The Nitrogen Murder

by Camille Minichino

  “So what happened? Did you see it all?” Tom asked, moving a chair close to Dana’s rocker. He shook his head in an it’s-unbelievable gesture. Dana caught a whiff and wondered when was the last time he’d washed his thin brown hair. “Must have been a totally confusing scene, huh?”

  More confusing than you know, Dana thought, still trying to process the most recent scene, the one in Robin’s bedroom. She had thought that Robin had taken the briefcase, or at least arranged for someone to remove it from their house, though she couldn’t imagine why. Someone in so much of a hurry they left the front door open. Now who’s overreacting? she asked herself. But the Dorman Industries ID card threw her—what was that about? Such a big company, with international consultants flying back and forth every day, most likely her dad had no clue who this guy was. Still, she’d put in a quick call to her dad, getting only his answering machine, before she left the house.

  Dana wished she could disappear for a week and think about things. Not just what happened on Friday evening, and this strange stuff with Robin, but her own life. Like, what kind of doctor would she be if she fell apart when she was faced with death and trauma?

  “Hey. Earth to Dana. Are you with me here?” Tom was waving his knobby hands in front of Dana’s face. Obnoxious.

  “Tom, I’m a little spacey right now. I have this interview, then counseling, and then the cops.” She ticked off the appointments on her fingers for emphasis. “So I’d like a little downtime, if you don’t mind.” And even if you do.

  “The cops.” Tom gave a little bow, as if the idea impressed him. “Better be careful what you tell them. You don’t want them following you around forever.”

  Dana rolled her eyes. What was that supposed to mean? She decided not to ask.

  A voice rescued her from Tom. It came from a speaker high on the wall.

  “Dana, come on back. Sorry to keep you waiting.” Julia Strega, and not a moment too soon.

  “Gotta go, Tom.”

  Dana took a seat opposite her boss. Outside Julia’s unadorned, metal-framed window was a bustling industrial district off University Avenue, a major thoroughfare in Berkeley The loud noises from trucks, heavy machinery, and crowds of loading-dock workers surprised Dana, and she realized she was seldom in the neighborhood during normal working hours.

  “You’re all dressed up,” Julia said, folding back the cuffs of her Cal Bears sweatshirt. “For me?” Her voice still had the remnants of a cold or allergies.

  Dana smiled. “I guess you haven’t seen me in a skirt since my job interview, right?”

  For everyday reporting, Dana had a supervisor—Doreen, now on maternity leave—but Julia was also heavily involved in day-to-day operations, more than was usual for a company owner. Though it was still considered small compared to other ambulance companies in Alameda County, under Julia Valley Med had grown to nearly two hundred employees with all levels of EMT support from basic to full paramedic, with nurse-staffed critical care transportation.

  Business was good, but nothing like what it would take to get a company so big so fast, and Dana figured Julia pumped a lot of her own money into it. Now she was talking about extending the business into other counties in the Bay Area. Julia had been hinting to Dana that it would be nice to have an experienced EMT transfer to a new operation in Contra Costa or San Mateo County.

  “Let’s get to it,” Julia said in her no-nonsense way. She pulled a folder from the piles of papers on her desk and put on wire-rimmed half-glasses. “Getting old,” she muttered.

  Dana felt she was supposed to contradict her boss—no, you’re not old—but in fact, Julia was old in Dana’s mind. At least as old as her dad, her very red hair notwithstanding. Julia was as trim as any of her EMTs, but there was no denying the deep wrinkles in her face. And her lipstick was starting to spread into the little crevices around her mouth.

  “I have some forms here, so I’ll just run down this list of questions. It’s all routine,” Julia said, half of her words buried in the tissue she held to her nose.

  Routine. The word bounced around Dana’s brain. Not quite.

  Julia buzzed through a set of more or less factual questions, most of which she could have answered herself. How long had Dana been on the job? (Fourteen months.) Had she ever been involved in a critical incident? (Yes, one mass casualty on I-580, but nothing this personal.) Ever had CISD? (Critical incident stress debriefing. Yes, one session, after the I-580 MCI.) Did the current CI involve damage to the ambulance? (No, the ambulance came out alive.)

