Mile High Murder

by Marcia Talley

  ‘Hugh!’

  ‘Well, it’s true, and I’m not going to apologize for saying it. All these new rules? It’s prevention after the fact. Any plan that depends on athletes to self-report how they feel after getting bonked on the head is destined to fail. It wouldn’t be manly not to soldier on.’

  ‘Can’t they test for CTE?’ Phyllis wanted to know.

  ‘Scientists at BU are working on ways to diagnose and treat CTE in living patients, but right now?’ Josh shrugged. ‘The only way to know for sure is to examine a player’s brain after death.’

  ‘Eeeuw,’ Lisa said.

  ‘It’s football,’ Mark commented with a dismissive shrug. ‘Goes with the territory. Until I retired and got into politics, football was my life. And now …’ He paused, then glanced sideways at Cindy as if asking her permission to continue.

  Claire pounced. ‘Mark has a new job,’ she announced, her voice dripping acid. ‘He’ll be leaving the State House to coach football at Maryland State.’

  Lisa bounced in her chair. ‘Mark! That’s super. You must be thrilled.’

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘It’s a big responsibility, pulling the program out of the gutter. The team was on suspension last year and it’s time for a fresh start. I’ll be getting to work right after July the fourth.’

  ‘What about the Dorchester County farm?’ I asked.

  ‘Completely up to Cindy,’ Mark said. ‘I won’t have time to worry about it.’

  Cindy beamed. ‘We’re going ahead with the grow application, of course, but Mark has already started the process of divesting himself from it.’

  How one could completely divest oneself of something owned by one’s wife was beyond me, but that was Mark’s ethical problem, not mine.

  The main course arrived – grilled ribeye steak with a golden, deep-fried chile relleno on the side, oozing asiago. Before we were allowed to dig in, Kai appeared, cradling a bottle of red wine. He made a ceremony of offering it to Austin for inspection.

  ‘A Malbec 2013,’ Austin announced. ‘Pairs beautifully with Gorilla Glue, a rather potent hybrid, though, so we go easy on it.’

  ‘I could mention my vast experience in the late eighties pairing Mateus Rose with moldy Mexican brick weed,’ Claire said as she leaned to one side so Kai could fill her wine glass, ‘but I wouldn’t want to brag.’

  ‘When I’m stoned,’ Josh offered, ‘pickles and peanut butter are a great combo.’

  ‘I love Cheetos and Pop-Tarts,’ Lisa added.

  ‘No, no, no. We’re all curated now,’ Desiree scolded, emphasizing the word curated.

  ‘Well, OK,’ Lisa drawled, ‘although you have to agree that for the casual stoner, Cheetos and Pop-Tarts are much more accessible than, say, garlic edamame or escargots de Bourgogne.’

  ‘Coquilles Saint-Jacques!’ Claire crowed, igniting a free-for-all.

  ‘Foie de veau!’

  ‘Calamari fritti!’

  ‘Nam tok moo!’

  ‘Hachis parmentier!’ was my contribution to the fantasy banquet.

  Eventually our empty plates where whisked away and an intermezzo appeared: lemon lollypops – ten milligrams – with frozen grapes as a chaser. The grapes were plump, seedless and deliciously cold. I popped one into my mouth and bit down. The crisp skin burst, giving way to the inside – lush, creamy and sweet, like sherbet. Heavenly. I reached for another grape, then another. My body was slowly letting go of the stress of the past few days. I felt calm and deeply relaxed, as if discovering a gear I’d never used before.

  ‘Ah, chocolate and weed,’ Josh was saying when I tuned in again. ‘Total proof that God loves us.’

  I had no idea how it had gotten there, but on the placemat before me sat dessert – a dark chocolate ganache torte with raspberries perched in perfect symmetry on top.

  ‘Don’t eat it yet!’ Austin warned. ‘Kai has a surprise for you.’

  As Austin spoke, Kai was making the rounds, handing each of us a neatly rolled joint.

  ‘I don’t think …’ Phyllis began, holding the joint gingerly between thumb and forefinger.

  Austin raised both hands, palms out, silencing her. ‘Once everyone has a joint, I don’t want you to light it. I want you to take a pull on the unlit joint so that you can experience the essential oils in the herb – a terpene pull, if you will.’

  ‘The herb,’ Claire repeated, pronouncing the ‘h’ just as Austin had. ‘What exactly is the herb, if we may inquire?’

