Read The Nitrogen Murder Online
Authors: Camille Minichino
Tags: #California, #Lamerino; Gloria (Fictitious Character), #Missing Persons, #Security Classification (Government Documents), #Weddings, #Women Physicists, #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Women Sleuths, #Reference
The Nitrogen Murder (4 page)
“Yes, I guess I did. I must have heard Dana wrong last night.”
“But at breakfast, Phil said the murderer took a duffel bag. Did you tell your dad it was a duffel bag, Dana?”
Dana shook her head. “No, I don’t think I went into that kind of detail with Dad.”
“I’m the one who told Phil about the briefcase,” Elaine said. “Or maybe I did say duffel bag.” She waved her hand. “Who knows what we said, with all this confusion.” She gave me a strange look, as if to ask why any of this was important.
Matt’s look, however, was quite different.
I could hardly wait for a private talk.
“I see where you’re going with this, Gloria,” Matt said the next time we were alone. It was late that afternoon, back at Elaine’s, when she left us to make some phone calls. Matt shook his head, put his hand under my chin, and stared into my eyes. “You’re as bad on vacation as when you’re on the job in Revere.”
At least he followed the scolding with a kiss.
“Just hear me out,” I said. “Assume Dana got it right the first time and told Elaine the shooter took a duffel bag. Elaine doesn’t own a duffel bag. She wouldn’t be caught dead—uh, she would never own one. She thinks they’re sweaty when they’re brand-new. So she probably translated it in her mind to a briefcase. Then she tells us, and Phil, it was a briefcase that got stolen, but Phil knows it was a duffel bag.”
“How would he know that?”
“Exactly.”
Between the hearty brunch and the snacks at Dana’s, none of us wanted dinner on Saturday evening, so we settled for a liqueur from Elaine’s vast store. Neither Matt nor I drink alcoholic beverages, but we both feel that liqueur is more dessert than liquor. This one was coffee flavored and lovely to look at in Elaine’s special crystal. I hoped I’d be able to control my clumsy fingers, more used to holding tumblers bought in sets of eight at the supermarket.
It was difficult to ply my trade in front of Matt, but I wasn’t deterred.
“I know you’ve told me, but what exactly does Phil do again?” I asked Elaine. A casual question while sipping from a dainty glass.
“I don’t know much about it, except that it’s classified and has something to do with nitrogen.” Elaine smiled, lifting her eyebrows slightly. “I suppose you’ll want to tell us all about nitrogen, Gloria.”
“Yeah, Gloria, what should we know about nitrogen?” Matt asked.
“It’s the N in TNT,” I said, and took another sip of my drink.
D
ana leaned over the basin of her bathroom sink and looked down into the bowl. She studied the chipped porcelain, the rust rings around the drain, a curvy black crack radiating from the bottom. She held her hand under the leaky faucet and watched as the drops piled up on the pad of her finger, then slipped around to her nail and dropped off, like tiny liquid divers plunging to their death.
ana leaned over the basin of her bathroom sink and looked down into the bowl. She studied the chipped porcelain, the rust rings around the drain, a curvy black crack radiating from the bottom. She held her hand under the leaky faucet and watched as the drops piled up on the pad of her finger, then slipped around to her nail and dropped off, like tiny liquid divers plunging to their death.
Until yesterday the condition of the sink annoyed her; she’d finally convinced her roommates they should talk to their landlord about a new one. Now the sink seemed right, normal. The sink was like life—chipped, rusty, cracked, leaky. Why else would Tanisha be dead at twenty-six, punished for doing her job?
Dana squinted and pulled a chestnut hair from the stained basin. Hers. Long, and straight as a bullet. She thought of Tanisha’s hair. Seventeen-hour hair, their mutual friends called it when Tanisha described the long process of producing an intricate design of braids and cornrows.
