The Carbon Murder(77)

We looked up simultaneously, our heads making a nearly identical angle, its sides being parallel lines from my chair to the old analog clock on the mantel. I had the fleeting thought that we should implant an identification microchip in the clock, a valuable antique.

At the same time that I said, “It’s only ten o’clock,” Matt said, “It’s ten o’clock already.”

“I said it first.” I kissed his cheek and handed him the phone.

The crooning had stopped, but neither of us bothered to reload the player. The evening had turned into a work session where the words to “Catch a Falling Star” would only be distracting.

I waited through a catch-up session between Matt and his old friend, hearing Matt’s easy comments, as if he had all the time in the world. How nice that Sheila was teacher of the year at Saugus High. Did Uncle Bill ever buy that cottage by the ocean? And yes, Matt was still on Fernwood Avenue and things were fine. I noticed he left out both me and his cancer. I heard a few more pleasantries, then finally, the reason for the call.

“Okay, yeah. And I’m glad to hear Uncle Sam is doing so well.” A pause. “No, no, I’m just following up with some statistics for a case. Thanks a lot, Mike.”

“Alive?” I asked. I was glad Mr. Mercati couldn’t hear my disappointment

Matt nodded. “Uncle Sam won a second in a show yesterday.”

“So the chips don’t kill all the horses.”

“Or any of them, as far as we know.”

“Right. Coffee break?” I asked, already at the espresso maker.



It had been a long time since I’d responded to a dream by waking up with an idea. I got out of bed as quietly as I could and went down to the living room.

In my dream I kept forgetting to put cash or credit cards or my checkbook into my purse, so I couldn’t pay for what I was buying. I had no idea what I was trying to buy, but the dream crisis reminded me that I hadn’t looked at the financial details of the Charger Street reports. Sometime later I might delve into what the dream really meant. As far as I knew, I was solvent.

I pulled the stack of material onto my lap—I’d read the same annual summaries of the projects over and over and thought I knew them by heart, but had just skimmed the financial reports. Not the most interesting to me. I riffled through and found the money sections, appearing as appendices to the reports.

Since most of Lorna Frederick’s program money was from government sources, the financial aspects were a matter of public record, just as my salary at mostly DOE-funded BUL had been. I checked the Revere payroll for Dr. Timothy Schofield, and the Houston payroll for Dr. Owen Evans. Both were listed at an hourly rate that was reasonable—for doctors or lawyers, though high for consultants in general. And certainly high for people who weren’t working for the program yet.

I found the input/output sheets for the microchips.





If I was reading the sheet correctly, Lorna was buying chips from different manufacturers—probably to satisfy a government regulation to avoid sole sourcing—and then selling them to the veterinarians. But Lorna was giving a 30 percent discount to the doctors. I was amazed the sponsors wouldn’t notice and question this. I had the feeling that somewhere in an executive summary meant for bureaucrats there was twisted jargon that made this seem reasonable. What else was being sanitized, I wondered.

Another perk for the doctors—I was willing to bet they were not passing the savings on to their clients.

I went back over the fiscal reports, looking for … something else. I didn’t know what. Until, there it was. I knew I’d recognize it when I saw it. Another chart for microchips, with different parameters tabulated.





Lorna kept a record of each chip, with its history. The page wasn’t numbered and I wondered if it had been submitted by mistake. Most intriguing was the column labeled PROCESSING.

The good doctors were installing “processed” chips? What kind of processing would take a month or more? I wondered why the chips couldn’t go straight from the manufacturer to the veterinarians. Surely if the veterinarians bought the chips themselves they wouldn’t “process” them. But, of course, why would they buy their own when they could get a huge discount from Lorna’s program?

I looked through the technical reports one more time, to see if I could find anything on “processing.” Nothing. Did Dr. Schofield and Dr. Evans know the chips were being processed before they received them for implantation? I wished I’d looked at the financial statements before interviewing Dr. Schofield. This case, plus all the time I’d been spending in hospital waiting rooms and in emotional stress over Matt’s illness, had made me sloppy.