Read The Boric Acid Murder Online
Authors: Camille Minichino
Tags: #Revere Beach (Mass.), #Police Procedural, #Mystery & Detective, #Boric acid, #General, #Boston (Mass.), #Lamerino; Gloria (Fictitious character), #Women Sleuths, #Fiction, #Women physicists, #Detective and mystery stories; American, #Massachusetts
The Boric Acid Murder (11 page)
I omitted mention of my threatening note and the unruly alarm, surprised the security company hadn’t also called the Galigani residence.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked me. “It’s nice to spend time pampering John, but I’m going a little crazy.”
It took me only a minute to work Rose’s special talents into the needs of my investigation.
“I’d like to meet Derek Byrne’s father, the councilman. Any ideas?”
“You want to have lunch with him tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
I knew she was good, but this was impressive, even for Rose.
“You can go to the Civic Club luncheon. They’ll be giving out the scholarships for the end of the school year. Byrne will surely be there.”
“How do I get an invitation?”
“I just gave you one. Frank and I are supposed to go, but obviously we’re skipping it. Robert isn’t in the mood either, and Karla has a big case to argue next week. The Molinas are suing the school district over their son’s suspension. They say it’s caused undue hardship on the family. Can you imagine?”
“No, I can’t.”
“So, you can represent the mortuary at the luncheon.”
“Perfect.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Rose said with a laugh, echoing my own thought. More than once, my investigations had been helped by my informal status as adjunct mortuary staff.
“When and where?”
“The Oceanside, at noon.”
“Elegant,” I said.
“It’s still just rubber chicken.”
I laughed. “I won’t be going for the food.”
“Why do you want to talk to Brendan? He can’t be a suspect.”
“Just a loose end.” In a case full of them, I thought, having no idea what I’d say to Councilman Byrne. Is your son capable of murder? Can you vouch for his alibi? Do you have one yourself?
“Gloria, don’t wear one of your crazy pins, OK?”
“I thought I’d show off my peach sweatshirt with the Peter Pan collar and butterflies on the front.”
Rose uttered a half laugh, as if she wasn’t quite sure I was joking. “OK, I’ll mind my business.”
“That is your business, Rose. Would you like to dress me?”
“Gladly. I’ll be over in the morning.”
Now that we were on good terms again, I gripped the phone and prepared myself for the inevitable.
“I’ll need to talk to John at some point.”
I heard a humming sound. Rose’s deep sigh of resignation. “I know. It’s OK.”
ROSE AND I MADE a date for ten on Tuesday morning, after my meeting with Garth Allen. I hoped she wouldn’t drag me to the mall for a new outfit. Especially during the daytime hours, the malls near us were a haven for young mothers. I had little patience with otherwise intelligent (I supposed) women in serious discussions about diaper bags and crib mobiles, and knowing their babies’ ages to within two decimal points. I’d cringe when I’d hear, “Scott will be twenty-eight and a half weeks old on the seventh,” or that nine-week-old Lindsey Anne loves the bookstore.
Maybe because I couldn’t imagine Josephine Lamerino ever cared that much about baby Gloria.
In any case, my preferred shopping sprees were limited to discount electronics stores and pastry shops, and with the new opportunities to buy shoes and jackets on the Internet, I didn’t see why I’d ever have to go to a three-dimensional clothing store again.
I needed to make one more phone call before I could sit down with Yolanda’s newsletters and the boron file Matt found in her apartment—I thought I should tell Andrea my idea about Peter’s class before she arrived for dinner, instead of putting her on the spot in front of Matt.
Her initial reaction was a loud gasp, as if I’d suggested immersing her soldering iron in water.
“I’ve never done anything like that.”
I ignored the panic in her voice. “I know you’ve given technical presentations, and I think you’d be very good with high
school students. You’ll have the whole summer to prepare, and, of course, I’ll work with you as much as you want.”
school students. You’ll have the whole summer to prepare, and, of course, I’ll work with you as much as you want.”
After a few moments of silence, Andrea’s voice came back, shaky but upbeat. “It might be fun. I’ve been thinking I need a hobby or something. Does it have to be an Italian scientist? I just finished a book about Jenny Bramley.”
“The first woman in the United States to receive a doctorate in physics.” I was surprised and pleased. Andrea had already passed my first test of a good role model for students—a reader of scientific biography.
“Yeah, she was only nineteen years old when she got her Ph.D.,” Andrea said, her voice animated. “And she has patents for color TV tubes and the tubes they used in computer terminals in the early days.”
The early days—when I was in graduate school, and Andrea was barely walking.
“We can talk it over with Peter. He’ll be teaching a new class in American history this year. Bramley would certainly fit there.”
“Great. I can make some vu-graphs or slides.” Andrea paused. “Shall I still come over at seven-thirty?”
I realized she might be expecting me to cancel our dinner. “I’m counting on it. Matt will be here, too.”
“Detective Gennaro? Are you sure … ?”
“We’re looking forward to having you.”
Or I’m sure he will be when I tell him.
“WHAT? ANDREA WHO? I wanted to be alone with you,” Matt said over the phone. My insecurity-driven call to tell him about my invitation to Andrea got an appropriate response. Teasing. And it took less than a minute for me to recognize it.
