Authors: Camille Minichino
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths
The Carbon Murder (14 page)
“There’s one of those domes in Atlantic City. And there’s this totally cool video game called ‘Spaceship Earth,’” Nathan said. “Maybe that’s where this guy Fuller got the idea.”
Daniel jumped up. I thought he might attack Nathan, but he attacked the whiteboard instead.
RIP OFF, he wrote in red dry-erase letters.
“They have completely ripped off Fuller’s ideas and themes. And they give him no credit, not even a plaque.” Daniel wrote CREDIT on the board, then drew a circle around it, and a line through it. The international, intergenerational symbol for no. “The term ‘Spaceship Earth’ was coined by Fuller, not by some action hero.”
I’d stepped back when Daniel came to the front of the room, unsure whether to interrupt. It was his club, after all, and not having children, I’d never been to a theme park and was unaware of this controversy. Daniel went on for a few more minutes; then I raised my hand and asked permission to give an example of a physical application of nanotubes.
Daniel smiled. “Okay, the student with the great pin can have the floor,” he said. It was the first I knew that he’d noticed the replica of a carbon atom that I wore on my lapel.
“Thanks, Mr. Endicott, and I appreciate the way you give your students a well-rounded perspective. Science is part of society, and at the same time it impacts our culture as if it were an external force. Maybe sometime we can do a whole class on that subject.”
Daniel seemed pleased with the resolution. Dr. Schofield nodded agreement, but said nothing. In fact, he’d said nothing beyond his initial greeting, and I began to wonder if he’d been sent by the administration to evaluate me.
I described briefly the excitement for physicists, the remarkable electronic and mechanical properties of carbon nanotubes. I thought Daniel and the budding environmentalists in front of me would appreciate the application to new hydrogen storage methods that were important if we were ever to have an alternative to fossil fuels. I flipped to my transparency showing a sleek, environmentally friendly, fuel-efficient vehicle, and ended with a list of
URLs for those interested in pursuing dome-related topics in more depth.
URLs for those interested in pursuing dome-related topics in more depth.
Once the students left, I started packing up my materials.
“Very nicely done,” Dr. Schofield said. “I’ve always admired people who understood physics.”
“And I can’t imagine knowing the details required of a medical person.” I thought of asking him why he didn’t become a human doctor, the kind who could help Matt. But he might ask the same of me.
“I hope you’ll feel free to come to my talk next week,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said, noncommittal. I didn’t think I had the time or the interest in learning how microchips were implanted in coyotes. Besides, what if he brought a real coyote to class? I didn’t trust anything faster than I was that couldn’t talk.
Daniel offered to help carry the tote bags to my car, but I declined, citing a need to use the rest room and make a couple of calls. The truth was that I’d had enough interaction for the day. I loved being in the classroom, but found it draining in a way that hours of research were not. I wasn’t used to being around so many high-energy people at once, from Daniel to the fifteen or so well-fed, lively teenagers.
I looked forward to the solo ride home and then to the espresso maker only a few feet from my couch.
I
t was nearly five and dark as I headed to my car. The street was full of vehicles, but empty of people. I had my remote ready and pressed it to open the door of my Caddie. The interior light did not come on, meaning the door locks hadn’t snapped up, either. I pressed a few more times, as if I didn’t know a thing about dead batteries and how they didn’t resuscitate spontaneously. Clearly I’d need my backup system. I dug out my keys, flipped around the ring until I fingered the long, thin key that opened the driver’s door the old-fashioned way.
t was nearly five and dark as I headed to my car. The street was full of vehicles, but empty of people. I had my remote ready and pressed it to open the door of my Caddie. The interior light did not come on, meaning the door locks hadn’t snapped up, either. I pressed a few more times, as if I didn’t know a thing about dead batteries and how they didn’t resuscitate spontaneously. Clearly I’d need my backup system. I dug out my keys, flipped around the ring until I fingered the long, thin key that opened the driver’s door the old-fashioned way.
Matt would have laughed, I thought. He never used the remote that came with his Camry. “There’s not enough return for the extra space the square thing takes up on my key ring,” he’d said.
