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WWYP XII - A Tale of Interest (7,819 words)

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GoldShadow

Marsilea quadrifolia
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Here it is, my first venture in Creative Minds!







The Best in Town



“It’s been, what, three months since our last meeting?”

“Somewhere in that neighborhood.”

“Now that’s just not right. We live twenty minutes from one another.”

“I like to be sporadic.”

“Enlighten me, Sam. What’re you up to these days?”

“Oh, you know. This and that. I guess you could say I’m between jobs right now. By the way, these hash browns are great.”

“Puttin’ that degree to good use, eh? And yeah, this food is amazing. Like I said, best breakfast in town.”

“I’m also learning Mandarin right now. You never know when that sort of thing may come in handy. But enough about me. How’s life over at the police department, Chuck?”

Charles Spencer and Samuel Hudson were two points at different ends of life’s spectrum. After graduating from the same college, where the two became fast friends, Chuck went to work as a detective with the local police department - a true rising star. Sam, on the other hand, was a creature of curious habit. By all accounts, he was an intelligent and accomplished student. After graduation he moved from job to job, never holding one down for over six months at a time. He could be described as a jack of all trades, but his eclectic skill set and arcane knowledge were not necessarily conducive to securing a job and advancing in a specific career.

“Detective work’s treatin’ me pretty well,” Chuck responded. “Just started a case yesterday. Not a mind boggler, it’s pretty cut and dry. I shouldn’t give you details seeing as the investigation is still underway-”

“Come, now” Sam interrupted. “Who could I possibly tell? Better yet, who would listen?”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess you’re right. So here it is. A professor at the university, James Worthing, collapsed and had to be hospitalized on Tuesday morning-”

“Worthing?” Sam interjected. “He’s in the cell biology department, right? He studies physiological changes in fish cells, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh, so you’ve heard of him?” Chuck continued. “Well, on Tuesday night, somebody broke into his office by bashing the door knob off with a heavy duty hammer. Now, get this next part. Worthing had a personal desk in his office with a Master Lock on one of the drawers. The thief froze the lock with liquid nitrogen and smashed it off. The pieces of the lock were found on the ground with a residue characteristic of liquid nitrogen.
“Fortunately, the burglar left us a calling card in the form of an ID he dropped in the room. It turns out he’s a graduate student working in Worthing’s lab. Leon Corman is his name. In his drawer, we found the hammer he used to break open the door and lock. We checked the University’s store room records to see if anybody obtained liquid nitrogen. You see, the store room works with the card. You swipe your card, input how much of something you need into a computer, and then take it. The computer keeps track of who’s taken how much of what, plus when they took it. Not surprisingly, Corman had withdrawn just enough liquid nitrogen to crack that lock the afternoon before it happened. We arrested him earlier this morning.”

“Do you know what was stolen?” Sam asked.

“No, we haven’t figured it out yet. There must have been something in that drawer. Some papers on Worthing’s desk were shuffled around, so he may have taken something else too. Corman won’t tell us, though. In fact, he maintains that he’s innocent, that he doesn’t know how his ID ended up in that room.”

“Does he have a motive?”

“We’re assuming he had a beef with Worthing, or that he’d had an argument with him, something of the sort. Something he wanted to hide must have been in that drawer, and his boss’s illness gave him the perfect opening to snatch it.”

“Why don’t you ask Worthing what was in the drawer?”

“Worthing died yesterday at the hospital, just a day after he was hospitalized. The docs said it was acute kidney failure. The guy had other things wrong with him. He was on meds for other conditions, and he’d been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor about six months ago, or so I hear.”

“...I see,” replied Sam. “Isn’t it strange that Corman conveniently dropped his ID card at the scene for you to find?”

“Not really,” Chuck responded. “I’ve seen criminals do plenty of stupid, careless things. This doesn’t even break the top ten. Anyway, I’ve gotta head down to the office and get some more work done on this case. We don’t get a lotta break-ins at the University.”

“Say, Chuck,” Sam said in a curious, almost facetious tone, “do you mind if I tag along with you? I’ve been thinking about law enforcement as a career, and shadowing you on a case would be a great way to see if it’s my kind of work.”

“Bullshit,” Chuck replied, the edges of his mouth curved into a smile. “You? Law enforcement? I’m not buyin’ it.”

“I’m serious!” Sam exclaimed with a straight face. Chuck cocked his head and thought for a moment. “Besides, you have nothing to lose by saying ‘yes’.”

“Alright, fine,” Chuck relented. “But just this once.”

