The Carbon Murder (10 page)
Authors: Camille Minichino
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths
“I saw that. Windowless, inside office, not far up the ladder.”
“Still, able to maintain a pretty expensive hobby,” Matt said.
“More like an obsession.”
For a moment I wished I had a passion like Lorna’s for horses. I tried to imagine myself committed in that way to a sport, or to a craft, like the quilt-making craze I’d noticed among women I’d worked with in California. Rose’s current interest was in making glass beads for jewelry and decorative lamps. I’d resisted invitations to join her. Did reading science magazines and biographies count as the hobby Rose insisted I needed? I’d have to pursue that thought another time.
“If she didn’t know Nina Martin, she definitely knew something she didn’t want to share,” Matt said, still on the debriefing track.
“I wish I could have learned more about her work. I’ll do some checking.”
“Notice anything about her alibi?”
A quiz, I sensed, and concentrated on remembering the exact words Lorna had used. “Nothing unusual, just that she didn’t give any names.”
Matt waited, giving me more time to come up with the right answer, I guessed. “That’s it?”
“I’m afraid so. You’re going to have to tell me,” I said.
“I asked her what she was doing on Friday. What would you have answered, in her place?”
“Aha.” I got his point. “I would have started with being at work, during the day, but Lorna went right to the evening and nighttime hours.”
“The report says Martin probably died sometime late Friday night. Of course, it could be nothing.”
“But it’s interesting.” I loved how police minds worked. Maybe that was a hobby.
Matt glanced over at my lap, where I held the brochure Lorna had thrust at me.
“Think you’ll get anything from that?” he asked.
“Count on it.”
M
y desk had become a repository of brochures. I’d sent away for paper literature from several pharmaceutical companies, to give myself a break from reading long pages of text on my computer monitor. They all made promises, giving sweeping assurances of a better, cancer-free life for all. Strange how all avenues of thought seemed to lead to Matt’s disease.
y desk had become a repository of brochures. I’d sent away for paper literature from several pharmaceutical companies, to give myself a break from reading long pages of text on my computer monitor. They all made promises, giving sweeping assurances of a better, cancer-free life for all. Strange how all avenues of thought seemed to lead to Matt’s disease.
I read about “smart medicines” that ignore healthy cells and go straight to the cancer cells; vaccines made from a patient’s own tumors, to “strike cancer right where it lives”; “small-molecule medicines” that disrupt the signal pathways of cancer cell receptors. All of these miracle cures involved drug delivery systems made possible with nanotechnology, the wave of the future; all designed to zero in on disease, to give families hope. So why wasn’t I feeling hopeful?
I opened the pamphlet from Lorna Frederick, a typical threefold affair, with bullets and clip art highlighting the research agenda. It was hard to distinguish the Charger Street lab brochure from those of commercial enterprises. The lab program had several joint projects with pharmaceutical companies, as I’d noticed on Lorna’s whiteboard.
I figured pharmaceutical companies had always promised utopia, but this was a new twist for research laboratories, at least in my experience. In my graduate school days, I was funded by the department I studied and worked in, not by a private, profit-making industry. I worked at my own pace, my only goal to satisfy
my dissertation committee and myself. Charger Street scientists, it seemed, didn’t have that luxury.
my dissertation committee and myself. Charger Street scientists, it seemed, didn’t have that luxury.
The more I read, the more annoyed I became.
This brochure is a funding tool
, I reminded myself, meant to draw industrial partners into the work of research, to speed up the technology transfer process. A good thing. But what were the consequences for “pure research”? I wondered how scientists could remain objective with someone standing outside the doors of the lab, waiting not just for data, but for a certain kind of data. The
it’s a go
kind of data. It seemed to me the perfect environment to encourage fraud. If my entire budget would stand or fall based on the results of one clinical trial, one set of curves, I might be tempted to skew the data, just a little, just enough to keep my research alive. For the greater good, and all.
This brochure is a funding tool
, I reminded myself, meant to draw industrial partners into the work of research, to speed up the technology transfer process. A good thing. But what were the consequences for “pure research”? I wondered how scientists could remain objective with someone standing outside the doors of the lab, waiting not just for data, but for a certain kind of data. The
it’s a go
kind of data. It seemed to me the perfect environment to encourage fraud. If my entire budget would stand or fall based on the results of one clinical trial, one set of curves, I might be tempted to skew the data, just a little, just enough to keep my research alive. For the greater good, and all.
If I’d been looking for a reason to justify the fraudulent actions of some scientists, there it was.