There was no streetlight close to my car, and I knew I’d have a hard time seeing the lock. I put my bags down on the sidewalk, fumbling in my purse for the small flashlight I always carried.
Clank!
I turned to see one of my tote bags knocked over, my metal T-square hitting the pavement. Small white atoms rolled out of the bag and into the gutter. I worried momentarily about the storm drain, but figured the tiny balls wouldn’t be the worst of the contaminants headed that way on an average day.
“Let me help you with that.” A deep, unfamiliar voice. I started at the sound, seeming to come from nowhere, yet so close that I bumped into him—a man I didn’t know—when I turned around. I gasped, a wave of fear coursing through my body. I looked around
at the street, not exactly deserted, but no one within range of my voice, either. He leaned into me. An unwashed smell attacked my nostrils. Perspiration, cigarette smoke, foul breath. A homeless person? No. In the next moment I knew who he was, though I’d never met him.
at the street, not exactly deserted, but no one within range of my voice, either. He leaned into me. An unwashed smell attacked my nostrils. Perspiration, cigarette smoke, foul breath. A homeless person? No. In the next moment I knew who he was, though I’d never met him.
Wayne Gallen.
He’d used surprise to his advantage and taken my keys from me, knocking over more of my bags in the process. He pressed himself against me, so that my back was arched against the hood of the Cadillac, my knees unnaturally bent. Pain shot through my lower body.
“Nice wheels, Aunt G,” he said. My eyes widened. “Oh, yes, MC and I used to talk a lot, back in Houston. She sure is crazy about you.”
I’d always thought a Southern drawl would sound soothing, even sweet. Not this one, however. His voice was strident, threatening, on the edge of malice. I tried to breathe, to sound normal. Not easy with my hips and knees at the wrong angle to each other. But even through the pain, I thought,
Just what he did with MC—this man has no imagination
.
Just what he did with MC—this man has no imagination
.
“Mr … . Gallen, is it?”
He eased his upper torso away, pinning me, knees to knees, and tipped his filthy cap. “Yes, ma’am. Wayne Gallen himself. Listen, I need to talk to you, but let’s get inside where it’s private.”
What is this?
I wondered.
A new kind of stalker? The Unwanted Passenger Stalker?
I also wondered why a certain inappropriate flipness always accompanied the moments of crisis in my life.
I wondered.
A new kind of stalker? The Unwanted Passenger Stalker?
I also wondered why a certain inappropriate flipness always accompanied the moments of crisis in my life.
“My husband is a policeman,” I said, “and he’s expecting—”
Wayne smiled, a crooked grin, but not at a pleasant angle as Matt’s skewed smile was. Wayne’s was more like a sneer. He shook his finger at me in mock reprimand. “You are not married, Aunt G. Don’t go lying now, or neither me nor MC will be able to trust you.”
Well, we’re practically married,
I thought. Maybe we should tie the knot, just for situations like this.
I thought. Maybe we should tie the knot, just for situations like this.
A few cars passed us, but I was parked on the left side of a one-way
street, with the driver’s side next to the sidewalk, unable to signal anyone. Besides, our relative positions against the car probably led people to think they were witnessing a romantic interlude. No help needed.
street, with the driver’s side next to the sidewalk, unable to signal anyone. Besides, our relative positions against the car probably led people to think they were witnessing a romantic interlude. No help needed.
Wayne held me with one hand, inserted the key in the door with the other. I made no attempt to get away, knowing he was stronger and faster than I. Most people were. He must have realized I wasn’t about to bolt, because he relaxed his hold a bit. He ushered me into the backseat of my car, not pushing hard, almost as if he were my chauffeur having a bad night.
“I need you to talk to MC,” he said, settling himself into the backseat beside me. “I know she trusts you. You need to explain, A, that she’s in a lot of danger here, and B, that she needs to come away with me. It’s the only solution.”
Half of me was scared to death, trying to plot a getaway. The other half was happy to have located Wayne Gallen, or vice versa. I wished I had a copy of the PFA the police couldn’t seem to issue in the last forty-eight hours. It was small consolation that the order was in effect whether the respondent, in legalese, knew it or not.