  Dana had downloaded the Valley Med form from the Internet and checked all the boxes next to the stock questions. Then she typed in her own report with the particulars of the incident that took Tanisha’s life—the time of the call, the trip with the GSW vic, all the details that Dana had run through her mind over and over since Friday evening. Robin had offered to change the cartridge and print out the report while Dana got dressed, probably to make up for her bad behavior earlier.

  “Here you go,” Dana said, handing the pages to Julia.

  “Thanks. I’ll let you know if we need anything else.” Julia leaned over the desk and offered Dana a sympathetic look. “Please take all the time you need to decompress, Dana. You know you’ll have to sign up for the CISD sessions?”

  Dana nodded. She knew how it worked. The county participated in a national program for ES workers, in which severely stressful job-related incidents were discussed with peer counselors and mental health professionals. The death or serious injury of a coworker in the line of duty was high on the list. She’d be expected to show up at a meeting at least by tonight. Fortunately, she had a relaxing massage coming, too, thanks to Elaine.

  “And you’re scheduled to see Dr. Barnett today?”

  Another nod.

  “Good. You know that seeing a counselor one-on-one is part of the comprehensive critical incident stress management system …”

  “ … recommended for emergency services workers,” Dana finished. “I know the drill. I’m good to go.” She tried for a don’t-worry-about-me tone.

  Julia pushed back from her desk. The wheels of her chair rumbled along the linoleum. “One more thing, Dana. Be careful what you tell the cops today.”

  What was this? Everyone seemed concerned about her interview with the Berkeley PD. Maybe she should be more worried herself.

  “I’m not suggesting you lie, of course,” Julia continued. “Just, you know, we want to avoid anything that would reflect badly on the company.” She flipped her short too-red hair, as if making sure her own appearance would give a good impression of Valley Med.

  “Okay,” Dana said, without the slightest idea what Julia meant.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Early Monday morning Matt and I sat side by side on the gold jacquard loveseat in our room. Elaine was down the hall, still asleep—or preparing her face for public view, but quiet at any rate—so we’d brought our mugs of coffee and two lemon biscotti back to the bedroom. The perfect breakfast.

  Sunlight came into the room with great effort, having to first pass through Elaine’s elaborate window treatment and a hexagonal piece of stained glass, in gold and blood-orange hues, hung by an invisible cord.

  “I’ve been patient,” I said to Matt, “but I need to know.”

  “What I said to Dana on Saturday.”

  A statement, not a question. No wonder I loved him. No games, no making me beg.

  I hoped I wasn’t motivated by idle curiosity or, worse, by jealousy that another woman might know something about Matt that I didn’t. I was reasonably sure this need came from loving him and wanting to understand the highs and lows of his life before I met him. I’d thought about it off and on for two days, and I felt more and more certain he’d shared a significant occupational low with Dana.

  Unlike our friends Rose and Frank Galigani, childhood sweethearts, now married more than four decades, Matt and I had met as adults. We carried baggage and emotional histories, both positive and negative. />
  I hadn’t needed to tell Matt much about my first and only other fiance, Al Gravese. Matt was a rookie cop at the time and knew before I did that Al was “connected” and that the car crash that took Al’s life three months before our wedding wasn’t an accident.

  I hoped I was less naive now than I had been then. I’d never questioned where Al got the rolls of bills he carried around, and felt proud when he’d tear off a fifty and give it to my father. I remembered his deep voice and his flashy style: Get yourself some butts, Marco.

  I’d pieced together a picture of Matt’s first wife, Teresa, from what Rose and Frank told me about her low-key personality, her work with special-needs children, and her long illness. One evening after Matt and I had been seeing each other regularly for a couple of months, he took an album from a desk drawer. We went through it page by page, photo after photo: birthday parties; sailing trips around Nantucket Sound with Matt’s sister, Jean, and her family; Fourth of July barbecues; Thanksgiving turkeys; Christmas trees. His life with Teresa.

