolanda’s boron articles to read.”

  “Was that boring articles?”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.” I wondered if I should tell him about element number one hundred and seven, called bohrium, after nuclear physicist Niels Bohr.

  “That was too easy a shot, I guess.”

  I nodded. For the first time since we’d started dating, I felt strained around Matt. In spite of the distraction of Yolanda Fiore’s murder and John Galigani’s predicament, it was clear that we were stepping around another important topic. Us.

  Matt’s pager went off just as we’d run out of excuses to discuss our future together. A wave of relief flowed through me.

  “Another case,” he told me after responding to the call.

  I suspected he was equally relieved.

  IN MATT’S ABSENCE, I took Yolanda’s reports to bed with me, a scenario much more typical of my adult life than the last few months with a steady boyfriend.

  One report was a treasury of data on the radioactive waste that’s been gathering for the last fifty years, mostly in large pools right next to the nuclear reactors that generated it. Like lethal swimming holes all around the country.

  In another of her articles, Yolanda had created an accident scenario: suppose a steam line in a power plant breaks, causing a rapid temperature change in the cooling system. Immediately, the control-room staff would need to inject a solution that would safely shut down the plant—a solution containing boron. What if the plant didn’t have enough boron on hand? Yolanda asked. A meltdown on the horizon, she answered.

  All of Yolanda’s articles had a definite antinuke slant—in one she managed to bring up the hazardous presence of weapons-grade material on lab property—but hard as I tried, I couldn’t see anything worth killing her for. No individual would likely feel threatened by her pseudo-exposes. Ordinarily I’d be happy to find no scientific motive in a murder investigation, but this time I was ready to sacrifice one of my own species, a professional scientist, for the sake of exonerating John Galigani.

  My eyelids drooped as my gaze and my fingers drifted off the pages.

  Boron. Maybe Matt was right. Boron is boring.

  An eruption of sound woke me. I couldn’t place it at first. An overlay of at least three excruciating tones—a clanging bell clapper, a loud, annoying buzz, a boisterous honking.

  An alarm.

  Something—someone?—had set off the Galigani Mortuary intrusion alarm.

  I hurried to get myself out of bed, my reading matter spilling onto the floor, my ears ringing from the din. I went to the window—why not under the bed? I wondered later. The metal box, just under the roof overhang, seemed to be shaking from its own noise.

  My heart pounded in my throat, nervous tingles raced through my body. I tiptoed to the threshold of my bedroom door, as if my footsteps could be heard over the clamor. I looked across my foyer to the front door, the only entrance to my apartment other than third-floor windows.

  I saw the chain, still fastened across the frame, and let out a deep breath. No one was in my apartment. Unless he’d replaced the chain behind him.

  The cacophony from the alarm box went on at the same level, hurting my ears.

  No doubt a false alarm.

  Maybe I’d forgotten to lock one of the downstairs doors and the wind blew it open. I tried to determine which mortuary door could have swung free on this warm, still night. Or maybe an animal pushed against it. Never mind that I hadn’t seen a stray animal big enough to do that since I’d left California.

  I walked to the alarm pad, on the wall in my entryway. Even though my security chain was in place, it frightened me to be so close to where someone might crash in.

  The building was divided into sectors, each one with its own light on the pad. I had to determine which door corresponded to the light that was blinking red. Why hadn’t I memorized the correlation between the zones and the lights? I seemed to have left my good habits behind, in the pocket of my old lab coat.

  The building layout ran through my mind like the video output of a camcorder. The whole first floor of Galigani Mortuary was wired to the alarm—the main front door, the back door, the parlor windows, the garage door, the door to the basement. Too many to guess which one had been violated, which little magnet in the system had sent a message to the sound box, commanding: SCREECH!

  I found the security company pamphlet in my desk drawer, grateful I had at least some organizational skills left. The furiously blinking red light was from zone four, the prep room. A partially embalmed body crying for help? My thoughts ran as wild as my pulse.