At the station, Chuck greeted his coworkers and made a bee line for his office with Sam in tow. He rifled through a stack of papers, writing notes on some and setting others aside.

“Okay, now lemme introduce you to the VIP,” Chuck said with a smile. He motioned toward the door and the pair made their way to the cell that housed Leon Corman. Corman stood about five feet, six inches with a gaunt appearance. His nervous eyes betrayed a downtrodden weariness, while his trembling hands served to accentuate his desperation. A hint of fear emanated from his pale face. Chuck engaged the inmate half-jokingly, “So, Corman. Has a night in jail loosened your lips?”

“I told you yesterday, I didn’t do it,” the prisoner squeaked with a touch of defiance.

“Then how’d your ID come to be found at the scene of the crime? How is it that we traced the withdrawal of liquid nitrogen to your card? And the hammer in your desk?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know! Like I said yesterday, I withdrew some dry ice from the store room that day. I finished with my work early so I left at two. I never took any nitrogen.”

“What was in the drawer, Corman?” Chuck asked forcefully. He received no reply. Corman sulked and turned away. Chuck turned to Sam and said, “A lotta guys don’t admit it. They’ll argue their innocence to the end, no matter how guilty they are.”

“I don’t know,” Sam replied. “I thought he was pretty convincing.”

“A few years in the business’ll fix that attitude,” Chuck retorted. “I’m going to the university to interview some of Corman’s coworkers. You coming?”

Cartan State University was a large research university home to schools of virtually every discipline. James Worthing had been a researcher and professor in the University’s cell biology department for over twenty-five years - that is, until his death on Wednesday. Initially a marine biologist who worked on boats, he switched over to cell biology lab work early in his career. His work focused on the expression of genes in fish cells, an area in which he’d earned some renown. Leon Corman was a graduate student in the cell biology PhD program at Cartan State. He had been in Worthing’s lab for just over a year.
The Anatomy and Cell Biology Building housed Worthing’s lab. The building’s ceramic tiled floor complemented ecru walls on either side. Numerous oak wood doors lined the impersonal hallways. Worthing’s lab was situated in a short stretch of hallway on the building’s third floor and comprised three rooms: the actual laboratory, Worthing’s personal office, and a staff room.
Chuck showed each room to Sam. Worthing’s office contained a heavy steel desk, a bookshelf lined with textbooks and scientific journals, and beige walls richly decorated with posters and paintings of marine organisms. Among them, Sam spied a vivid painting of a jellyfish, cerulean aquatic landscapes, and lively personal photographs of Worthing out on the ocean in his younger days. Some documents were scattered across the floor next to a trash can and an orange sharps box. The desk drawer, and the shattered lock that once secured it, gleamed in the rays of sunlight that streamed in through the window opposite the door.
The staff room, located down the hall from Worthing’s office, contained several desks separated from one another by thick plastic dividers. A sink and countertop filled the far end of the room. A mini-fridge stood next to the counter, and a microwave sat atop it. The staff room was where the lab members spent their time when not actively doing labwork; for instance, during their downtime, while doing paperwork, or while having lunch. Chuck showed Corman’s desk to Sam, and the drawer the hammer was found in.
The laboratory, positioned across from the staff room, was itself made up of three interconnected rooms. Two large rooms, both saturated with glassware and chemical reagents, had workspaces, equipment, and fume hoods. Personal computers and office supplies populated the smaller third room.
Four lab members worked under Worthing: Mark Lynes, the post-doctoral student; Lydia Fischer and Leon Corman, both PhD students; and Carl Zhang, a Master’s student. Chuck and Sam interviewed them (minus Corman) one at a time in the staff room.
Zhang, a Chinese student of average height and build, bore a nonchalant visage, as though he were entirely unaffected by the matter at hand.

“I’m Detective Spencer and this is my partner, Mr. Hudson,” Chuck began. “We’re going to ask a few questions that might help us in this investigation. Mr. Zhang, what can you tell us about Dr. Worthing and Leon Corman?”

“I can’t say I knew Dr. Worthing that well. He was my boss and all, but I didn’t know him personally. All I can tell you is what you already know. He was respected in his field. He was diagnosed with brain cancer about six months ago. Oh, and he has some sort of condition he takes shots for. Injections, I mean.
“As for Leon, he wasn’t maladjusted or anything, you know? He didn’t strike me as the type that would break into an office at night. But I guess it’s the ones you don’t expect that always end up doing it, right? He seemed like a nice enough guy. Not hostile, but not terribly friendly. We weren’t buddy buddy, but we’d make small talk. He had a good work ethic. As far as I know, he never had any disagreements with Dr. Worthing, but I can’t be positive.”