  “Remember the time you shared your Teresa album?” I asked him now.

  He took a sip of coffee. “I do.”

  “I loved that moment.” I cleared my throat and tasted lemon frosting. “Do you also have a police album?”

  Matt laughed and took my hand. A noble gesture since it meant he had to sacrifice half a biscotto for the time being.

  “First, you know I love you, and I would never keep anything from you deliberately, to deceive you or to—”

  “It’s not about that.”

  He nodded. “I believe it.”

  The house was very quiet, except for what I thought might be Elaine’s hair dryer, down the hall. Matt kept my hand in his lap but stared straight ahead, where a framed art print of sunflowers hung on the wall. I couldn’t name the artist, which would sadden Elaine, who’d tried to fill in the gaps in my very technical education. The lines in the painting were curvy, and I thought I remembered that feature went with van Gogh. Or Cézanne. Matt seemed to be tilting his head to figure it out himself.

  I sensed rather than heard the hard swallow that preceded all his serious disclosures. Some were upsetting: My wife died ten years ago today. Then, later, I have cancer. And some were thrilling: I love you, I want us to be married.

  I knew this one would be difficult.

  “It was my worst moment,” he said. “On the job, anyway. I wasn’t much older than Dana. Kenny was a dispatcher I knew very well; I’d gone to school with him in Everett. We’d been at a retirement dinner at a hotel on Route 1.” Matt took a long breath. I felt him pull back to that day “We’re walking to our cars together.”

  I squeezed his hand. “If you’d rather not …” Fine time to be magnanimous, I thought.

  He shook his head. “If you ever want the illusion of safety, put yourself in a banquet room where more than half the people are cops and firefighters. We’re physically fit and highly trained in self-defense. We’re armed and tough. We’re essentially a paramilitary corps. We’re used to being in control. People expect us to be confident, take charge. Nothing can touch us, right?” He sighed. “I think it’s called denial.”

  I thought it was the longest speech I’d ever heard from Matt. Eventually he got to the story itself.

  “We’re down in the garage, we say good-bye at Kenny’s car, and I split to go to mine. I’m about two cars over when I hear a kid yell, ‘Gimme me your wallet. Hand it over. Gimme your keys.’ I turn and the kid has a gun under Kenny’s chin. I had a split second to decide what to do. I remember thinking, How dumb is this kid? But we’re in civvies, and he couldn’t have known that we were law enforcement and about a hundred cops were twenty feet above him on the ballroom floor.”

  “I can’t imagine,” I said, weak from picturing myself in that garage.

  “I yell, ‘Police, freeze.’ But even before it’s out I know this kid doesn’t care. He swings his gun around to me, giving Kenny a chance to reach for the kid’s neck, and I hear two shots. One is mine; one is the kid’s. I can’t tell you how long it took me to figure which bullet went where.”

  A light knock at the door. Elaine. “Hey, you two. Thanks for making the coffee.” I knew she’d be impatient to get on with the day’s business. A trip to the caterer was on the list, and then our eagerly awaited nitrogen lunch with Phil.

  “Give us ten minutes,” I said.

  “I’ll warm up the car.”

  Matt gave me a questioning look.

  “Our little joke, about how that’s not necessary in California, and how that’s why I should never have moved back to Massachusetts.”

  Matt kissed my cheek. “I’m glad you don’t mind a little cold weather.”

  Elaine’s knock had broken his rhythm, perhaps fortuitously. He’d returned to the present, ready to wrap up the story.

  “So, bottom line. I’d shot the kid in the chest. The kid got Kenny through his thigh. The kid died. Kenny had a limp for the rest of his life, until he died a couple of years ago. It didn’t matter that the kid had a record a mile long. He was nineteen years old and I killed him.”

  “You had no choice, Matt. And you saved Kenny’s life.”

  “You always have a choice. But I know what you mean. For months I had nightmares. One night it would be that the gun failed on me. The next night the gun wouldn’t stop firing.”

