The Fluorine Murder (3 page)

"Someone is testing the flammability of
materials," I said. "Probably using materials from the nursing
home, like clothing, bedding, draperies, upholstery. Anything
that's manufactured with flammability in mind."

"That could be an ordinary fire
extinguisher," Frank said, indicating a blurry cylindrically shaped
object.

"I see that. But what if it isn't an ordinary
one?" Matt asked. "It's piled on there with all that other
obviously special apparatus."

I blew out a deep breath. I had to admit
it—this frame pointed to the Charger Street scientists as surely as
if the lab logo had been visible on the cart.

I had an idea that I hoped would redeem the
scientists at least somewhat.

"Let's do one more bit of analysis."

It had ages since I'd been inside the
destroyed nursing home—the last time was before an aunt died there,
more than ten years ago. It was a good thing I had a resource next
to me. "Can you give us a sketch of the layout of the home?" I
asked Rose.

"Sure. What's this about?"

I handed her a pad and Rose went to work
without needing an answer. The project took only a couple of
minutes, during which I kept my head down, unable to face Matt,
and, therefore, the sad music I was hearing.

"Not bad for a funeral director," I said,
tapping Rose's finished sketch. "It's just as I thought. The
residents' rooms are in the front and middle of the building. In
the front we also have the lobby and small visiting parlors; in the
back we have the pharmacy, the kitchen, and the recreation room.
The fire was at the back. Right, Matt?"

Matt nodded. "I see where you're going. It's
as if the arsonist wanted to make sure no one was hurt. He started
the fire as far away from the residents as possible."

"Maybe he just didn't want to be seen," Rose
suggested.

"I don't think that's it," I said, running my
pen along the middle of Rose's rectangle-cum-building. "I noticed
on the video that there are more trees, plus lots of shrubbery
around the central part of the building, so patients can look out
their windows at some greenery, I suppose. It would be easier to
hide there and start the fire, whereas the back is pretty bare and
open."

"I get your point," Frank said. "It sure
looks like he picked a spot away from the residents, and knew the
staff would have time to remove them safely."

In other words, scientists are not
monsters.

"In a way, it fits the pattern of the
previous fires," Matt said. "The other buildings were unoccupied
and this one had been emptied out by the time the fire took hold
completely."

"Except for the woman," Rose said.

"It must have been an accident," I said, my
voice weak and my resolve fading.

We took a moment to remember the murdered
girl with the telling tattoo. If we could only figure out what it
was telling us.

****

As was typical before any important meeting,
Matt took his notes to bed the night before our scheduled visit to
the Charger Street lab. I wondered if anyone in the fluorine group
was doing the same.

"The question is whether there's a murderer
among them," Matt said. "Premeditated or not. Pushing that cart
around on its wheels could be a one-person job. Or they all could
have been involved."

I was glad Matt didn't expect an answer to
his musings. The case was upsetting me enough as it was.

"What's our strategy at the meeting?" I asked
him. "Do we pretend we're just there to tap into their fluorine
expertise or do we have the handcuffs ready?" I hadn't meant to
sound so peeved.

He leaned over and rubbed my neck. "It's not
personal," he said, in that voice that would have made him a
wonderful doctor.

"I know. I promise I'll be open."

Matt was kind enough not to mention that it
would be a first for me.

****

Matt and I walked with a security escort down
one of the few unclassified hallways, our visitor badges resting on
our chests. I'd been here often, but with the anticipation of
learning about the thermodynamic properties of fluorine compounds
or the latest in heat transfer analysis.

The Charger Street Lab was its own city in
many ways, its relationship to Revere much like that called "town
and gown," when a large university was located in an otherwise
small city. The Lab had several cafeterias and classrooms, a
research library, a fully equipped gym, an Olympic-size swimming
pool, and its own infirmary.