Sam queried, “Can you explain to us how the ID system works here?”

“As you know, Leon’s ID was found at the scene,” Chuck clarified.

“Oh, well, actually we each have two IDs,” Zhang explained. “There’s a University ID card that all students, staff and faculty at the university have. And then there’s the Facilities ID card, which is what we in the science departments use to obtain items from the store room. In other words, we only have to use our Facilities ID card for getting things like dry ice or liquid nitrogen from the store room. For everything else, like getting into dining halls or the gym, we use the University ID.”

“So what we found at the scene,” Chuck said, “was the Facilities ID?”

Zhang pulled out his wallet and dug around in it. He extracted a card and showed it to Chuck and Sam. “Did it look like this?” Zhang asked the pair.

“It did,” Chuck replied.

“Then it was the Facilities ID.”

Chuck thanked Zhang for his time and then escorted Lydia Fischer into the room. Fischer’s youthful demeanor and effervescent mannerisms belied her intellectual acumen. She was naturally blonde, stood about five feet, five inches tall, and wore thin-rimmed mahogany glasses. She sat down in anticipation of the interview and was asked by Chuck about her knowledge of Worthing and Corman.

“Dr. Worthing had been at the university for twenty-five years now,” Fischer started. “He used to be a swimmer and a scuba diver. He sometimes talked about these amazing trips he took to the Great Barrier Reef when he was younger.”

“Carl Zhang mentioned something about an illness that he took injections for. Was he diabetic?” Chuck asked.

“No, he wasn’t diabetic,” Fischer replied. “He took a daily injection, but it wasn’t for diabetes. He had a cardiovascular problem or a blood disorder of some sort. I don’t think it had to do with his brain tumor, though.”

“Did he have any quirks or eccentricities?” Sam asked.

Fischer pondered the question for a few seconds before responding, “Now that you mention it, he seemed to talk to himself sometimes. I could hear it when I walked by his office and the door was closed. Sure, he was on the phone a lot trying to secure grant money and funding, but there were a bunch of times when I’m sure I heard him speaking as if to himself. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, though. Oh, and he also hated most newer technology. Cell phones, computers, things like that. He only used them when he absolutely had to. He was an interesting man, that’s for sure. It’s a shame about his death.”

“What can you tell us about Leon Corman?” Chuck asked.

“He wasn’t very close to anybody, but we were on friendly terms. He’s a big fan of sports, especially soccer and baseball, and he likes to stay in shape. Every day after work, he goes to the gym. I go with him every now and then, but I didn’t on the night of the robbery. I don’t know why he would want break in to Dr. Worthing’s office. I never saw them fighting or arguing.”

“Speaking of which,” Sam added, “have you ever noticed anything odd about other lab members? What about anybody else who works in this building? Did Dr. Worthing have any enemies?”

“Enemies? No. Dr. Worthing was acquainted with everybody in the biology department, though. There were a few people he talked to quite often, like Dr. McCarthy downstairs, or Dr. Chang at the other end of the hall.”

“Did he ever have arguments with any other lab members?”

“Now that I think about it,” Fischer said, “a few months back, he had a pretty big disagreement with Mark, the post-doc. I don’t know the details, but it had something to do with a paper that they were trying to publish.”

“Thank you, Ms. Fischer. That’ll be all.” Chuck concluded the interview and then asked Mark Lynes, the post-doctoral student, to step into the room. Lynes’s broad shoulders and thick forearms served to provide an intimidating presence. His aquiline features and steely eyes gave the impression of a man with unwavering focus.

“I don’t know how I’ll be of any help,” Lynes barked contemptuously. “I didn’t spend my time fraternizing with the other lab members. I have work to do. I’ve got a wife and two kids to support. I’m just trying to get this post-doc work done as quick as possible, which doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for socializing.”

“What about Dr. Worthing?” Chuck asked.

“Dr. Worthing was alright. The man certainly knew his stuff, but he could be unreasonable at times. We had a row over publishing a paper not too far back. He thought we didn’t have enough data to publish. I disagreed.”

“Do you know what was in that drawer?”

“I’ve seen him put audio tapes in there before. I’m not sure what else was in there.”

“We did find some blank audio tapes,” Chuck said, “but nothing of any value. Alright, I suppose that’s all we need. Anything to add, Sam?”

“Yeah, one more thing,” Sam responded. “Dr. Lynes, is the staff room normally locked?”