  ‘Girl Scout Cookies,’ he said. ‘It will launch you to euphoria’s top floor.’

  A terpene pull never hurt anyone, I reasoned as I followed the example of everyone else at the table: I put the joint to my lips and sucked in. The herb tasted earthy and sweet, like brown sugar with overtones of nutmeg.

  ‘It’s a hybrid of Durban Poison and OG Kush,’ Austin explained. ‘Good for stress, migraines and depression. And you can simply wave insomnia goodbye!’

  ‘The first time I smoked OG Kush, I thought it tasted like Mexican food,’ Josh commented. ‘This hybrid is surprisingly different.’

  While Josh and Austin lit up, I abstained. I exchanged the joint for a fork and used it to attack my dessert, counting on the phenethylamines in chocolate to launch me to euphoria’s top floor.

  ‘Hannah tells me you knew Daniel Morecraft-Hill at Boston U,’ Claire said, addressing Josh.

  ‘Almost a decade ago,’ Josh said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. ‘Small world, huh? He was my thesis advisor.’

  ‘Poor, poor man. Did he have any family?’ Phyllis asked.

  ‘Not that I know of. He mentioned a brother once, but other than that …’ Josh shrugged. ‘He pretty much lived in the lab.’

  ‘He sometimes heated up soup in a beaker,’ Lisa said. ‘Disgusting. You’d think he’d never heard of microwaves.’

  My body went squiggly. My head swam. Boston University. The brain bank. CTE. Football. I turned to look at Mark, the former linebacker, who, like me, was chewing his torte appreciatively. A handsome profile, I thought, not at all spoiled by traces of a frequently broken nose. Mark was all angles. You could draw his portrait with a ruler.

  ‘Was Daniel involved with the brain bank at BU, Josh?’ I asked.

  ‘Could have been, I suppose. It dates back to 1996 or thereabouts. But, frankly, what with his schedule, I wouldn’t have thought he had the time. And it wasn’t exactly his area of expertise.’

  ‘I had a chemistry teacher who used to toast marshmallows over a Bunsen burner,’ Phyllis said. ‘I kept thinking the chemistry department was playing a joke on us, that they’d show up any minute and say “Gotcha!” but it never happened.’

  ‘I had a professor once …’ Lisa was saying, when I noticed that my wine glass was empty.

  I nudged Mark with my elbow. ‘My glass seems to have a hole in it,’ I joked. ‘I wonder how that happened?’

  I raised the glass to catch Kai’s attention. He was at my side in a moment with a generous refill.

  ‘I love the idea of pairings,’ I said, taking a sip. ‘It’s just like in wine country, isn’t it? My husband and I took a wine train in Napa, or was it Sonoma? Maybe Mendocino?’ Holding the wine glass by the stem, I swirled the wine, smelled it and took another sip, letting it spread over my tongue – front to back and side to side – the way the sommelier had taught us then. ‘See, swirl, sniff, sip and savor,’ I muttered to nobody in particular.

  In mid-savor, I caught Mark looking at me curiously.

  ‘What was I saying? Sorry. Lost my train of thought. There’s a point here somewhere. We took a wine train, or trolley, or maybe a limo. Somebody’s limo, anyway.’

  While I was trying to sort it out, Desiree pushed back her chair and stood. ‘Digestifs will be served in the solarium,’ she announced grandly. ‘Amaretto, cognac, schnapps, galliano, grappa, ouzo … you name it, we got it.’

  Just what I need, I thought as I struggled to my feet, holding on to the table for support. A digestif would be le denier coup.


  I was feeling weightless, relaxed and a bit giddy, like I’d taken too much Motrin.

  As Claire passed by, I looped onto her arm and mumbled, ‘Stick with me, girlfriend.’

  Claire’s face wore that puzzled look where her eyebrows almost met. ‘Hannah?’ she began, then she smiled indulgently and patted my hand where it rested on her arm. ‘The blind leading the blind,’ she murmured.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Medical cannabis, stop eating, let go. Eat more you will see white ghosts walking around and eat long enough, you will know how to talk to the Gods.

  Pen Ts’ao [The Herbal], 1234 A.D. edition.

  Jefferson Airplane. An album from my college days, taking me back and back and back.

  What did the dormouse say? I struggled to remember. Did Alice even know?

  ‘Don’t do Northern Lights,’ Austin warned someone. ‘It’s a heavy hitter. You’ll get couch lock.’

