The Hydrogen Murder (6 page)

"That's correct. Eric did all the programming for fluid
molecular hydrogen at over one hundred and forty gigapascals. I should also
remind you that this work represents a condensed-matter physics breakthrough
and gives us insight into the nature of Jupiter."

Great, I thought, just the kind of talk that gives
physicists a bad name, pouring out jargon on a layperson as a way of gaining
the upper hand. It was time for me to speak up.

"Jupiter's ninety percent hydrogen, isn't it?" I
said. "So whatever you find out about hydrogen will add to our knowledge
of Jupiter and the rest of the solar system."

Leder nodded and pointed high up on the wall behind him at a
large poster of our sun and planets, but before he could speak again I pushed
on.

"But that's not where the profits will be, is it?"
I asked. Leder dropped his arm. His smile disappeared into the folds of skin
around his lower jaw. "Didn't I read about some preliminary talks you've
had with SuperCon Tech? I think I saw something about their interest in funding
the next version of the gas gun based on the results you have so far."

Matt looked at me, then down at his notebook where he'd been
doodling. I saw the symbol for infinity. Or maybe it was just a figure eight.

Leder sat forward and folded his hands on his desk blotter.
His large flat forehead had the markings of a frown.

"It's not at all uncommon to form partnerships between
science and industry. You should know that, Gloria," he said, as if he
were explaining fractions to a dull child.

"I was just surprised to read about negotiations so
soon. Wasn't it only in March that Eric was mentioning a significant problem
with the data? Something about not making enough runs with the signal from the
new trigger pin?"

I was guessing about the trigger pin—the device that
produces an electrical signal when a shock wave hits it— but it seemed
good enough to get his attention. There's always something that strains the
relationship between computational physicists like Eric and project directors
like Leder. The physicists who work out the long complicated equations for big
projects want to keep going over every possible decimal place for accuracy. The
ones who become project directors like Ralph Leder, while not entirely
unscrupulous, tend to focus on the bottom line. They're looking for reportable,
fundable results as quickly as possible.

"I remember that occasion," Leder said. "It
was at Jim Guffy's Saint Patrick's Day party. I think we'd all agree Eric had
too much to drink that night."

I noticed he didn't correct me on the trigger signal, which
meant either the problem
was
with the
data from
the trigger signal, or
Leder wasn't about to give me any free information.

"Did you pursue this problem that Eric had with your
data?" Matt asked. He'd added a string of infinities to the margin of his
notepad.

"As a matter of fact, I did discuss it with the team,
and we came to the conclusion that our findings are solid," Leder said,
looking at his watch at the same time. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a
faculty meeting in ten minutes."

Matt closed his notebook and we all stood up.

"It certainly was a pleasure seeing you again,
Gloria," Leder said. His smile came back too easily, reminding me of why I
distrusted him and why I'd given him four stars on my potential killer scale.

Back in Matt's car, we talked about the interview.

"What's a gigapascal?" he asked.

"It's a unit to measure pressure. We used to refer to
'pounds per square inch' or 'psi,' which you're probably familiar with. Now we
have "pascals," named after the French scientist. A gigapascal is a
unit representing one billion pascals."

"Is that the same Pascal who was a philosopher?"

"The same," I said. "He turned to religion
and philosophy at the end of his life—first he worked in mathematics and
science. He published a book on geometry when he was only sixteen."

"And you know all this?"

"I spent a lot of time in school. You pick things up if
you hang around long enough."

"Right," Matt said, sounding like he didn't accept
my explanation, which I firmly believed—if you show up at school often
enough, you'll learn a lot and people will think you're smart.

"Woody Allen says 88% of life is showing up," I
said, to support my position.

"Is that right?"

"Well, some number like that. I saw it on a bumper
sticker."

I figured that would show him that I had a wide repertoire
of resources. It did at least get a laugh.

"However you did it, nice work in there with
Leder," he said.

In my younger days, I would have downplayed my little
contribution even more, but I'd made some progress in recent years accepting
myself as an intelligent and worthwhile person. I finally accepted Matt's
compliment graciously.