I realized what I was most annoyed at was my own ambivalence. I wanted a drug on the market that would completely cure Matt’s cancer, but I didn’t want science to get dirty producing it.
I hadn’t slept well for several nights, and as a result, I dozed off in the middle of an article about tomatoes in a journal from a cancer treatment center. Tomato sauce, it said, if eaten regularly, can reduce the risk of prostate cancer. Tomatoes contain lycopene, which gives them their bright red color, and works as an antioxidant in the body. Tomato sauce—the staple of Matt’s youth, and mine.
Matt woke me up, coming through the front door, laden with his heavy briefcase and a bag of groceries. He looked to me like he also needed a nap, but I couldn’t be sure my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me, as if I could see the cancer cells marching across his lower body, making him tired.
Matt looked at the loose pages of the journal article on my lap.
“Find anything interesting?”
“Yes, you need to eat more cooked tomatoes.”
He reached into the grocery bag and pulled out a cluster of deep red tomatoes.
“Lycopene!” I said.
We laughed, but we both knew it was time to get serious about treatment. We’d gone through the options for a Stage-II diagnosis, the first of which was called “watchful waiting,” to see if symptoms recurred. For Matt, the primary symptom had been a burning in his urinary tract. We’d read that patients with a low Gleason score have a very small risk of dying of their cancer within fifteen years if their cancer is never treated. Not good enough. Waiting was not high on my list of preferred responses, nor on Matt’s.
With a backdrop of a harvest moon outside our bay window, we sat on our couch and talked about excision of the prostate by irradiation; about the retropubic approach as opposed to the perineal approach to radical prostatectomy; about external and internal radiation therapy.
“I’m getting a lot of solicitations to be part of clinical trials,” Matt told me. “I can be a subject for ultrasound surgery or hormone therapy.” He pounded his chest. “I’m classified as an OHM, otherwise healthy male.”
He smiled; I didn’t. Matt, subjected to experimental drugs? For one who loved empiricism, I was surprisingly against it in this case.
“How soon do we need to decide?” I asked him.
He pulled me closer. “See, it’s that ‘we’ that makes all the difference. If I could only get you to use that pronoun when you talk about
our
house.”
our
house.”
“You’re right. When do we leave
our
house and go to talk to
our
doctor?”
our
house and go to talk to
our
doctor?”
“By the end of the week. Which reminds me, Gloria. There’s something else you’re not going to want to hear.”
My heart sank. What next, Stage III? Had Matt been to the doctor without me? Had more symptoms crept in? The look on my face must have caused Matt to regret his facetiousness, and he rushed to clarify.
“Jean wants to come up over the weekend. She’s … worried, I guess, and would like to see me.”
A visit from Matt’s sister. That’s all it was. I was at once relieved that there was no bad medical news, and chagrined that Matt felt he had to apologize for having his own sister as our guest for a couple of days.
“Of course she should see you, Matt. I wish I’d thought of inviting her myself.”
I’d last seen Jean at a barbecue at her Cape Cod home over Labor Day weekend. She hadn’t bothered to tell me that about fifty clients from her thriving real estate business would also be there, and dressed as if for a wedding. I showed up in beach casual, with a windbreaker over my khakis, carrying a small casserole (for the party of five I expected) that could hardly compete with the catered crab cake dinner. Matt tucked the dish away in the refrigerator, and seemed comfortable in his beach clothes, even joking about the miscommunication. I was less inclined to give Jean the benefit of the doubt.
Let’s embarrass that old girlfriend of my brother’s
, I imagined her thinking.
Let’s embarrass that old girlfriend of my brother’s
, I imagined her thinking.
None of this meant I shouldn’t have thought to invite Jean to visit her brother, and I apologized again to Matt.
He patted my hand. “Not a problem. She’ll be here for dinner on Friday, and stay over one night. Petey and Alysse won’t be coming; they’ll be staying with some friends in Dennisport.”
While I wasn’t crazy about Matt’s teenage niece and nephew, in some way, the children provided a buffer between their mother and me. They seemed to enjoy the science “toys” I gave them, bestowing an evaluation of
cool
, when I demonstrated both transverse and longitudinal wave propagation with a Slinky.
cool
, when I demonstrated both transverse and longitudinal wave propagation with a Slinky.
The children’s father had died in a boating accident soon after Matt lost his wife. I had to give Jean credit for successful parenting, and for not turning her offspring against me. Or maybe they were simply being teenagers, taking the opposite view of their mother toward their uncle’s girlfriend.
