My three brunch companions left the mental battlefield and went off on another subject, back to the Galiganis' son, John, and his newest assignment. I tuned out. I needed to make some notes on the fluorine researchers at the Lab. No one said I couldn't try to clear their names. I left the dining room table and settled myself one room away on a kitchen stool. I heard no protests.
****
One of the best things about being retired was that I no longer had the pressure of knowing what was being done every waking hour in my own field of spectroscopy. Instead of focusing on one narrow field, I could dabble in every area that held interest for me, reading books and magazines and attending seminars across the board in physics and chemistry and even math departments. It was nice to listen to everyone's problems—not enough temporal resolution with the new scanning equipment, unexplained glitches in what should be smooth curves of data, too many unknowns in a set of equations—and not have to solve them.
It was time to organize my thoughts about the fluorine group. I was sure their combined expertise would help identify the guilty party. In my mind they were resources, not suspects.
I wrote Stan Nolan's name first. He was the leader of the fluorine research group, nearing retirement and eager to have one last paper accepted in the Journal of Fluorine Chemistry. I pictured his thinning gray hair and the same dark green cardigan I'd seen him in at every meeting.
Peter Barnett and Teresa Verrico were the new post-docs in the group. The two young people seemed to get along well, their only rivalry stemming from an ongoing chess game, played at times in the chemistry department lounge and at times on line. Peter played up his nerdy reputation by wearing a pocket protector.
Teresa was the reason I attended so many chemistry meetings. She'd gotten her degree at the University of California, like me, and we'd met at a reunion of UC science alums now residing in Massachusetts. Unlike me, however, Teresa missed the sunny, even weather of the west coast. I let her moan about the humidity of a New England summer and helped her buy a snow shovel for the winter.
Carson Little was the heir apparent to replace Stan as the group's leader. Not much younger than Stan, Carson was affectionately called "Little Boy" not only for his surname and small stature but because he was an avid student of mid-twentieth century atomic science. Carson's personality was a match to that of Little Boy, the first atomic bomb, in many ways—he was volatile, energetic, and unpredictable.
The last member of the team was an on-again off-again young temp who handled the clerical work for as many hours per week as the budget (also on-again off-again) allowed. Danielle Laurent was a French exchange student in environmental sciences at a Boston college.
I tapped my pen on my notepad. What else did I know about the fluorine chemists? Romance, I thought. After seminars I often went out for coffee with Teresa, Peter, and Carson. I didn't think it strange that Stan and Danielle always declined, saying they had work to do. They'd go off, Stan in his long cardigan and Danielle in a sweater that barely reached her waist. Then a few weeks ago, I was treated to the workings of the chem department rumor mill.
"May-December," Carson Little had said, with a wink in their direction. True to his nickname, he mimicked the sound and gestures of firecrackers going off.
Peter and Teresa laughed and nodded. It seemed everyone who was anyone knew of the relationship. It was news to me.
"You mean Stan and Danielle are an item?" I asked, realizing there must have been a cooler way to say it. I was also sorry I'd encouraged the banter.
They all nodded. "Nothing wrong with it," Teresa said, trying to keep her long, curly hair from dipping into her cappuccino. "They're uncommitted and they're both adults."
"Barely," Peter responded. "Danielle is twelve."
"And Stan is one hundred and twelve," Carson said. "With a thing for French, uh, accents." He grinned.
"And she has a thing for green cardigans," Peter said.
"I have cardigans," Carson said.
The jokes and the topic had gone on longer than I'd been comfortable with, ending with the two men accusing each other of being jealous of Stan's "luck" and Teresa and me rolling our eyes.
Rumors and jealousies aside, I couldn't imagine any of the fluorine group as arsonists, let alone murderers. But I had to admit that there was no telling what a dedicated scientist would do if she or he thought it would mean a breakthrough in the field. Each time I took on a case where scientists were suspect, I held my breath, hoping the guilt would fall on someone other than a scientist—the budget director, a mailroom or cafeteria worker, a personnel rep—anyone but a person trained in sifting through the mysteries of the universe.