“Bring bread for three,” I said, teeming with self-confidence.
I TOOK THE BORON FILE to my glide rocker and opened the first manila folder. DATA FALSIFICATION VERIFIED.
The headline on the most current issue of Yolanda Fiore’s newsletter,
Raid-iation
, concerned an incident in Japan—a quality assurance problem with the containers used to ship nuclear waste. According to her and her staff, international inspectors uncovered falsification of neutron data. The flasks reportedly contained somewhat less boron than required to control the number of neutrons available for the fission reaction.
Raid-iation
, concerned an incident in Japan—a quality assurance problem with the containers used to ship nuclear waste. According to her and her staff, international inspectors uncovered falsification of neutron data. The flasks reportedly contained somewhat less boron than required to control the number of neutrons available for the fission reaction.
Since the loaded flasks were below allowable radiation limits, safety wasn’t an issue. However, the incident had clearly widened the credibility gap between activist groups and nuclear facility managers. Focusing on motives for murder, I realized I’d have to stretch logic halfway around the globe to go from a boron predicament in Japan to an issue Tony Taruffi or Garth Allen would care about.
I skimmed reports on unequal pay scales for women and minorities, and the disbursement of funds between weapons and nonweapons research. A comparison of benefits programs put the Charger Street lab at the bottom of a list of similar employers around the country. Another column questioned safety measures in the tool and fabrication shops around the lab site.
It was easy to see why John was drawn to Yolanda, for more than her physical attractiveness and love of outdoor sports. They seemed also to share an idealism and a desire to speak out. Even when he stopped covering lab news for the
Revere Journal,
John’s stories had a distinctively political bent, criticizing big business, fighting for consumer rights, speaking up for appropriate funds for education.
Revere Journal,
John’s stories had a distinctively political bent, criticizing big business, fighting for consumer rights, speaking up for appropriate funds for education.
The March issue of
Raid-iation
featured a call for action—the annual Good Friday protest—that made me wonder how Yolanda had avoided arrest. I also wondered about her relationship to Derek Byrne, by all appearances more conservative than John Galigani. Derek had shorter hair, for one thing. He wore a conventional suit and tie, and was in favor of uprooting a possible ancient burial ground.
Raid-iation
featured a call for action—the annual Good Friday protest—that made me wonder how Yolanda had avoided arrest. I also wondered about her relationship to Derek Byrne, by all appearances more conservative than John Galigani. Derek had shorter hair, for one thing. He wore a conventional suit and tie, and was in favor of uprooting a possible ancient burial ground.
I tried to picture Derek lifting a coat rack and sending Yolanda
to her death over political differences. Or over a disagreement about the library expansion plan. A stretch to places farther away than Japan, I decided.
to her death over political differences. Or over a disagreement about the library expansion plan. A stretch to places farther away than Japan, I decided.
Yolanda’s views must have irked many conservatives—I wondered who might be irritated enough to kill her.
CONSCIOUS OF BETRAYING my mother’s training, I’d planned a dinner of leftovers for my guests. On top of that, I broke another of her food rules by accepting offers from Matt to bring bread, and from Andrea to provide dessert. As far as I could remember no outside food or drink was allowed at Josephine Lamerino’s table.
“We’re not that poor,” she’d say if anyone suggested they contribute to a meal in our house.
At seven sharp Matt appeared, having done his part by bringing three loaves—two baguettes and a fresh-smelling round with cheese and oregano.
“Anything in these files?” Matt took off his jacket and sat down in front of my coffee table, which was covered with papers from Yolanda’s boron file.
“Nothing I can see. It’s a set of articles Yolanda must have downloaded from the Internet. I found no order or logic to the collection except they all have the words ‘boron’ and ‘boric acid’ highlighted.” I shifted the reports so Matt could see the topics—packaging requirements for waste transportation, temporary on-site storage, special reactor chemicals. “Most have to do with radioactive waste, but some are related to boric acid in the cooling system of the reactor itself.”
Matt scratched his head. “This looks pretty complicated. Do you think Yolanda understood this stuff?” He pointed to a schematic of the pressure control system of Three Mile Island in Pennsylvania, the unit involved in this country’s worst nuclear accident. A companion drawing showed the release path of gaseous fission products, carrying radioactivity from TMI’s damaged core into the coolant water and ultimately into the atmosphere through the ventilation system.
I couldn’t resist a little editorializing of my own. “Yolanda
probably understood only one thing—radiation was released. Some people act on a little bit of knowledge. Nuclear waste management is a good example—fuel rods have been stored in pools next to reactors for almost fifty years. It was always meant to be a temporary solution until permanent sites could be licensed, but no state will take the responsibility. Technically, we’re ready to deep bury the waste, but politically, it’s the NIMBY Syndrome—not in my backyard.”
probably understood only one thing—radiation was released. Some people act on a little bit of knowledge. Nuclear waste management is a good example—fuel rods have been stored in pools next to reactors for almost fifty years. It was always meant to be a temporary solution until permanent sites could be licensed, but no state will take the responsibility. Technically, we’re ready to deep bury the waste, but politically, it’s the NIMBY Syndrome—not in my backyard.”