Tanisha’s friends teased her about her car, too, an old blue station wagon, a hand-me-down from her grandfather, who’d marched with Martin Luther King Jr. The wagon sported an American flag decal and a BLACK Is BEAUTIFUL bumper sticker, both also from her grandfather.
“‘African American’ is too much of a mouthful, girl,” Tanisha had told Dana in her rich voice. “They got it right in the sixties.
Too bad I was born so late.” And her laugh, from deep in her large bosom, would fill the room.
Too bad I was born so late.” And her laugh, from deep in her large bosom, would fill the room.
I could have been the one to tech the call, Dana thought. I could have made the first effects run. Why wasn’t it my turn to ride in the back with the patient while Tanisha did the ring-down?
Dana finished brushing her teeth, moved slowly to her bedroom, and flopped backward onto the pale blue comforter. She thought of Rachel, Tanisha’s four-year-old daughter, with a set of tiny cornrows of her own and a dozen braids that ended in bright plastic balls. Pink, blue, white, yellow. Rachel knew all her colors.
Dana knew she needed to visit the San Leandro home where Tanisha and Rachel lived with Marne, Tanisha’s mother. She shouldn’t wait until the funeral. Rachel’s father was a loser, out of the picture from day one of the pregnancy, Tanisha had told Dana. Dana might be able to help, maybe take Rachel for an ice cream or to the Oakland Zoo.
If she could only get out of bed. Maybe she’d had one toke too many after Elaine and her friends left. Or maybe the strain of grass was not a good one. Sometimes Kyle brought shwag—stuff Dana felt was from the reject bin in some warehouse in Colombia. It had a harsh taste and left her feeling more tired than relaxed.
For the hundredth time, Dana went over the events of Friday evening. Looking for answers? Trying to roll back to the beginning of the shift and do everything differently? Who knew why? But she couldn’t stop rerunning the hour through her mind.
In her marijuana fog, Dana is back at the scene.
Dana and Tanisha are lounging in the front seats of the ambulance, having a snack. They’re parked in the lot of a strip mall off 1-580 in Oakland, not far from Lake Merritt. Dana is in the driver’s seat.
“I love all the perks,” Tanisha said. “I swear they think we’re cops.” They were joking about the attention they got in their
black EMT uniforms and rehashing stories about the guys that hit on them regularly.
black EMT uniforms and rehashing stories about the guys that hit on them regularly.
“Hey, I need resuscitation,” one cute guy had yelled out his window up to the cab where Dana sat, waiting for a green light. “I’m feeling faint. What’s your phone number?”
“911,” Dana had yelled back as she roared away, and she and Tanisha had laughed for the next quarter mile.
Tanisha dug into the bag of chips she’d just received, gratis, from a fast-food place. They talked about the complimentary passes they got at theaters, and the free convenience-store sodas now and then, depending on the neighborhood.
“Who wouldn’t think we’re cops? The uniform’s the same color, and we have all this stuff hanging on our belts.” Dana jiggled her radio and pager, and Tanisha followed suit. They were having a good time, almost as if they’d just shared some wacky weed. No smoking on the job, though; they were together on that.
It was a quiet shift so far, and the partners continued bantering, solving the problems of the world, gossiping.
“What about those missing meds and supplies?” Dana asked. “I’ll bet they try to pin it on EMTs.” She was thinking of an ongoing problem with inventory—pills, drugs, needles—disappearing from local hospitals and convalescent homes.
Tanisha popped a large potato chip into her mouth and smacked her lips. “Yeah, well, you’d think they’d be going after the big guys instead of trying to track thimblefuls of medicine.” She gave Dana a playful punch. “Wish we had a little thimble full of grass now, don’t you?”
It was five-forty-five, near the end of the shift, when the call came.
A little action, finally. “225 responding,” Dana said.
“Priority 2 out of Golden going to trauma. A GSW vic.” It was the Valley Med radio voice telling them to transport a gunshot-wound victim from Golden State Hospital, off I-580, to the city trauma center in Berkeley.
