The Nitrogen Murder(28)

I clicked my tongue and opened the article Phil left with me. “Stability for the Nitrogen Fullerene.”

Finally, something interesting.



The article Phil had brought me was a general, nontechnical piece on nitrogen, covering all its uses. It included everything from research on synthesized new forms of nitrogen fullerenes to the presence of nitrogen as a detonation product of a high explosive—bomb, to the layperson. Nothing I couldn’t have found with a good search engine, but it was interesting background nonetheless, with up-to-the-minute descriptions of supercomputers used in modeling events. Even before I’d retired from physics, computer modeling had become prevalent. Better to input equations and test an explosive on a screen than in someone’s backyard.

I read the special section about insensitive high explosives, materials that are remarkably insensitive to high temperatures, shock, and impact. These features improved the safety of explosives while they were stored and transported. Though I’d never worked directly with weapons at BUL, I’d spent enough time around weapons scientists to be immune to the euphemisms—“energetic materials” instead of “bomb constituents”—and the seeming oxymoron of “weapons safety.”

I tapped my fingers on the attractive figures in the article, colorful simulations of different experimental geometries for the molecule on one page, surreal close-ups of TATB crystals on another. I decided Phil had chosen this article more to distract me than to illuminate his work. I was about to fold the pages up—maybe even toss them into the nearby wastebasket—when I noticed the fine print at the bottom of the last page. The article had been distributed by the National Nuclear Security Administration, the people in charge of maintaining the country’s weapons arsenal in the program called Stockpile Stewardship.

So what? I asked myself, but I stuffed the article into my bag and went outside to watch for Elaine.



The linen lady (Ms. Colbert? Ms. Corbett? Elaine had said her name just as a fire truck screamed past us on busy Shattuck Avenue) had about her a faux sweetness that I guess had developed over thousands of hours interacting with brides. She was wizened and hoarse, and I pictured her lighting up a cigarette at every opportunity, but never in front of a bride. On the way across town to the shop, I’d wondered why Elaine had to take care of this in the first place.

“Doesn’t the club have its own linens?” I’d asked, remembering how excited Elaine had been when she’d been able to book a country club in the neighboring city of El Cerrito.

She gave me another of her poor-unenlightened-Gloria looks. “Their linens are … ordinary. Wait until you see what Ms. Colburn offers.”

Now, in Ms. Colburn’s shop, I saw how many different shades and textures of blue there were. I even felt a twinge of understanding, putting myself in a similar situation, but in a lab supply warehouse, like the kind I’d visited in my grad school days. Instead of swatches of cloth, I imagined row upon row of meters and scopes. Voltmeters. Ammeters. Fluke meters for all applications. Oscilloscopes, large and small. Instead of brocade or not brocade, I’d have to choose between analog and digital.

“Did you have a nice lunch with Phil?” Elaine asked. We were waiting for the linen lady to reappear with a corrected invoice. Not Queen Anne blue but Parisian blue, it would say.

“Yes, we did,” I said, as smoothly as I could, given the lack of honesty in my answer.

“I know you didn’t take to him right away, Gloria.”

I said something like “Pshaw” and waved away the idea. I was glad Elaine had turned her back to sign the reprinted form.

“He’s a wonderful guy. He’s wonderful to me.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Did Dana live with him, growing up?” I asked. I needed to ease us off the Wonderful Phil topic.

“Phil and Marilyn split when Dana was about eleven, but she stayed in the area, so it’s not like Phil ever lost touch with Dana. Then, when Dana started college at Cal, Marilyn moved to Florida with her new husband. I think his family’s out there.” She cocked her head and smiled at me. “She won’t be coming to the wedding, in case you’re wondering.”

I realized I knew few wedding details. I was embarrassed to ask, in case Elaine had already told me the vital statistics by phone or e-mail. How many guests? What time of day in the Rose Garden? Who was performing the ceremony? I knew Dana was Phil’s “best man,” but were she and I the only attendants?

But more than wedding data, I wanted to know what was going on at the Berkeley PD. I knew Matt had called ahead to tell—warn?—Inspector Dennis Russell that he’d be accompanying Dana. I imagined Russell welcoming Matt graciously. Let me show you the files, I heard. And please bring Gloria to help us with the investigation. My imagination wouldn’t quit these days; the California sun was doing strange things to my brain.