My second favorite Jean interaction was the time she and Alysse
and Petey came for dinner in my old mortuary apartment. I’d cooked a leg of lamb, with all the trimmings my Betty Crocker cookbook suggested. Petey was allergic to nuts, I learned, including the almonds I’d liberally tossed into the green bean casserole; Alysse had become a vegetarian the day before; and Jean had started a diet that morning, partaking of only two lettuce leaves and a few carrot sticks.
and Petey came for dinner in my old mortuary apartment. I’d cooked a leg of lamb, with all the trimmings my Betty Crocker cookbook suggested. Petey was allergic to nuts, I learned, including the almonds I’d liberally tossed into the green bean casserole; Alysse had become a vegetarian the day before; and Jean had started a diet that morning, partaking of only two lettuce leaves and a few carrot sticks.
“Whose turn to cook this weekend?” I asked Matt.
“Mine,” he said, quick as a cake mix.
M
C stepped out of the shower, onto the newly re-tiled floor of the health club locker room. She rolled on deodorant, pulled on her sweats, fluffed out her hair, tried not to breathe the heavy hair spray residue in the air. She’d finally found a good personal trainer, Rick Gong, at the Windside Health Club in Winthrop, and she was making progress getting back in shape after a lazy, lazy month or two, letting her mother pamper her. Mom—Ma—was amused, reminding MC that she and her father managed to keep fit without spending a lot of money on monthly dues, or hours and hours on special machines.
C stepped out of the shower, onto the newly re-tiled floor of the health club locker room. She rolled on deodorant, pulled on her sweats, fluffed out her hair, tried not to breathe the heavy hair spray residue in the air. She’d finally found a good personal trainer, Rick Gong, at the Windside Health Club in Winthrop, and she was making progress getting back in shape after a lazy, lazy month or two, letting her mother pamper her. Mom—Ma—was amused, reminding MC that she and her father managed to keep fit without spending a lot of money on monthly dues, or hours and hours on special machines.
“It’s a different era,” MC had told her parents.
“Yeah, yeah,” said her father.
“There was nothing wrong with the old era,” said her mother.
MC knew her mother was disappointed that she’d hooked up with Jake again, probably afraid MC would head back to Houston—not that MC had promised Jake anything the other night. Just not to shut him out completely. How her mother found out about Jake’s alcohol problem and his temper, she’d never know. She was sure Aunt G wouldn’t have told, if only not to upset her best friend. Mother’s intuition, she guessed, and wondered if she’d ever experience it. She rubbed her stomach, as if that were where the feeling would lie.
Maybe things would work out, and one day her mother would get to meet Jake and feel his warmth and charm. It wasn’t that hard
to imagine Jake at a family meal, telling stories the way her father often did. But not right away. He had a lot to prove first.
to imagine Jake at a family meal, telling stories the way her father often did. But not right away. He had a lot to prove first.
She walked toward her silver Nissan in the parking lot, taking long strides as Rick had suggested. Much as she loved Girls’ Night Out with Mom and Aunt G, she was glad it had been canceled tonight—she’d needed to start this new gym program. It was time to make a comeback, physically at least.
The Nissan’s Texas plates, with the state flag waving in the top right corner, stood out even at a distance. Another thing she’d have to take care of soon. She nearly tripped on a crack in the asphalt; she hated that it got dark so early these days. There were few cars in the Windside lot at six-forty-five, and she pictured every other woman her age eating pot roast at a polished dining room table, with a Hallmark husband, and two well-behaved little kids, a boy and a girl.
Or, as Aunt G would say, picture a woman with a lab of her own, making a difference through science and engineering. She smiled at the sound of Aunt G’s voice in her head. She couldn’t believe how rude she’d been, when Aunt G was only trying to help. She’d call her tonight and beg forgiveness. She’d chalk it up to stress, which was totally true. She’d set a new date to look at the emails, and maybe even cook dinner for Aunt G and Matt for a change. Wayne stalking her, Mary/Nina murdered, Jake showing up. Aunt G would understand and forgive her.
She dug her keys out of the new Red Sox duffel bag Robert had given her to welcome her home.
“Time to forget those Astros,” he’d said.
She thought of Robert coming to her rescue the other night, though it turned out to be unnecessary, and uttered a long-distance thank-you to her family. Sure, they could be overbearing at times, but all in all she knew they loved her and wanted the best for her. If only she knew what that was.
Uh-oh. More stress
.
Uh-oh. More stress
.
MC took a deep breath of cool, salty air. Maybe she’d get an apartment here in Winthrop once she had a job. It was on the
ocean—she’d never leave the ocean again—adjacent to Revere on the south side, but had no Galiganis. Close, but not too close. MC punched the remote, opened her car door, and tossed her duffel bag over to the passenger seat.
ocean—she’d never leave the ocean again—adjacent to Revere on the south side, but had no Galiganis. Close, but not too close. MC punched the remote, opened her car door, and tossed her duffel bag over to the passenger seat.
