The Nitrogen Murder

by Camille Minichino

  I e-mailed Andrea, using the sloppy grammar and punctuation we’d all gotten used to in the electronic era. I felt a sour sun-dried tomato taste as I remembered lying to Elaine about nonexistent e-mail correspondence with Andrea over the weekend as an excuse to use her computer system. This will make it right, I told myself.

  I hit the keys.

  Andrea: M. and I having a great time out here. weather is *hot* but supposed to break well before the wedding. Wondering if u can look up something for me … anything on the nitrogen fullerene, and find out if anyone knows a Dr. Philip Chambers or a Dr. Lokesh Patel who might have visited “your” lab. not a rush, but if u have a minute, it would help greatly in my class prep. hope things are good with u and T. love, G.

  T. was short for Thaddeus Jin, Andrea’s new boyfriend, also a technician at the Charger Street Lab. Some giggled at the notion of XL-sized Andrea at the movies sharing popcorn with the very small-framed Chinese-American Jin, but I was delighted they’d hit it off and that Andrea was more and more confident in her attractiveness as the wonderful person she was.

  Not that I’d been quick to notice Andrea’s personal qualities myself. At first I’d seen her as my surrogate with a badge, helping me gain access to the personnel and informational assets of the Charger Street Lab. I now thought of her as my friend and not simply a resource.

  Except for today, when getting information was at the front of my mind. I checked the time—almost five o’clock on the East Coast. Andrea would be heading home. I knew most of her e-mail activity was business related, but with me here on the West Coast, she might check for a message when she got home. In any case, I’d have something from her in the morning. If I could only get to a computer to access my e-mail without a major lie.

  It was too long a walk and there were too many hills between the library and Elaine’s. I called to see if she could pick me up.

  “Of course,” she said. “The flower emergency is over. You can come with me to check out the table linens for the reception. I’m not convinced they understand the colors I need now that my flowers are all different.”

  “Table linens. Fantastic.”

  Elaine laughed. “It’ll be fun, Gloria. There’s a great new coffee place right nearby. I’ll be at the library in about twenty minutes.” She took a breath, and I imagined her tucking strands of gray-blond hair over her ear. “Oh, and did I tell you? I found a new wedding book at the florist’s. I hope I don’t see anything in it it’s too late to do. Oh, that was a bad sentence, but you know what I mean. See you!”

  I punched END and sighed. Bad sentences from BUL’s best technical editor? Where was my friend Elaine who subscribed to The New Yorker and read all the fiction and nonfiction nominated for book awards, who had season tickets to the San Francisco Symphony and Berkeley Repertory Theatre, who’d dragged me to museum exhibits on both sides of the Bay Bridge? She seemed to have disappeared into a shower of filmy white lace and linen. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d ordered a plastic bride and groom for the wedding cake.

  I clicked my tongue and opened the article Phil left with me. “Stability for the Nitrogen Fullerene.”

  Finally, something interesting.

  The article Phil had brought me was a general, nontechnical piece on nitrogen, covering all its uses. It included everything from research on synthesized new forms of nitrogen fullerenes to the presence of nitrogen as a detonation product of a high explosive—bomb, to the layperson. Nothing I couldn’t have found with a good search engine, but it was interesting background nonetheless, with up-to-the-minute descriptions of supercomputers used in modeling events. Even before I’d retired from physics, computer modeling had become prevalent. Better to input equations and test an explosive on a screen than in someone’s backyard.

  I read the special section about insensitive high explosives, materials that are remarkably insensitive to high temperatures, shock, and impact. These features improved the safety of explosives while they were stored and transported. Though I’d never worked directly with weapons at BUL, I’d spent enough time around weapons scientists to be immune to the euphemisms—“energetic materials” instead of “bomb constituents”—and the seeming oxymoron of “weapons safety.”

  I tapped my fingers on the attractive figures in the article, colorful simulations of different experimental geometries for the molecule on one page, surreal close-ups of TATB crystals on another. I decided Phil had chosen this article more to distract me than to illuminate his work. I was about to fold the pages up—maybe even toss them into the nearby wastebasket—when I noticed the fine print at the bottom of the last page. The article had been distributed by the National Nuclear Security Administration, the people in charge of maintaining the country’s weapons arsenal in the program called Stockpile Stewardship.