  I was stunned by the whole story, and by Matt’s revelations—his thoughts and his feelings about the seamy side of his job. I understood why his sharing this with Dana might help her. He hadn’t seen his partner killed, but he’d lived through a traumatic incident and gone forward in his profession.

  In the end, I could only be thankful that neither of the bullets got Matt. Not physically, anyway

  Waiting for Elaine to fix her face, as she termed it, I sat with my notebook, doodling, my usual process when I was working on a case, real or imagined. I was prepared to give Dr. Philip Chambers a second chance to show himself a worthy fiancé for my friend, with no involvement in the nefarious events of the weekend. Wouldn’t he be thrilled if he knew of my generosity? I mused.

  I’d never been so ill equipped for a meeting of this kind—the kind where I’m ostensibly having a friendly visit but in my mind conducting an interrogation. In this case, I’d managed to inflate the facts of Phil’s condescending attitude and what might have been a simple error—duffel bag or briefcase?—into a full-fledged Murder One scenario. The possibility that I was way off base was enormous.

  I had no forensics information about the actual crimes—the shootings of Dana and Tanisha’s patient, and then Tanisha. Even with my special brand of cajoling, I hadn’t been able to persuade Matt to present himself to the Berkeley PD and learn the inside scoop. I’d had to rely on the newspapers, which I knew not to trust for full disclosure on an open case.

  We did learn that the victim of the first shooting had died at the trauma center. The newspapers said more or less what we knew from Dana, that he was Indian and carried multiple ID cards. Police determined that he was “really” named Lokesh Patel, in this country as a visiting scientist. They didn’t mention the existence of the other IDs. He’d been working on a project with scientists at BUL and local consulting firms. There was no apparent motive for the killing. All the authorities could glean from the records at Golden State Hospital, where he’d driven himself from someplace in Oakland, was that he’d been shot in the chest. The victim had said nothing about where the shooting took place, other than “in the parking lot.”

  The obituary was only slightly more informative: Patel had no family in this country; he was an upstanding citizen, a member of the Claremont Tennis Club and a volunteer with charitable organizations throughout the Bay Area.

  “No dying declaration,” Matt had said, reminding me how handy it would have been if Patel had, number one, known he was dying; number two, named his killer; and number three, then died. One of the more compelling pieces of evidence in a murder case. When I’d once asked Matt
how come, he’d told me the traditional wisdom was If you know you’re going to meet your maker, you’re not going to try one more lie.

  Tanisha’s death in the line of duty didn’t buy much space in the Bay Area papers. On the first day, one of them had carried a photo of Tanisha with her daughter, Rachel, blowing out candles on a birthday cake, a happier time. After that, there were no reports of the second shooting.

  The papers quoted the police as saying the two incidents appeared to be unrelated, but I guessed that was a misstatement on the part of some journalist. If Alameda County was anything like Suffolk County in Massachusetts, the ballistics report would be a long time coming, since this was not a high-profile case.

  I tried to think of ways to insert myself or Matt into the Berkeley PD files, but the only cop I’d met, Inspector Dennis Russell, wouldn’t be happy to see me, I knew. I’d had a not-so-pleasant interaction with him the last time I’d visited. I’d thought I was helping his investigation into the death of a former colleague of mine; he’d thought I was meddling. Matt did promise to keep his eyes open when he accompanied Dana to the police station later in the day That would have to do.

  Along with these limitations, I was hampered by having to hide my curiosity and suspicions from Elaine. Fortunately, her computer was in an office, separate from her bedroom, and I was able to sneak in after she’d gone to bed. I hoped she wouldn’t think to track the most recently accessed URLs on her browser. She’d count a half dozen nitrogen- and weapons-related sites. It was all I could do to remember not to bookmark them.

  The elements of the physical universe always amazed me, especially how different forms of the same one had such widely varying properties. Nitrogen, the seventh element on the periodic table, was a perfect example. A two-atom form of nitrogen was the most abundant element in our atmosphere, making up nearly 80 percent of the air around us and found in all living systems. We breathed in nitrogen safely every day.