  Couch! I heard myself laughing. This is a chair. Comfortable, though. The same chair that …? No, Desiree had taken that one away.

  ‘Off to bed for me. Early flight.’ It sounded like Lisa. I cracked an eyelid. Josh was sprawled in the chair opposite me, one leg draped over the arm. Lisa bent down, brushed her lips against his cheek. ‘Don’t be too long.’

  He grabbed Lisa’s hand and pulled her into his lap so he could deliver a proper kiss. Feeling like a voyeur, I closed my eyes, withdrawing.

  Grace Slick’s voice, husky, drenched with echo, reached out with seductive arms, sucking me in. Down and down and down, crawling into a tunnel, following the White Rabbit.

  The Red Queen something something something. I tried to sing along, but Grace was moving too fast for me.

  A hand on my shoulder, a gentle shake. ‘Hannah? Are you all right?’

  I opened my eyes and took a moment to focus. Claire.

  ‘You’re stoned!’ she said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Buh …’ My lips weren’t working. Were they still there? I reached up and located them with my fingers. Pinched. Exercised my tongue. Tried again. ‘Fine, just fine.’

  ‘I’m getting you some orange juice,’ Claire said from somewhere far away.

  Stoned. Yeah, how did that happen? Somebody … who?

  I opened my eyes. Josh had gone. His chair was empty.

  ‘I thought she didn’t consume,’ Mark said.

  I turned my whole body in his direction, feeling like a bobblehead doll. Mark was looking at me but speaking to his wife.

  ‘Hell if I know,’ Cindy said. ‘Must be some sort of mixup.’

  Mixup. Swell.

  Claire suddenly filled the frame, her hand extended. ‘Here, drink this.’

  I accepted the bottle, gulped from it greedily and handed it back. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘She’s got the munchies,’ somebody whispered. ‘Classic.’

  ‘Shut up, Mark.’ Claire handed me a cookie.

  I studied it for a while, admiring the chocolate chips, dark and glossy, peaked caps standing proud and tall. One, two, three … but it was too hard. They were moving around, refusing to be counted. I ate them.

  After minutes, maybe hours, Claire said, ‘Feeling better?’

  I started to laugh, couldn’t make myself stop. ‘Haven’t felt so good since Amsterdam,’ I said between hiccups. ‘Another cookie would be nice.’

  Claire patted my leg. ‘Good. I think you’ll live.’

  ‘Where’s everyone?’ I asked, glancing around the solarium.

  ‘Everyone’s gone to bed except Mark, Cindy and me,’ Claire said. ‘It’s after one o’clock.’

  I ate the second cookie slowly, turning it clockwise, nibbling the edges until it was the size of a quarter, then finished it off.

  ‘Come up to bed, Hannah.’

  Jefferson Airplane had moved on to ‘Plastic Fantastic Lover.’ I shook my head no. ‘I love this album, Claire. Let it finish.’ Conducting with my hand, I sang along, pleased that I remembered every word of a song I hadn’t sung since, like, forever. When it ended, I smiled up at Claire and said, ‘People think the song’s about a dildo, but it’s not. It’s about Marty Balin’s new stereo system.’

  Claire laughed. Apparently, I’d convinced her I was sobering up. ‘Well, if you can rap along with Marty Balin, you’re going to be fine.’

  ‘I’ll stay with her, Claire,’ Cindy volunteered.

  ‘I don’t need a babysitter,’ I said, waggling my fingers. ‘Buh-bye.’

  Still laughing, Claire left.

  Cindy gave Mark a gentle shove. ‘You go on up, too. I won’t be long.’

  ‘What if …?’ Mark asked, keeping his voice so low I could barely hear it over the throb of Paul Kantner’s acoustic guitar.

  ‘How many men on a football team?’ Cindy whispered.

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Room eleven,’ she repeated softly. ‘Say it.’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘The number’s on the door, sweetheart.’

  Still, he hesitated.

  ‘Go to bed, Mark.’

  I listened hazily while Grace Slick moved on. ‘Somebody to Love’ sucked me in, as it always did, Slick’s rich vibrato pulsing with natural reverb as she sang about finding the truth …

  Truth. A sobering knot twisted my gut. Mark’s headaches, his faulty memory, the unexplained anger.

  My eyes flew open. Mark had disappeared. Gone up to bed, as instructed. Cindy stood by the casement windows, staring into the dark. We were alone.