He didn’t really hurt MC,
I reminded myself.
Maybe I can get some information out of him
.
I reminded myself.
Maybe I can get some information out of him
.
“What kind of danger is MC in?” I asked him, just an interested Aunt G.
Wayne lit a cigarette from a new package. Evidently the surgeon general’s message hadn’t reached Texas. He carefully removed the red cellophane strip from around the top and tucked it into his jacket pocket. A neat, environmentally conscious captor, despite his lack of grooming. I thought about bolting while he focused on keeping his thin, handlebar mustache from going up in flames from his lighter. “My boss won’t like it if I tell you, believe me.”
Some magic links connected in my brain, and I thought of my session with MC and her emails. I tried to remember the sender. Sampson? No, that was Carol Sampson, an editor I knew at BUL in Berkeley. Stinson? No, that was the beach in Northern California. Swanson? Early TV dinners. Then it came.
“You mean Dr. Simpson?” I asked. Wayne squinted and thrust his chin forward. I knew I’d hit it right.
“Maybe,” Wayne said, drawing on his cigarette. I coughed, unused to being so close to a smoker.
“What is it that Dr. Simpson thinks MC knows, Wayne? May I call you Wayne?” Get cozy, something I learned from the few times I’d watched crime dramas on television. Matt outlawed them in his presence, however, and I hadn’t really missed them.
I’d calmed myself considerably now that Wayne had distanced himself from me physically and mentally. I couldn’t help thinking of how MC had been in this same situation not long ago. Wayne was no longer touching me, and his concentration seemed to be on his cigarette, and on how or whether to answer me. He breathed heavily. More secondhand smoke for me and my Cadillac, a first in its lifetime.
“She got an email with some information that no one except me was supposed to get. See, there’s stuff going on with the money and all. Some creative diverting of funds, you might say.”
Never mind escaping; I couldn’t miss this. “Diverting of research funds? So Lorna Frederick’s annual reports don’t tell the whole story?”
Wayne checked me out again, with the same squint and chin thrust. I’d hit it again, apparently, by guessing that Lorna was involved, and that some clues might be in the reports Andrea had dug out for me. I wished I’d gotten to read them, but they were still in my briefcase, my retirement being a lot busier than my regular full-time working life had been. I wondered if Lorna could be reinterviewed based on Wayne’s weird expression.
Wayne opened his mouth to say something, then stopped, his eyes widening as he looked over my right shoulder toward the street. I turned to see what caught his attention. A car had pulled up next to mine. The young male driver casually glanced our way. In fact, his sedan was the last of a whole line of cars piled up for a red light. My captor and I were suddenly in the middle of a traffic jam. I’d heard bells chime five o’clock a few minutes before, possibly
from the nearby Immaculate Conception Church, and guessed that we were seeing a brief local tie-up from retail businesses or offices closing for the day.
from the nearby Immaculate Conception Church, and guessed that we were seeing a brief local tie-up from retail businesses or offices closing for the day.
This new opportunity for me to summon help dawned on both of us at the same time. Wayne’s response was to grab the door handle and move his feet to leave the car. Mine, strangely, was to reach out, as if to hold him back, my need for information dwarfing my initial fears for my safety.
“Let’s talk this out, Wayne,” I said. “If I know more about what MC should be worried about, I might be able to—”
He shook his head and spoke around his cigarette. “I don’t think so. Just talk some sense into her,” he said. He slammed the door and ran in the direction of the bushes that lined the sidewalk.
I scrambled across the seat and opened the door again, annoyed that he’d rushed off without giving me any satisfying information.
What’s wrong with me?
I wondered. I should have been happy to be alive, needing only a painkiller for my backache and air freshener for my car. Maybe I was a victim of the Stockholm Syndrome, bonding with my hostage-taker.
What’s wrong with me?
I wondered. I should have been happy to be alive, needing only a painkiller for my backache and air freshener for my car. Maybe I was a victim of the Stockholm Syndrome, bonding with my hostage-taker.
I got out of my car, switched on my flashlight, and started toward the bushes Wayne had ducked into. On the other side was a small, dirt parking lot with a clear view to a building on the next street, but Wayne was nowhere in sight. I let out a heavy sigh and returned to my car to gather up the spilled contents of my totes. I felt I’d been close to something important, something that would have shed light on MC’s predicament.