Usually I'd walk in on a busy group—Stan
setting up the display screen for the monthly presentations, Carson
and Danielle moving chairs around, Teresa and Peter arranging pads,
pencils, and, best of all, fresh pastry from Luberto's downtown
bakery.

This morning, the room was empty. No
scientists, and no pastry.

"I'll let them know you're here," our escort
said, without a trace of warmth.

"I wonder why the cold treatment," I said,
when he'd left. I hadn't even tried to keep sarcasm out of my
tone.

Matt was smart enough to forgo comment.
Instead he walked around the small room checking out the
photographs on the wall. One side was lined with depictions of
complex molecules. "Are these all fluorine compounds?" he asked. He
knew how to distract me.

I nodded. "Fluorine is much too active an
element not to be in a compound. Those are all the basics." I
walked along the wall with him, naming the few that I recognized on
sight.

"This place smells," Matt said, with an
exaggerated sniff. "Like acid, or something worse. Not like physics
departments, which always have a pleasant aroma."

I smiled, loving his attempts to soothe
me.

We moved to the other side of the room, where
photographs of humans took precedence, some formal, others candids
from conference gatherings. One shot was from the group picnic only
a month ago. I was glad now that I hadn't been able to attend; I
felt I was no longer a part of the team.

The door opened and the fluorine research
group filed in. I heard a soft "hey" from Teresa, but nothing from
the three men. They took seats along one side of the table; Matt
and I sat across from them. The arrangement looked too much like a
police line-up to suit me.

Stan, in a white lab coat today instead of
his green sweater, clutched his special coffee mug with a drawing
of the molecular structure of caffeine. Teresa and Carson both
looked at me with suspicion, as if I'd betrayed our friendship by
showing up with a police officer. Peter wore his nerdiest frown,
looking down on the conference room table as if he were studying
chess moves.

I drew in my breath. Danielle was missing. I
sincerely hoped she was shopping, and not … I couldn't go
there.

Matt cleared his throat. "Good morning,
everyone. Thanks for meeting us." He looked down at his notebook,
and took attendance in as pleasant a way as possible. I figured
this was the most benign looking group of suspects he'd seen
lately.

"Where's Danielle?" I asked. "Is she in
today?"

I'd been looking at Stan, but it was Teresa
who answered. "I haven't seen her this morning. As you know, she's
a student and keeps funny hours."

"Does she usually call in and let you know
when she's going to be here?" Matt asked.

"Most of the time she'll check to see if
there's something special we need her for," Peter said. "But not
today."

"I think she was going somewhere for a long
weekend," Carson offered.

I thought of a dozen reasons why Danielle
didn't call in, from a summer cold to a very long date. Still, my
stomach churned.

"We appreciate your taking time to talk to
us," Matt told the team. "I'm sure you're all very busy and I'll
try to keep this short."

Stan folded his arms across his chest. "Happy
to oblige," he said, sounding anything but.

Nods and murmurs of "yeah" and "right"
rippled across the row of researchers.

Matt's standard interview techniques ran
through my mind. Rule one: Give the person time to answer even if
there are periods of silence. A guilty person has a harder time
with silence than an innocent one. A guilty person talks more, in
general, often asking for a question to be repeated or shifting
blame elsewhere.

I kept quiet while Matt reviewed the
information he had on the fires and on the unidentified murder
victim. The team looked bored.

Not exactly enthralled myself, I looked
around the room again at the familiar photographs. My gaze landed
on a framed enlargement, showing Danielle in front of an
official-looking building. I squinted, which usually helped my long
distance vision. An embassy? I thought I recognized the French
flag.

At this distance, a large gold seal stood out
against the white stone of the building. A queasy feeling took over
my insides. I pulled my iTouch onto my lap, careful not to disrupt
the interactions of the group, such as they were.

My fingers flew through links from my search
engine until I got a close-up of the Seal of France.

And of the murder victim's tattoo.