  Although I’d been expecting a response from the monitoring service, when it finally came—a telephone ring that wouldn’t startle me in other circumstances—I gasped and nearly lost my balance.

  The question was what to tell the dispatcher. Send someone immediately, and risk aggravating my neighbors even further with police sirens? Or should I say, Never mind, and take a chance on a real intrusion?

  I picked up the phone, ready with the password. Rose had let me choose it—GALILEO, whose birthday was February fifteenth, like mine. I reminded myself to remain calm.

  “Pilgrim Alarm Company,” the dispatcher said. “Your password please?”

  I took a breath, and composed myself. I thought I had myself under control.

  Until, for no reason, I screamed.

  “Help!”

  EIGHT

  THE ALARM OUTSIDE my window stopped clanging almost immediately, its clamor replaced by a patrol car siren. I supposed Pilgrim Alarm deactivated the signal once the police arrived. I wasn’t ready to admit the intrusion had been real, let alone related to my embryonic investigation into the Fiore murder. But I allowed that if I continued in this career, I should learn more about the inner workings of my safeguards system.

  I watched the proceedings from my bedroom window. When two more police cars arrived and six uniformed officers fanned out around my building, I ventured into the living room and undid the chain on my door. I opened it slowly, half expecting a burst of gunfire to my chest, either from the intruder or from cops who might think I was the intruder.

  My tension was relieved significantly by a familiar face. One of the officers climbing the stairs toward me was Michelle Chan, a petite Asian woman I’d met through Matt. She and her partner trained extra-long flashlights on their path even though they’d thrown the switch for the foyer lights.

  “Gloria, what’s up?” Michelle’s tone was friendly but her posture and her partner’s expression told me they were on duty.

  “I hoped you’d have the answer to that.”

  “Nothing so far. We’d like to check inside your apartment.”

  “My door was chained.”

  “Even so
,” said Michelle’s partner, a tall black man—J. Daniels, according to his ID. He waved his flashlight toward the ceiling. I pictured a burglar in black spandex hugging the mortuary roof, ready to enter my flat through the attic. I nodded and stepped aside.

  Michelle and Daniels swept through my rooms, tapping the furniture and walls periodically with their batons, as if they were testing for a trapdoor. Nothing sprang to life.

  Fifteen minutes later I was serving coffee and biscotti to six guests, all in uniform. Party noise consisted of beeper signals, heavy footsteps, and radio static. I figured my small apartment was host to about twelve guns, six cans of pepper spray, and enough handcuffs for an X-rated flick. Some celebration. I wondered if Matt knew of the pseudo-gala and the alarm that provoked it. Outside his sphere of information, I hoped. With any luck he’d never know. He didn’t need another reason to worry about me.

  The gist of my guests’ report to me—they’d found nothing suspicious on the grounds or in the building. The door between the main foyer and the stairs to the prep room was ajar, most likely not fully closed in the first place.

  Conclusion: false alarm. Fallout: six of Revere’s finest on an unexpected coffee break.

  I was curious about the size of the response force sent out to my building.

  “Not exactly standard,” Michelle told me when I broached the subject. She’d begun what seemed a tricky process—stuffing her long dark hair back under her cap.

  “Someone else would have gotten five cars instead of three?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Hardly. I got the call and—given the circumstances, thought I’d ask for backup.”

  “The circumstances being …?”

  “It’s a business site.”

  I raised my eyebrows and grunted my disbelief. “Is that all?”

  “And you’re on our short list,” she admitted.

  “Well, I’m grateful for the service.”

  True to my Italian upbringing, I made sure everyone had enough to eat and encouraged the officers to wrap a few cookies for later. As they prepared to leave, my tension returned. Had they missed anything? I was too embarrassed to ask if they’d checked inside the dryer in the laundry room, inconveniently located next to the prep room where Frank and Robert embalmed their clients. Although Rose ridiculed my choice, I was a frequent customer of the Laundromat on North Shore Road.