"Thanks," I said. "I'm glad I can help."

~~~~

Our next stop was back toward the center of Revere, at the
house Eric and Janice rented on the lower end of Broadway. As we drove along, I
opened the envelope with the crime scene photographs and looked carefully at
the close-up of the area surrounding Eric's computer monitor. One of them was a
tight enough shot to show the University of California seal on his pencil mug.
I focused on the little brown cartoon bear that was UC's mascot.

And that's when it jumped out at me.

The arrangement of Eric's figures in the police photograph
was not the same as the arrangement on the desk that I'd just seen. I was sure
of it.

"Batman is supposed to be in back," I said out
loud.

"What's that?" Matt asked.

He turned his eyes from the road and tried to see the
photograph. I held it up for him, and pointed to the small black Batman figure.

 
"The way we
just saw Eric's desk," I said, "Batman is hiding the UC bear. And
also the rest of these figures are in different places."

We looked at each other for a moment until Matt returned his
gaze to the road.

"Someone's rearranged Eric's figures," we said,
almost in unison.

CHAPTER
6

We pulled up in front of the Bensen residence, a large
two-story white-shingled duplex set back from the sidewalk. Next to the
Bensen's was a run-down apartment building with a makeshift basketball court in
the back. Several teenaged boys played in the mild afternoon, their voices
loud, their language crude. Within a block of the Bensen house was a fast food
restaurant with drive-up ice cream service. Although I wouldn't have called it
exactly an inner city slum, I guessed it was not Janice's first choice in
neighborhoods.

Matt had called ahead from his car phone to tell Janice we
were on our way. I remembered the last time I'd seen her, just before I left
California. We'd all gone out to dinner—Leder, Connie, Jim, Eric, Janice,
and two other scientists who'd worked on the gas gun. All my suspects, I
thought, except for the ones left on the West Coast.

I walked in front of Matt up a narrow, sloping driveway,
past neat green hedges to the first floor apartment. Janice greeted us at the
door. Although her smile was pleasant, her face twitched like someone in a
hurry.

"I have an appointment in hour," she said,
"but I do have some coffee ready." Unlike the Physics Department
coffee, this time the aroma was enticing and Matt and I accepted.

We drank our coffee from china cups, sitting on brown
leather chairs in Janice's living room. The carpet was a shag, with thick tufts
of browns and oranges, echoed in brown and orange wallpaper above stained pine
paneling, reminiscent of the earthtone era. The decor didn't fit at all with
Janice's usual classy image and I suspected she was still living with the
landlord's choices.

In one corner of Janice's living room stood an old maple
desk with a pen and sheaves of papers that looked like formal documents spread
out, as if its owner had just left a moment ago. I made a mental note to ask
Matt if there was any insurance money involved in Eric's death.

I came back to the present and Matt's soothing voice.

"Is there anything in particular you remember about the
night Eric was killed?" he asked.

"I don't know what else I can tell you," Janice
answered. "I must have been asleep when Eric left the house. He was always
slipping out in the middle of the night if he got some idea in his head that
couldn't wait."

Her words came out shrill and whiny and I wondered if Janice
ever talked in a normal voice. I had to admit this time she had reason to
whine, and felt guilty thinking ill of this new widow.

Even in a state of mourning, in her casual black slacks and
silk shirt Janice looked ready for a stroll on Boston's Beacon Hill. She had
the look of people whose clothes remain perfectly pressed, and never touch
their skin even if they do their gardening in them. I scanned her fair
complexion for signs of crying and couldn't see any. I did see a fine make-up
job and newly coifed chestnut hair. Probably because Eric was nearly bald,
Janice looked a lot younger than her late husband, though I seemed to remember
that she'd had her thirtieth birthday.

"It's always awkward to ask this question, Mrs.
Bensen," Matt said, "but it's fairly routine in cases like this. I
need to know if you thought Eric might be seeing someone else."

"You mean that technician," Janice said, with a shrug
of her shoulders, as if Andrea Cabrini were sitting there and needed to be
brushed off. "She was infatuated with him, that's all. And Eric probably
enjoyed it, as men do."

"So, as far as you know, there was nothing going on
between them?"

"Nothing."

"And in California?"

"What about California?"

Janice wasn't making it easy for Matt, but he remained
unflustered, taking time to sip his coffee and dab his mouth with the tiny
cloth cocktail napkins Janice had set out.

"Do you think he was seeing someone else in
California?"

"No, I don't," Janice answered, sounding annoyed.
She looked at her watch and then at Matt, but didn't say anything more.

"I think that's all then," Matt said. "In a
couple of days you'll be able to collect his things at the lab. I assume you
know where to go?"

"Vaguely. I found it very depressing, all those drab
walls and clunky equipment, and no light or air from the outside world,"
Janet answered. "What a place to die."

Janice put down her cup and walked over to the large bay
window facing Broadway. She opened the filmy white curtains as a bus rumbled by
and came to a stop at the corner. We were all silent for a moment, as if its
noisy brakes had called time-out.

"I could have someone do that job for you," Matt
said. "If you'd trust us to take care of everything, we'll bring his
things here."

"Oh, would you? There's nothing valuable really, just
his superheroes and his little plastic Einstein." A tinny laugh came out
of Janice's mouth. I could believe it was a sneer if I hadn't promised myself
not to have unkind thoughts.

"We were there today," I said. "He had a
beautiful photograph of you on his desk. I'm sure you'll want to keep it."

"Yes, I saw my picture," Janice said. She looked
at me and rolled her eyes as if to tell me she got my point. "I was in his
office, if you can call it that, during the department's Memorial Day picnic
when we first got back. They had a sort of open house and told us they'd
cleaned the lab in our honor—they actually thought it looked ready for visitors.
I can't imagine what it must look like in its normal state. I haven't been
there since, and if I never go again, it'll be fine."

"We'll take care of it," Matt said. "Please
call me if there's anything else we can do or if you think of something that
might help us find his killer."

Janice kept her arms folded across her chest and nodded as
we said goodbye.

~~~~

Matt and I left the Bensen house and drove back to Russo's
to collect my car. The moment of reckoning, I thought, when he sees my
Cadillac. A real litmus test for relationships.

It was a whole new side of Matt Gennaro that came through as
I had him stop at my long black eight-cylinder. He let out the loudest sound
I'd ever heard from him—something like whooaaaa—and then confessed.

"I knew what you'd be driving," he said.
"Don't forget, my business and Frank Galigani's intersect a lot, and Frank
told me about your car deal. I think it's great."

I felt my whole body relax.

"It's a little overwhelming," I said, and then let
out a loud laugh of my own.

Matt drove away after asking me to be at the station at ten
o'clock the next morning for interviews with Eric Bensen's colleagues, Connie
Provenza and Jim Guffy, and Andrea Cabrini if he could reach her.