  So what? I asked myself, but I stuffed the article into my bag and went outside to watch for Elaine.

  The linen lady (Ms. Colbert? Ms. Corbett? Elaine had said her name just as a fire truck screamed past us on busy Shattuck Avenue) had about her a faux sweetness that I guess had developed over thousands of hours interacting with brides. She was wizened and hoarse, and I pictured her lighting up a cigarette at every opportunity, but never in front of a bride. On the way across town to the shop, I’d wondered why Elaine had to take care of this in the first place.

  “Doesn’t the club have its own linens?” I’d asked, remembering how excited Elaine had been when she’d been able to book a country club in the neighboring city of El Cerrito.

  She gave me another of her poor-unenlightened-Gloria looks. “Their linens are … ordinary. Wait until you see what Ms. Colburn offers.”

  Now, in Ms. Colburn’s shop, I saw how many different shades and textures of blue there were. I even felt a twinge of understanding, putting myself in a similar situation, but in a lab supply warehouse, like the kind I’d visited in my grad school days. Instead of swatches of cloth, I imagined row upon row of meters and scopes. Voltmeters. Ammeters. Fluke meters for all applications. Oscilloscopes, large and small. Instead of brocade or not brocade, I’d have to choose between analog and digital.

  “Did you have a nice lunch with Phil?” Elaine asked. We were waiting for the linen lady to reappear with a corrected invoice. Not Queen Anne blue but Parisian blue, it would say.

  “Yes, we did,” I said, as smoothly as I could, given the lack of honesty in my answer.

  “I know you didn’t take to him right away, Gloria.”

  I said something like “Pshaw” and waved away the idea. I was glad Elaine had turned her back to sign the reprinted form.

  “He’s a wonderful guy. He’s wonderful to me.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Did Dana live with him, growing up?” I asked. I needed to ease us off the Wonderful Phil topic.

  “Phil and Marilyn split when Dana was about eleven, but she stayed in the area, so it’s not like Phil ever lost touch with Dana. Then, when Dana started college at Cal, Marilyn moved to Florida with her new husband. I think his family’s out there.” She cocked her head and smiled at me. “She won’t be coming to the wedding, in case you’re wondering.”

  I realized I knew few wedding details. I was embarrassed to ask, in case Elaine had already told me the vital statistics by phone or e-mail. How many guests? What time of day in the Rose Garden? Who was performing the ceremony? I knew Dana was Phil’s “best man,” but were she and I the only attendants?

  But more than wedding data, I wanted to know what was going on at the Berkeley PD. I knew Matt had called ahead to tell—warn?—Inspector Dennis Russell that he’d be accompanying Dana. I imagined Russell welcoming Matt graciously. Let me show you the files, I heard. And please bring Gloria to help us with the investigation. My imagination wouldn’t quit these days; the California sun was doing strange things to my brain.

  I couldn’t wait for the fog to roll in.

  We skipped the idea of sitting in an un-air-conditioned coffee shop and drove directly from the linen la
dy’s shop to Elaine’s. I headed straight for the pitcher of iced coffee in the refrigerator and poured us each a glass.

  Elaine’s answering machine was blinking 4. The first call, from a colleague at work, annoyed her.

  “Elaine, this is Dave Hamill. I need to talk to you about some of the edits you made to my input for the annual report. I don’t think we need to spell out those acronyms. Everyone who reads this will know what they stand for. If they don’t they should be taken off the distribution list. Anyway, call me back …”

  “Typical,” Elaine said. “I’m on vacation,” she shouted to the machine, giving the NEXT button a sharp push.

  Dana called to say thank you for the massage, claiming to be totally looking forward to it and to being so not ready to just go back to work.

  Two messages were for me, from Revere. Elaine and I stared at the machine as we heard Rose, in a panic over an explosion. Someone had planted a bomb under a hearse belonging to O’Neal’s Funeral Home in. Chelsea.