Her heart skipped when she heard a shuffling noise. When nothing threatening appeared, she imagined there’d been an animal in the clump of trees near her car. She started to climb into the Nissan—except a hand grabbed her left arm and held her tight.
She gasped and winced in pain. She tried to kick, but she was locked in place, her legs pressed against the bottom edge of the car. Whoever it was reached down and pushed the button to unlock the other doors. Then he opened the back door and pushed her onto the backseat.
“Shhh,” she heard. “It’s just me, MC.” A familiar voice.
Wayne Gallen slipped in beside her, and grabbed her arm again.
“Wayne!” MC’s heart still beat wildly; she looked in confusion at Wayne’s grip.
“I’m sorry if I scared you, MC,” he said. He let go of her arm, and patted it gently where he’d held it, as if to restore her body to normal. Wayne Gallen was Texas born and bred, and in his pronounced drawl, MC sounded like
Eee-em Say
. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just didn’t want you to shout out my name or anything.”
Eee-em Say
. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just didn’t want you to shout out my name or anything.”
Inythin
. Wayne was starting to annoy her. Harmless as he was, this was the second time he’d caused a panic attack. And he smelled. Not that she was proud of it, but she and her friends had often talked about how Wayne wore the same shirt all week, a clean one only on Mondays. Typical bachelor, they’d said, but Jake was as well-groomed as her own father, even when he lived alone.
. Wayne was starting to annoy her. Harmless as he was, this was the second time he’d caused a panic attack. And he smelled. Not that she was proud of it, but she and her friends had often talked about how Wayne wore the same shirt all week, a clean one only on Mondays. Typical bachelor, they’d said, but Jake was as well-groomed as her own father, even when he lived alone.
MC’s breathing finally slowed down. “What’s going on, Wayne? Where have you been?” She rubbed her arm through her sweatshirt, then massaged her lower calf where the metal ridge of the Nissan had dug in.
Wayne turned to face her, his knees now on the floor of the car, surrounded by empty water bottles and magazines on their way to recycling.
“Come away with me, MC.”
MC gave him an incredulous look. “What? What are you talking about?”
She really wanted to ask, “Are you crazy?” but forced something less offensive out of her mouth, not to be too rude, and just in case he
had
gone off the deep end. Wayne Gallen was a good chemist, everyone agreed, but also a little strange. Although he must have earned the same good salary as all the other program chemists, he lived in a trailer park outside town, brought his own lunch every day in what looked like the same paper sack, and gave no visible sign of spending his money elsewhere. And his long, red handlebar mustache alone was enough to qualify him as weird, MC thought.
had
gone off the deep end. Wayne Gallen was a good chemist, everyone agreed, but also a little strange. Although he must have earned the same good salary as all the other program chemists, he lived in a trailer park outside town, brought his own lunch every day in what looked like the same paper sack, and gave no visible sign of spending his money elsewhere. And his long, red handlebar mustache alone was enough to qualify him as weird, MC thought.
She’d always known Wayne had a crush on her. Now and then he’d ask MC how things were going with Jake, as if hoping she’d say, “I’m through with Jake. Let’s you and me party!”
“Can we start from the beginning, Wayne? Where have you been since you left the police station last week?”
“I’ve been hiding out, you might say.”
“Why?” MC heard herself ask
whaa?
in the whiny sound of her own come-and-go Texas accent. She swallowed, as if to get the drawl out of her mouth.
whaa?
in the whiny sound of her own come-and-go Texas accent. She swallowed, as if to get the drawl out of her mouth.
“MC, you got to trust me. I did not kill that girl, but I don’t want to be answering to these Back East police.”
“You mean Mary Roderick, uh, Nina Martin? Wayne, they caught the guy who shot her. And now he’s dead, too. There’s nothing to hide from.”
“You don’t know the whole story, MC.”
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t tell you now. You’re in enough trouble as it is, but believe me, this is how it has to be. I tried to warn you last week.”
MC clicked her tongue, frustrated. That email thing again.
“I checked, Wayne. There’s nothing in my emails to—”
“You’re not safe here. We need to disappear, get a new start, MC.” Wayne grabbed her hand. Kneeling, holding her hand, he looked like he was going to propose. A pitiful sight.