  ‘Mark has it, doesn’t he, Cindy? CTE?’

  Cindy turned to face me, arms crossed over her chest like a petulant child. She scowled silently, her face immobile yet easily read.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘Mark’s a super guy. He doesn’t deserve that. Nobody does.’

  Cindy didn’t budge.

  ‘Sit down, Cindy. Please. Talk to me.’

  After a long moment, during which she was apparently considering my invitation, she crossed the room and plopped down in a chair directly opposite mine.

  ‘How long has it been going on?’ I asked her.

  She sidestepped the question. ‘We don’t know that he has it, not for certain. Mark’s forgetful, sure, but so am I.’ She managed a wan smile. ‘I need one of those GPS tags to keep track of my car keys.’

  ‘Me, too,’ I said, trying to keep the conversation light but moving along. ‘I walk into the kitchen, open the fridge and think, now, what the hell am I looking for?’

  ‘Only one way to know for sure,’ Cindy said matter-of-factly. ‘An autopsy. After Mark’s dead.’

  ‘It’s not his fault,’ I said, keeping my voice steady, suppressing the urge to scream. ‘When Mark started playing football, nobody knew.’

  Cindy exploded. ‘That’s bullshit, Hannah! Total bullshit. They knew it as far back as 1994. That’s when the NFL set up the MTBI.’

  I’d never heard of the MTBI. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The Mild Traumatic Brain Injury Committee.’ She leaned forward, closing the gap between us. ‘And just to show you how serious they were about it, guess who they appointed to head it up? Huh? Huh?’

  ‘Help me out here, Cindy.’

  ‘The team doctor for the New York Jets. A rheumatologist!’

  ‘What could possibly go wrong?’ I said.

  ‘Exactly. And it took about two-and-a-half minutes for the NFL Commissioner to label all the hoohah in the press over concussions as fake news.’ She flopped back in her chair, apparently exhausted, but before I could sneak a word in, she launched a second salvo. ‘And just last year, Congress issued a report that showed how the NFL pressured the National Institutes of Health to strip sixteen million dollars from government-funded research going on up at Boston University. They wanted the money redirected to the NFL’s own research team. What a crock! Fortunately, the NIH isn’t stupid. They refused.’

  Something was niggling at me. Boston University again. The brain bank.

  I had a hunch, and I played it. ‘Has
Mark willed his brain to the brain bank?’

  Cindy nodded. ‘You guessed. I thought you had. Back at dinner, I saw you staring at him.’

  ‘That’s it, then, isn’t it? It wasn’t Daniel’s connection to Big Tobacco that set Mark off, it was learning that Daniel once taught at BU.’

  She nodded miserably.

  ‘But, hold on a minute, Cindy. Daniel left BU years ago. What could he possibly—?’

  Cindy didn’t wait for me to finish. ‘Saturday night, after Colin disappeared? I came back down to retrieve my stash and Daniel said he was going to tell.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Mark has good years left in him, Hannah, doing what he loves. If Maryland State finds out …’

  She let me fill in the blank. If Maryland State got wind of Mark’s condition, the coaching offer could be off the table.

  ‘But aren’t those arrangements supposed to be confidential?’ I said. ‘If you didn’t tell anybody, who …’

  Again, she cut in. ‘Daniel still had colleagues there, I presume.’

  While I was tossing that possibility around, she hit me with another zinger. ‘And get this. All along the way, the NFL’s so-called research team was using some of the same lawyers, lobbyists and consultants as Big Tobacco.’

  ‘Shit,’ I said.

  Cindy was on a roll. ‘And a co-owner of the New York Giants, I forget his name, was also part-owner of the Lorillard tobacco company. The guy served on a couple of the pseudo research boards.’

  ‘The plot sickens,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t believe me, believe the New York Times.’ She shrugged. ‘Or watch Concussion on Netflix.’

  ‘But why, Cindy? Why did he threaten Mark? What was in it for Daniel?’

  Cindy’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I don’t know! Daniel had a thing about football. He kept ranting on about it, like Mark would be personally responsible for killing kids! It upset Mark so much, he stalked off to bed, leaving me alone with Colin and the sonofabitch.’

  ‘Daniel had no room to talk,’ I said reasonably. ‘Not when he’s working for a tobacco company that spreads disease and death throughout the world. The US market for tobacco has flatlined, you know that, right? Churchill-Mills has a whole division trying their damnedest to hook young consumers abroad.’