Dana and Tanisha straightened up and buckled their seat belts. Dana started the engine. “225 en route,” she said into the radio.
Golden State Hospital was only about a mile and a half away. Dana eased the ambulance out of the lot, down a divided road, and onto the I-580 freeway. She headed west, not the rush direction, though there was less and less difference these days as the Bay Area added one housing development after another. Dana weaved in and out, able to do seventy without her lights and siren.
They exited the freeway. Two rights, a left, and they arrived at the hospital.
“225 on scene,” Dana said into her radio.
Dana and Tanisha moved their patient—dark skinned, maybe Indian, Dana thought—onto Valley Med’s heavy-duty yellow gurney. No extra backboard for this guy, no scooper. Patient positioning standard. The patient had already been treated in Golden’s ER; he’d been bandaged, but he needed the more appropriate facilities of Berkeley’s trauma center.
“It never fails,” Tanisha said, shaking her head. “People who drive themselves to the hospital always pick the wrong one.”
“Right,” Dana said. “They should know they’re going to end up in an ambulance one way or another, so why don’t they just call us to begin with?”
Tanisha took her place in the back on the gray vinyl seat across from the gurney and flipped through the paperwork from the ER. The patient had his IV drip and seemed comfortable.
Dana walked quickly to the front of the ambulance and stepped up into the driver’s seat.
A normal call, Code 2.
They were on their way. So far, so good. Dana liked the rush, the feeling she got sitting up there high above even the SUVs. She was in uniform; she was in charge. So what if some jerks were still crazy enough to cut her off now and then? She’d loved
the time she drove full throttle over the center divide on the freeway, flicking on the earsplitting sirens, going the wrong way for a quarter mile or so, and then jumping back on, past the stop-and-go traffic.
the time she drove full throttle over the center divide on the freeway, flicking on the earsplitting sirens, going the wrong way for a quarter mile or so, and then jumping back on, past the stop-and-go traffic.
But this evening’s patient was conscious enough to maybe be freaked out by a big fuss—he was a little looped from the morphine—so Dana decided to stay Code 2, no lights, no siren.
This time she took city streets, winding her way north and slightly east, crossing the line from Oakland into Berkeley, headed for Ashby Avenue. She knew Berkeley; she knew how to avoid the annoying streets that were blocked by makeshift rotaries, designed to slow traffic down. The array of bulky concrete slabs in the middle of the intersections reminded her of a cemetery.
Dana skirted a guy wearing a woolen cap that looked a lot like a yarmulke but was probably just another Berkeley fashion statement:
I can wear wool in June if it makes me happy
. No wonder suburbanites called it “Bezerkley.”
I can wear wool in June if it makes me happy
. No wonder suburbanites called it “Bezerkley.”
Time for the ring-down. Dana steadied the ambulance with her left hand, held the radio with her right.
“City, this is Valley Med 225. I have a Code 2. Forty-plus-year-old male, BP 106 over 56, pulse 100, resp rate 24.” The numbers Tanisha had yelled out. “ETA five to ten minutes. How do you copy?”
“Copy clear.” The trauma center dispatcher, at the ready.
Seven minutes later—good timing, in spite of too many arrogant bicyclists thinking they were more important than any motor vehicle, even an ambulance—Dana pulled into the wide semicircular driveway.
Dana walked to the back of the ambulance, where Tanisha had the doors open. They unlocked the gurney and pulled it out. They wheeled it over the rough asphalt, into the trauma center.
One, two, three
. Dana and Tanisha moved the patient, supported by the sheets from Golden State Hospital, from the gurney
to the trauma center bed. They handed over the paperwork and left Golden State’s sheets behind.
. Dana and Tanisha moved the patient, supported by the sheets from Golden State Hospital, from the gurney
to the trauma center bed. They handed over the paperwork and left Golden State’s sheets behind.
Dana and Tanisha walked back to the ambulance.
“This guy has a lot of stuff. I’ll start with the duffel bag,” Tanisha said. “You clean up and follow me with the rest, okay?”
