The Carbon Murder(70)

“I doubt it,” he said, with a satisfied grin.

“I, uh …” Caught. Clearly, Scho—he’d asked me to use his nickname—wasn’t one to waffle. I felt my face flush, and tried not to squirm to add to the pitiful sight.

He smiled, but not offensively, even though he’d exposed me as a poor excuse for a detective. “Lorna Frederick phoned me over the weekend and told me to expect you. It seems we’re both suspects in a murder.”

Two murders, maybe three, I noted. Dr. Schofield’s—I abandoned the notion of calling this imposing gentleman “Scho”—pleasant tone and demeanor said he wasn’t worried a bit. I wondered if Lorna was.

I stared past his bald head to an anatomy chart of a horse, noting with interest where the various organs lay. I wondered if I could stall by asking the resting pulse of, say, a thoroughbred.

I cleared my throat. “Well, you know what the police say—everyone’s a suspect until the killer is found.”

“Nicely put. Are you the police?”

I laughed. “Not quite, but I am a consultant, and since you brought up the most unfortunate subject of murder—did you know Nina Martin or Jake Powers?”

I watched for signs of guilt, as if I had an infallible list of symptoms. In any case, Dr. Schofield was calm, sure of himself.

“Not Nina Martin, I’m afraid, and Jake Powers was just a passing acquaintance. I met him once or twice through Lorna.”

“And Lorna knew him through equestrian activities.”

“That’s my understanding.”

“Did you by any chance implant a microchip into Jake Powers’s horse?”

“Hmm.” Dr. Schofield went into a modified Thinker posture, elbow in hand, and seemed genuinely pondering the question. “If I did it would be in my records. I must admit often my technician does the actual insertion.”

“Can you check your files, if they’re handy?”

“Not a problem.” Dr. Schofield’s records were as well-kept on the inside as the outside, and he quickly pulled a printout from a folder in his desk drawer.

Listed were the horse’s name, the owner, an ID number for the chip, the location, the breed, and a column for comments.

We read down the list and stopped at a line near the bottom.

“Here it is,” Dr. Schofield said.

SPARTAN Q POWERS 87&541*27 MA APPALOOSA NONE

If he knew that Spartan Q was dead, he gave no indication. I didn’t know why I didn’t tell him my suspicions about the dead horse at that moment, except that I felt I’d get more information if I withheld that fact.

I wondered about the state of health of the other horses on the list, and whether one of them might be the horse whose death PI Nina Martin was investigating.

“May I have a copy of this list?” I asked, aiming my tone halfway between casual and authoritative. If you don’t give it to me, I tried to imply, someone more official will be by later with a court order.

Dr. Schofield’s confident, almost fatherly presence intimidated me, and strictly speaking I had no authorization to ask for an alibi or question him further about the murders. I’d told Berger I’d restrict myself to learning about microchip ID technology so we could understand better if Ms. Trumble in Houston had a case.

“I’ll bet Houston PD doesn’t have a consultant like you,” Berger had told me.

I bet they did, especially since nanotechnology was commonly thought to have been born in that city, but I’d accepted the compliment graciously.

Dr. Schofield weighed my request only a few seconds, then buzzed his secretary and asked her to have a copy for me before I left.

Too easy, I thought. It was time for a technology lesson from Dr. Schofield.

I gave him an open, honest smile. “I really do want to know about microchip ID technology. Unless Lorna has advised you not to talk about it?”

He laughed. “Or my attorney? No, I’d be happy to talk to you about the new chips. I’m afraid it might be boring, given your background.”

I shook my head and ran the fingers of my left hand over the back of my right hand. “My expertise ends at skin level. I’m out of my league with biological sciences.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re a quick study.” Dr. Schofield pulled a binder from a row of them lined up across the top of his fine oak bookcase. The dark blue binders were different sizes, but matched in color, with neatly typed labels, all in the same font. Not the eclectic mix of office supplies in my former labs. I figured it might be more necessary to give attention to décor when the public was paying directly for your expertise. My old lab, with constantly recycled, relabeled folders, wouldn’t have inspired confidence from outside visitors.