Diversion of research funds. Something missing from the annual reports. That was the phrase Wayne had responded to. I needed to commit it to memory, to keep in mind for when I was safe at home examining the reports Andrea had given me.
With the next traffic signal cycle, the street became nearly deserted again. I thought I should leave in case Wayne came back, but I continued to pick up my faux atoms, as if three dollars’ worth of Styrofoam were important enough to risk being manhandled again.
Between two pretend carbon atoms I saw something wrinkled and shiny enough to catch the headlights of a passing car. I picked it up, gingerly, the way Jean had fingered the soap in the guest room. An empty cigarette package, most likely Wayne’s, since he’d opened a new one after he entered my car. I spread open the crumpled package. Camels. Who smoked Camels these days?
While I was bent over, I played the light around the area. Maybe Wayne left a trail of butts and I could find out where he’s staying. Fairy-tale reasoning. I thought of Hansel and Gretel, though I’d never liked such stories as a child. Like the Bible stories Sister Pauline told us, they all failed my logic test. “Why didn’t the glass slipper disappear at midnight, too, like her beautiful new clothes?” I’d asked the lady in the library at the Saturday morning reading session.
I went back to the edge of the bushes, this time looking at the ground. A few steps in I found a cigarette butt, a Camel, next to tire tracks that were too narrow for a motorcycle and too wide for the kind of bike I had as a kid. Some in-between off-road bike, I figured. The on-and-off rainy weather made the perfect mold for the tracks and I could make out the design in some detail.
I followed the bike tracks to the back of the lot, which ended at the asphalt driveway of an office building. Along the way, wherever the indentation seemed deeper, there were one or two Camel butts alongside it, as if Wayne had made his way across the lot riding, lighting up, waiting, then repeating the cycle. I shuddered at the image of Wayne Gallen sitting on his bike, enjoying a smoke while lying in wait for me. I shuddered again thinking of MC as the object of his stakeout. I realized the whole episode in my car had lasted fewer than ten minutes, but that’s long enough when you know you’ve lost control of your life.
I made my way back to my car, beaming my flashlight back and forth in front of me, collecting cigarette butts. Overkill, probably, but why not? I gathered three butts into a tissue and put them in my pocket. I foresaw more midnight activity at our washer/dryer.
At least now I knew how Wayne was getting around. No rental car or local taxis, all of which had been checked by the police. Wayne was riding a bike. Now the police could carry Wayne’s photo to bike shops and possibly get an address or phone number. The idea that I’d come away from my frightening ambush with some information excited me. This time I didn’t rule out the possibility that Matt had come up with it already, as with the Lorna Frederick connection. As long as we got that man off the street.
I felt a drop. Rain would be nice, I thought, to wash away the presence of Wayne Gallen around my car. Then I looked at the bike track at my feet and got it in my head that the tire treads might also be helpful, though I didn’t have time to figure out why. I realized they would soon be washed away if I didn’t preserve them. Not that I carry plaster of Paris around in my trunk. But I did have some supplies.
Think,
I told myself as the raindrops came faster.
Think,
I told myself as the raindrops came faster.
I went back to my totes and pulled out some extra clear transparencies that I’d brought to class, to use in real time with the overhead projector. I peeled one off the stack, grabbed a marker, and went to the nearest track with good definition. I made a little pile of rocks and propped my flashlight on it. By now my knit suit was wet and dirty, my shoes caked with mud. Police work could ruin a good wardrobe, I thought, and it was a good thing I didn’t have one to begin with.
It was pouring now, water filling the grooves of the track as well as the space between my collar and my neck. I rushed to make a trace of the pattern on the clear, stiff plastic, using a blue marker to follow the design. Straight line, zigzag, reverse zigzag, straight, curvy, reverse curvy, straight, and back to the zigzags. I lifted the transparency from the ground and held it near my flashlight. Nothing that would stand up in court, but I had the dimensions correct, and a good representation of the angles of the zigzags and the wavelengths of the curves.
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