“Got it,” Dana said.
Or did Dana say, “Tanisha, you take the duffel bag”? Dana doesn’t remember. She hopes it was Tanisha’s idea to go first.
Tanisha left the back of the ambulance carrying the duffel bag. It was a gray-and-silver bag, shiny, and distended enough to strain the white zipper.
Dana stayed behind. She sprayed the gurney with a germicide from a clear plastic bottle and wiped it down. She gathered up the contents of the patient’s wallet, which had spilled on the floor. She noticed multiple IDs; same face, different name. Oh well, not her problem. She stuffed the laminated cards into the pockets of her uniform pants.
She heard a noise. Fireworks already? It was barely mid-June. They started earlier and earlier every year.
Another blast. Not a firework. She stepped out of the back of the ambulance and looked toward the ER doors.
Tanisha is down, sprawled on the driveway.
Someone is running through the bushes to the left of the doors. Running away.
The old security guard runs out from the building. He yells something—it’s unintelligible to Dana, who is also running toward Tanisha.
More people come. Doctors and nurses, a gurney, not rugged and yellow like Valley Med’s but small and white. Tanisha’s large frame fills the bed of the gurney; there’s blood on her cornrows.
Dana hangs on to the gurney, walks with it, her body leaning over Tanisha, calling her name, “Tanisha, Tanisha, oh my God, Tanisha,
”
until someone pulls her back and sits her down on the cold cement bowl of a potted plant.
”
until someone pulls her back and sits her down on the cold cement bowl of a potted plant.
Dana’s ears are ringing. She tries to block the sound, but it only gets louder and louder.
The phone was ringing, but Dana couldn’t find it. Bleary-eyed, she fished around under her pillow, among the folds of her tangled comforter, on the floor, under the bed. Finally the shrill sound stopped and her answering machine clicked on.
“Dana, this is Julia. It’s Sunday morning. Actually, noon
.” Her boss’s voice, sounding like she had a cold. Valley Medical Ambulance Company’s owner, Julia Strega.
.” Her boss’s voice, sounding like she had a cold. Valley Medical Ambulance Company’s owner, Julia Strega.
Dana threw herself on her back, arms outstretched, and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force herself back to sleep.
“Just
want to say we missed you today,” Julia’s drone continued. “
You need to come in and get debriefed and, you know, let’s just talk. Call me, okay? Take care.”
want to say we missed you today,” Julia’s drone continued. “
You need to come in and get debriefed and, you know, let’s just talk. Call me, okay? Take care.”
Sure, Dana thought. I’ll take care.
“Dana, Dana, wake up.”
Dana opened her eyes enough to see Jen, one of her roommates, standing over her. “How come the door was wide open? I can’t believe you went to sleep and didn’t lock up the house.”
Jen’s voice was a scalpel, cutting into Dana’s brain, her short blond hair a surgeon’s cap. “What?” Dana managed. “I overslept.”
“It’s two in the afternoon. Didn’t you go in for your meeting? And the front door was open to the world. My bike and Robin’s are still here, thank God, but—” Jen stopped and stared at Dana. “Oh, my God, Dana, I’m so sorry I forgot, almost.” Jen sat on Dana’s bed, hardly making a dent with her tiny body, and took her hand. “I just got worried when I saw the door like that. Can I get you something? How about some tea? And I see all kinds of delicious pastry out there.”
Dana nodded yes to the tea and shook her head no to the pastry She could still taste the blueberries from yesterday’s scone.
She felt it was still high and heavy in her gut, which she’d known would happen, but she’d wanted to show her appreciation to Elaine and her friends.
She felt it was still high and heavy in her gut, which she’d known would happen, but she’d wanted to show her appreciation to Elaine and her friends.
“And don’t worry, I closed the door,” Jen said.
Dana had no idea what the big deal was about the door. Of course she’d locked up. Robin must have come back or something.
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