  “It’s terrible,” she said. “At least the vehicle was empty, but these people will stop at nothing, and I just know we’re next. Frank and Robert are with the police now, to see if there’s anything preventive we can do.” A big sigh. “Well, I’m sorry to be always bringing bad news. I’m sure everything there is rosy and beautiful and I wish I were there, or you were here, not that I’d want you to miss the wedding …”

  Rose rambled for a few more seconds. Ordinarily I would have called her back immediately upon hearing something so dramatic as an exploding hearse in my hometown. But the next message on Elaine’s machine precluded that.

  It was from Andrea, and it caused an explosion between Elaine and me.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Dana plunked down on a comfortable chair in Dr. Ann Barnett’s waiting room. The office was in a modern building by the bay, the decor a welcoming pale green with soft lighting and ferns that were the healthy version of what hung in her house. A big improvement over Julia Strega’s industrial digs. Not for the first time, Dana wished Valley Med would spring for an upgrade to the EMT lounge.

  Matt arrived a few minutes after Dana. HAVE A SUPPORTER ACCOMPANY YOU TO THE SESSION, TO BE THERE FOR YOU WHEN THE SESSION IS OVER, the pamphlet said, in deep blue. No one had asked her, “Why Matt, whom you’ve known all of two days?” But she knew everyone was wondering, why not Dad, or Elaine, or one of her EMT friends?

  For one thing, Matt was also an ES worker, in a sense, but not another Valley Med employee. His telling her about his own CI when he was a rookie had moved Dana. Matt had been so open, though he’d just met her, and she knew he was sincere, not playing a game to make her feel better.

  Also—and she had to admit this was a big factor—in a couple of weeks, Matt would be three thousand miles away, unable to embarrass Dana or remind her of this ordeal.

  They greeted each other with a hug, like old friends or father and daughter. Dana inhaled deeply and relaxed as Matt took a seat across from her.

  “I’m really glad you could come, Matt. I know you must have a gazillion things to do with Elaine and Gloria.”

  Matt crossed one leg over the other. Short legs, Dana noticed, compared to most of the men in her life. “Think about it. Would I rather be helping them choose shades of lipstick?”

  “Dana got it.”No, but you could be wine tasting. The famous Napa Valley’s not that far away.”

  “I don’t drink alcohol. So, you see, this is a real break for me.”

  Dana smiled, grateful he was making this so easy for her.

  The waiting room seemed unnaturally quiet. Not just because there were no other patients. It was as if the building were wrapped in a huge emergency kit blanket insulating it from outside noises like traffic or barking dogs. No piped-in music, either, or blaring TV, though there was a small set high in one corner of the room.

  Dana drew a long breath. “Can I tell you something?” she asked, almost whispering.

  Matt opened his palms. Anything.

  “I wish I’d been able to kill the guy who shot Tanisha.”

  “You’d be feeling a lot worse right now, believe me.”

  Dana sat back. She knew he was right, that he spoke from experience; she couldn’t figure why she’d even needed to hear it and was amazed she’d expressed herself out loud. She looked around the room as if she might find a device that brought out secret thoughts. She saw only warm landscapes in simple wooden frames, a magazine rack, large lamps with ceramic bases, and the door to the doctor’s office.

  “Did you have counseling after your incident?” Dana asked.

  Matt shifted in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. “If you could call it that. Internal Affairs ruled it a good shoot; the department shrink asked me if I was okay; I said sure; and my captain said, ‘Okay, then, take a couple of days R&R and we’ll see you on Monday.’”

  Dana laughed. “I guess counseling wasn’t a big deal back then. Maybe there’s too much made of it these days.”

  “Who knows?” Matt said. “You just work with what you have and do the best you can.”

  Dana loved Matt’s honesty She tried to imagine what her dad would have said. She heard his deep, confident voice, lecture-style: Follow the rules, Dana, they’re for your own good, and you’ll be glad later. A not-so-subtle difference. Matt wasn’t giving her any guarantees. If she didn’t know before last Friday night that life promised nothing, she knew it now.