“Tell me more,” Matt said.
Before I realized he was being facetious, I added to my sermon. “We’ve got feasibility studies, topological assessments, environmental impact statements—”
“Whoa,” Matt said, holding up his hand. “A little defensive, aren’t we?”
“I try to be objective.”
Matt’s smile and teasing jabs made me wish Andrea weren’t due any minute.
THE DOORBELL RANG at precisely seven-thirty. I was sure Andrea waited on the stairway landing until her wrist alarm went off.
I adjusted my clothes and peeped through my security hole—mostly to impress Matt with how safety conscious I was—then opened the door to Andrea and an armload of pink boxes.
“I couldn’t decide, so I brought a few things.” Andrea emptied the contents of her boxes on my kitchen counter—cannoli, tortone, sfogliatella, and anise cookies, each with its distinctive sweet smell.
Before I could suggest we skip the day-old eggplant and go right to the bread and dessert, my phone rang—Rose Galigani, according to my caller ID box. Rose was one of the few people I knew who didn’t block her number. Surprising, given her reluctance to use E-mail or computer technology in general. She handed off the spreadsheets and document preparation to Martha, her assistant at Galigani’s, and had just begun to use an ATM card. I guessed she converted when I compared her Luddite tendencies to Peter Mastrone’s.
I took the cordless receiver into the bedroom and left my guests to finish reheating dinner. I’d lost count, but I calculated this was at least the third or fourth violation of Josephine’s dinner guest code.
“I know you have company, but I had to tell you,” Rose said.
“They’re doing fine. What is it?”
“I had the strangest call. From Councilman Byrne.”
“What did he want?”
“At first he was just chatting, you know. Asked about John, and said he was sorry Frank and I wouldn’t be at the luncheon tomorrow.” Rose paused, as if she were still questioning the punch line that prompted her call to me.
“So?”
“Well I guess he knows you and I are friends. He asked if I could set up a meeting with you.”
I SAT IN MY ROOM for a few minutes after I hung up with Rose. No, the councilman hadn’t said why he wanted to meet me. And no, he didn’t ask to meet anyone else. He wasn’t running for office, so it couldn’t be a vote-getting maneuver.
I couldn’t avoid a creepy feeling. Did he know where I lived? I wondered. Had he sent me mail recently or set off the alarm in my building?
I’ve been doing too much police work lately, I decided. Maybe the councilman was merely being a good civic representative, introducing himself to the influential people in the city. An amusing thought—Gloria Lamerino as a force to be reckoned with in Revere politics.
Finally, the aroma of melting mozzarella reached the bedroom door, winning out over Andrea’s strong perfume, and I went to join my guests.
Andrea and Matt were bent over my coffee table looking through the boron articles.
“I worked on a project like this for the lab last year,” Andrea said, tapping a report called “Cask Designs for Spent Fuel.” “We tested models of spent fuel containers. I remember
creating neat scenarios, like what if a construction crane fell on a cask? Could it withstand the impact? Would acceptable limits—”
creating neat scenarios, like what if a construction crane fell on a cask? Could it withstand the impact? Would acceptable limits—”
Matt held up his hand in a “wait” signal. “What’s spent fuel?”
“The antinuke people talk about the ’Spent
Fool
pool.’” Andrea laughed, then turned serious. “You start out with this long, narrow container called a fuel assembly. It contains the uranium that’s going to fission—split apart. Then, you know, the fission energy heats the water, the water becomes steam, and then it’s like any other power plant.”
Fool
pool.’” Andrea laughed, then turned serious. “You start out with this long, narrow container called a fuel assembly. It contains the uranium that’s going to fission—split apart. Then, you know, the fission energy heats the water, the water becomes steam, and then it’s like any other power plant.”
Matt nodded. I couldn’t tell if he’d followed the explanation, which I considered very good. A hopeful sign that Andrea would do well in Peter’s class.
Andrea continued, using her hands freely. “Each assembly is used in a reactor for three or four years, then the fuel is used up.”
“Mostly,” I said, wanting a piece of the tutoring action. Not that I was jealous because Andrea had taken over Matt’s science education. “There’s some fissionable fuel left, just not enough to sustain the chain reaction.”
Andrea nodded. “The uranium is depleted. It’s …” She spread her hands, palms up, and paused, as if ready for a drumroll. “It’s
spent.
But when the assembly is taken out of the core, it’s still highly radioactive. So it has to be handled carefully and stored in a way that will bring down the radioactivity level, so to speak.”
spent.
But when the assembly is taken out of the core, it’s still highly radioactive. So it has to be handled carefully and stored in a way that will bring down the radioactivity level, so to speak.”
“And not allow more reactions to take place in the waste pile,” I added.
“And that’s where boron comes in,” Matt said. I was delighted he’d remembered our earlier session at Berger’s house. “It’s a neutron poison, meaning it stops the neutrons from instigating more fission.”
“Wow,” Andrea said.
Matt pointed to me. “I have a good teacher.”
We shared a look that allowed me to feel generous toward Andrea and her moment in the limelight.
Later
, it said.
, it said.
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