No wonder I'd thought of the Statue of
Liberty when I saw the photo of the tattoo. The crown with seven
arches was the same on both; both were French in one way or
another. I scanned the online write-up. The personification of
Liberty held a fasces, an ancient symbol of authority—not a thick
candle, as I'd thought. I must have been channeling Rose and her
Unity Candle when I'd first seen the blurred image of the
tattoo.

My heart was heavy. It seemed clear that the
murder victim was Danielle Laurent. It didn't help that her killer
might have been someone in this room.

Matt's nudge brought me back to the seminar
room, where he was asking me a question. I had a feeling it wasn't
the first time he'd asked.

"Gloria? The spectra?"

I did my best to gather my wits. I retrieved
a set of printouts from my briefcase—the spectra provided by the
arson lab. I spread the sheets along the middle of the table.
Familiar peaks and valleys revealed the chemical composition of the
five different fire retardants used in the recent blazes.

"We're hoping you can help identify these
very complex substances," Matt said, apparently realizing he
couldn't count on me to lead the discussion.

"Can't tell," Carson said, arms still
folded.

"Could be anything," Peter said, his eyes
seeming out of focus.

All we got from Teresa was a shake of her
head, which was more than Stan offered.

Matt pushed the printouts closer and waited.
Who would break?

"We've been through all of this with the fire
department," Carson said, finally. "You should be looking
elsewhere. Don't you have a list of known offenders or something?
We have work to do."

I was convinced that Danielle was our victim,
but I pushed my distress to the side. Maybe I could come at this in
a different way and catch someone off guard. "I know how it is,
these days especially, to get funds for research," I said. "By the
time you write up a proposal, wait for the approval and then the
funding, you're way behind another lab or even another country." I
clucked my tongue in sympathy.

"Throw in a mountain of paperwork and
regulations that are updated hourly and you've got an impossible
situation," Carson said. "No one on the outside seems to get
it."

Stan leaned over and stared down the table at
Carson, knocking into his coffee mug, splashing the sleeve of his
white lab coat with brown liquid.

Which prompted me to wonder—why was Stan so
nervous? And where was his sweater?

I couldn't recall seeing Stan without his
trademark cardigan, even in the summer months since the whole
facility was kept at a pretty low temperature for the sake of the
computers and the equipment.

Things were stacking up against Stan. As the
oldest in the group, he'd likely be the most eager to get results
and retire on the strength of a groundbreaking paper. Danielle
could have been in the wrong place, or perhaps trying to end a
romance with an improbable future.

On an impulse I stood up. "I need to use the
restroom," I told the group. "I'll be right back."

Matt gave me a questioning look. I knew he
didn't believe my excuse for a minute.

****

I headed down the carpeted hallway toward
Stan's office, multitasking as usual. I emailed the RPD from my
iPhone. I needed to send Matt's good buddies in uniform to Danielle
Laurent's residence. It would be awhile before DNA or even dental
records would provide an ID, but maybe there'd be something among
her belongings that would confirm my ad hoc assessment.

I also needed to find Stan's sweater. I
pictured myself returning to the room triumphant, carrying a
charred green cardigan. A few feet from his office door, I nearly
collided with Albert, a janitor I'd seen a few times. He was
carrying a plastic bag from a dry cleaners. Through the transparent
wrapping, I saw a hanger with a green sweater attached.

I swallowed hard. Had Stan already destroyed
the evidence I needed to put him at the scene of the latest
fire?

"Nice to see you, Dr. Lamerino," Albert said
in Italian-flavored English.

"You look busy," I said. "Doing errands for
Dr. Nolan?"

"Yes. His sweater. He let me borrow it last
week when I was sick and had the chills. I have it cleaned for him
and now I return it. He's a nice man, no?"

"He's a very nice man," I said.

As relieved as I was that the fluorine team
leader was probably not an arsonist, I was aware of the huge
setback in solving the case.

I turned and headed back to the conference
room, peering into cubicles as I walked. Only the leader of each
group in the department had an office; the others worked in
cubicles, open to the world.