  Her eyes were tearing up again. It didn’t take much. Dana fished in her purse for a tissue and felt the edge of the ID card she’d found in Robin’s closet. She couldn’t fathom the connections—the Indian gunshot victim, the consulting firm her father worked with, and her roommate. She toyed with showing the card to Matt, but he was a cop, after all, and Dana wasn’t sure she wanted to get the police involved. Even the Massachusetts police. She tried to figure why not. Was she afraid they’d investigate her? And find her small stash and pipe?

  Before she had to decide, Dr. Barnett’s secretary appeared at the door and, with a sweeping wave, invited her in.

  Dana tried to pay attention to Dr. Barnett. The therapist’s pageboy and blue-and-white seersucker suit were from another era, as if she’d had been called forth from a simpler time. The doctor’s questions seemed simple, but to Dana they were complicated.

  “Any physical signs of stress?” How can I tell? I’m on edge most of the time.

  “Headaches?” Yes. But more than usual? I don’t know.

  “Changes in sex drive?” Ha, no way to tell. I haven’t had sex since Scott left.

  “Dizziness? Changes in eating habits? Sleeping?” Yes. No. Maybe.

  “Poor concentration? Problems making decisions?” What else is new?

  “Dana? Dana.” Dr. Barnett’s voice was sharp, bringing Dana back into the room.

  Dana had no idea how her verbal responses had compared to her mental reactions, but Dr. Barnett’s look said her out-loud answers had been garbled at best.

  “Is there anything you’d like to ask me, Dana?”

  Dana frowned and tried to focus. She smoothed Robin’s skirt and wished she had a joint, or better yet her pipe, a present from Scott Gorman during happier days. She pictured the swirls of green and orange and purple on the beautiful glass bowl. “I can’t seem to forget,” she said. “I remember every detail, like in slow motion, Tanisha walking toward the building, falling. Then on the ground.”

  “You can’t heal what you can’t remember, Dana. So you’re doing well.”

  Dr. Barnett sat back and folded her hands on her lap. She seemed pleased with herself, as if she’d just delivered a favorable verdict.

  “Okay then I’m on track,” Dana said.

  That seemed to be what Dr. Barnett wanted to hear.

  Maybe things hadn’t changed all that much since Matt’s early days.

  “Two down, one to go,” Dana said to Matt as they drove in Dana’s brown-and-cream Jeep to the Berkeley PD.

  “This should be easy,” Matt sa
id. “Cops are the good guys.”

  Dana turned to see how serious Matt was, and caught his grin.

  The scene in the Berkeley PD building reminded Dana of a coloring book she’d had as a child. The pages had line drawings of uniformed men and women in working poses. Handcuffing a bad guy, seated behind a high counter answering a phone, tapping away at a computer terminal, handling a drug-sniffing dog, closing a barred jail-cell door.

  No insulating blanket around this building, Dana noted, as the sounds of the busy street outside competed with those within. Phones, pagers, printers, fax machines, clacking keyboards. Dana picked out angry, loud voices and guttural human sounds, like the kind you heard from the homeless on Telegraph Avenue and around the Shattuck BART station. It was expensive to ride the Bay Area Rapid Transit system but cost nothing to sleep in its stairwells.

  Matt seemed right at home, leading her up a wide staircase to the offices, and she remembered he’d been here before. She noticed he’d put on a sports coat. Professional courtesy, she figured, but it was a weird shade of blue that looked awful with his maroon polo shirt.

  Dana expected a lengthy delay, but a young female uniformed officer was waiting for them at the top of the stairs and ushered them into a long, narrow room. Even the walls in this room are busy, Dana thought. They were covered with maps and flyers and pushpins, not limited to the framed bulletin boards.

  Inspector Russell, whom Dana recognized from Matt’s description, sat at the end of the room behind a desk that was too small for his tall frame. His feet stuck out past the edge of the desk, into the area where Dana and Matt would be sitting. He pulled at the sleeves of his sports coat, slightly too short, and drew in his legs as they approached. If med schools rejected her, Dana decided, she’d investigate a career in personal shopping for cops.