Wayne kissed MC’s hand. She shrank back. From the bit of moonlight that reached to the interior of the Nissan she caught a glimpse of his eyes. A creepy gray-green color, watery, darting around the parking lot as he talked. He wore a silly Dallas Cowboys cap, embroidered with a cartoon horse in football gear.
“I’ve always loved you, MC. From the first day you brought your students into our lab. Remember that field trip sort of thing you did?”
An SUV with enormous tires and a bar of lights across its roof turned into the lot. She considered trying to get their attention, but the vehicle did a quick U-turn and drove off. It was okay, she told herself. Wayne might be a smitten cowboy, but he was also a scientist; she could reason with him.
“Wayne—”
“I know Jake is in the area,” Wayne said.
How do you know that?
MC felt the panic return. She tried to remember self-defense moves. Wayne was strong, but small-built, like Jake; she ought to be able to get away from him. She blew out a breath and tuned in again to what he was saying.
MC felt the panic return. She tried to remember self-defense moves. Wayne was strong, but small-built, like Jake; she ought to be able to get away from him. She blew out a breath and tuned in again to what he was saying.
“You don’t want to take Jake back, MC. He doesn’t know how to treat you. I bet he treats his horses better. You were right to leave him in the first place.”
Suddenly, the Nissan seemed too small for both of them. She felt Wayne’s foul breath on her, smelled his sweaty clothes—the tight black jeans and that very ugly brown western-style shirt reeked, even more intensely than when he’d first gotten in. MC was breathing hard, as if she had just finished a run. She tried to gain control of herself, lest she freak Wayne out by her body language, and … who knew what he’d do? The last car besides MC’s started up, probably Rick’s, since the club closed at seven. The parking lot was not visible from the street, and once Rick left, there was no chance anyone would come around. If she were quick, she might be able to jump out of her car and run screaming to Rick.
She slid over far enough to press down on the door handle.
Locked. Wayne must have hit the child-proofing button while he was shoving her in the backseat.
Locked. Wayne must have hit the child-proofing button while he was shoving her in the backseat.
“Not a good idea, MC.” Wayne frowned; his voice went down in pitch. He squeezed her hand harder, put his other hand on her thigh.
MC stifled a scream. “I just need some air, Wayne.” Not a lie, MC thought she would suffocate in the close quarters. Wayne’s breath reeked of garlic or onion, or both. And cigarettes, definitely. Not alcohol, at least, she thought. She was an expert at detecting that.
Wayne smiled, apparently satisfied; he reached across the seatback and opened the driver’s door a crack, still holding her down with his strong grip. She estimated the chances that she could get in a punch or a kick and then fling herself over to the front seat on the driver’s side, and out the slightly open door. Slim to none.
MC sat back, tried to look comfortable, and gathered her wits. She summoned a calm voice.
“I need to think about this, Wayne.” She forced a smile, counting on the darkness to hide its deceit. “It’s a big decision, but you’re right, I should definitely not go back to Jake.” Tell them what they want to hear, she’d learned from women-in-peril movies. She could use a Keanu Reeves or a Colin Farrell right now, to drive in on a motorcycle and save her. And where were her brothers when she needed them?
Wayne seemed to relax.
Could it be this easy?
Could it be this easy?
“Okay, MC. I can see that.” Talking so slowly. Was he on something? “You do care for me, don’t you? I can tell. And I would be very, very good to you.”
“I know you would, Wayne.” MC was amazed at how convincing she sounded. Thinking of movie stars had helped; she’d cast herself in a woman-in-jeopardy role and now she was playing it out. “Where can I reach you?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll find you.”
His grin sent a chill through her.
Be Ashley Judd
, she thought.
Jodie Foster. Julia Roberts
. MC reached out with her free hand, ran it
over Wayne’s stubbly cheeks, her brush with his mustache grossing her out.
Be Ashley Judd
, she thought.
Jodie Foster. Julia Roberts
. MC reached out with her free hand, ran it
over Wayne’s stubbly cheeks, her brush with his mustache grossing her out.
Wayne leaned into her, kissed her hard, but then abruptly released his hold. He let out a long sigh, left her car, and disappeared into the trees.
MC could hardly move. She looked for a vehicle but couldn’t see or hear one. Where had he gone? Then,
why does it matter?
She quickly flipped herself over into the driver’s seat, not wanting to step out of her car, even now that she wasn’t being held captive.
why does it matter?
She quickly flipped herself over into the driver’s seat, not wanting to step out of her car, even now that she wasn’t being held captive.
As soon as she hit the street, she grabbed her bottle of water from the cup holder. She rinsed out her mouth, lowered her window, and spit the taste of Wayne Gallen into the gutter.
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