I wondered where and how horses died. Did they all turn violent like Ms. Trumble’s horse at the end? And how did you bury an animal that probably weighed more than half a ton?
I blinked my eyes, returning to Dr. Schofield’s office. I noticed increasing perspiration on his wide brow, a film that extended over his bald head to the back of his neck.
“You may think this is out of the ordinary, Gloria.” Fraud is what I was thinking. “But what we’re doing is not uncommon. It’s not as if we’re—”
“One more question, Scho.” I interrupted, not about to let a scientist, medical or otherwise, off the hook for even the slightest misconduct. If indeed that’s all this was. “Are you familiar with bute?”
Dr. Schofield relaxed considerably, as if this were his physics doctoral oral examination and he’d finally been asked an easy question, like “What are Newton’s Laws?” after a round of quizzing on Einstein’s Unified Field Theory.
“Bute—our shorthand for phenylbutazone. A nonsteroidal antiinflammatory drug and cyclooxygenase inhibitor. We give it typically for lameness, which might be the result of soft tissue injury, or muscle soreness, or bone and joint problems. Bute can be administered intravenously or orally and—”
“Thank you, Scho. That will be all for now.”
I stood and gathered my purse and briefcase. I picked up a copy of the microchip printout on my way out.
I didn’t even care what cyclooxygenase was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I hated impure scientists. But was Dr. Schofield a killer? Over a few dollars garnered to establish a relationship between himself and a laboratory? It didn’t fit.
The streets between Dr. Schofield’s office on Squire Road and the mortuary on Tuttle Street hadn’t changed much since I’d lived in Revere during the first years of my life. Squire Road was dominated by a large outdoor strip mall and the unimposing entrance to the Charger Street lab. As I passed the road to the research facility, I thought of the scientists, engineers, and other staff I’d met since I returned to my hometown. Of all of them, Andrea Cabrini was the only one I’d maintained contact with. Of course, some of them were now in prison. Others were dead.
I passed Tomasso’s Restaurant and Coffee Annex and hoped our Tuesday Girls’ Night Out would be resurrected soon.
I tried to concentrate on what I’d learned from this interview. Dr. Schofield’s attitude and confession confused me. His connection to Lorna Frederick hadn’t posed any problems initially—he’d even joked about Lorna’s phone call and about being a murder suspect. He must have learned from her that I’d found his name on her payroll. My guess was that they’d discussed me extensively and decided what to let me in on, that he’d confess to getting paid for implanting chips for which his clients also paid him.
I got no insight into the murder of either Nina Martin or Jake Powers. Either those were entirely separate issues, or Dr. Schofield was holding back, perhaps under Lorna Frederick’s orders. Or I’m grasping at straws, I thought.
I reached for the notebook and pen I kept in my front seat console and scribbled at red lights. No law against that, I hoped, considering the growing number of states legislating against cell phone use while driving. With the pad balanced on the cup holder, I wrote in my personal shorthand.
EIDs con’ction to bucky?
Scho and Owens—Vet scam?
Bute?
My lists were starting to replicate each other. The same questions, and no answers.
I knocked on the door of my old apartment. I knew MC was home. Martha, Rose’s very observant assistant, had told me she’d seen MC looking out her bedroom window as Martha pulled into the driveway.
“I wanted to tell her how sorry I am about her friend’s death, but she’s not answering her door or her phone,” Martha had said, waving the can of air freshener that was as much a part of her look as her trendy jewelry. Martha typically wore a necklace, bracelets, and earrings—a matched set, as if they’d come as prizes in successive cereal boxes.
“She needs a little time, I guess,” I’d said.
“Oh, for sure. And, oh, I’m real sorry about Detective Gennaro’s …” Martha leaned closer to me. “ … illness.” A non-cancerspeaker, I thought. “But he’s lucky to have you to cover for him on these terrible Rumney Marsh cases.”
I smiled a thank-you, having long ago stopped correcting Martha’s notion that I was a “real policewoman,” as she’d introduced me to her second-grader twin boys.
“I’m on it,” I’d said, and climbed the last flight to MC’s door, barely ducking a spray of cedar-smelling freshener. I wondered if Martha would be so obsessive about odors if she worked in a bank or a bookstore instead of a funeral home. Yes, I decided.