“Hm? The staff room is unlocked as long as somebody is in the lab,” Lynes answered.

“So what you’re saying is that the staff room is kept unlocked as long as somebody is in the lab, even if nobody is in the staff room at the time?”

“Yes, that’s right. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, all the doors in this building use a traditional lock and key, not the ID card. We move between the staff room and the lab room relatively frequently, and it’d be a hassle to lock and unlock it every time.”

With the final interview over, Chuck and Sam exited the room and paced down the cream-colored hall, attempting to form a coherent narrative explaining the events leading up to the break-in.

“What are your thoughts, Sam?” Chuck asked his friend.

“I’m not sure. Is it possible that the thief didn’t find what he was looking for in the drawer? Maybe that’s why he also looked through some papers in the room.”

“Could be, but then why would Worthing keep the drawer locked if there was nothing valuable in there? Anyway, I’ve gotta head to Worthing’s house and talk to his wife. I can’t bring you along there. Do you need a ride back to your place?”

“No, but thanks,” Sam replied. “I’m good here for now. By the way, I’m meeting Lisa for lunch at the deli at half past twelve. You should join,” he suggested.

“The deli on 4th street?”

“No, the one on Green Ave.”

“Make it the one on 4th street, and I’ll definitely head over when I’m done,” Chuck stipulated. Sam laughed and acquiesced.

Chuck and Sam parted ways. Sam, his curiosity unquenched, returned to Worthing’s office to steal another peak at the room. He climbed over the yellow police tape, and into the crime scene.

“And what are you doing?” an irate voice boomed. Sam spun around to find a man in a white coat towering over him. His piercing eyes scanned Sam with a discerning gaze, while his crossed arms and furrowed brow made it clear that he was in no mood to be trifled with. The silvered head of hair, in conjunction with the wrinkles on his forehead, conveyed the appearance of a man roughly sixty years of age. The white coat and drab-colored slacks partially concealed his muscular frame.

“W-what am I doing?” Sam stammered. “I was just here with-”

“Jim was a friend of mine, and let me make it very clear that I don’t appreciate you poking about his office. I have half a mind to report you to the authorities.”

Sam recollected himself and asked, “You knew James Worthing? Do you mind if I ask you your name?”

“Hmph. I’m Dr. Simon McCarthy. Jim an’ I worked together for a long time. Hell, we both started as assistant professors here, twenty-six years ago. He was a damn good man, and a great scientist.”

“Dr. McCarthy? Don’t you study the evolution of marine organisms?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I’m... Samuel Hudson. I’m working with the police department.”

“Is that so? Well, I don’t have time for your questions right now. I was just heading to a presentation. Besides, I’m scheduled to meet with a detective tomorrow afternoon.”

“Of course,” Sam uttered curtly. “I would hate to eat up any more of your time. Good day, Dr. McCarthy.”

***​

“So, Lisa. Hospital life treatin’ you alright?”

“I haven’t slept in twenty-nine hours. How do you think it’s treating me, Chuck?”

“Geez, sorry for asking.”

“Sorry, it’s the sleep deprivation talking. I should be thanking you, this turkey club is perfect. It’s got just the right ratio of turkey to veggies.”

“Don’t sweat it. I know that I, for one, can be an ass when my job gets stressful. And yeah, the food here is great, isn’t it? Like I said, the best deli in town. Beats the hell outta that place on Green Ave.”

Lisa Adler, a brunette late-twenty-something, fought to hold her eyelids open as she wolfed down a savory turkey club sandwich. Her soporific disposition bore testament to the exhausting life of an internal medicine resident working in the area’s busiest hospital. Her slender figure and delicate features deceptively gave her an air of fragile daintiness, but she was in fact quite accustomed to the physical and mental rigors of her taxing lifestyle.

“Tell me, Sam,” she said. “What are you doing these days?”

“The usual,” Sam answered. “I’ve been learning how to kickbox, among other things.”

“He’s been shadowing me on an investigation, too,” Chuck added with a smile.

Lisa cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so?” she asked curiously. “How do you like detective work so far?”

“It’s... enjoyable, in a sense,” Sam replied. “There was a break-in at the university. A professor’s drawer was broken into, although we’re not quite sure what was taken. In fact, maybe you’ve heard of the guy whose office was burgled.”

“Don’t you mean burglarized?” Chuck threw in.

“I mean burgled,” Sam emphasized.

Lisa smirked at Sam’s comment. “Well, go on!” she exclaimed.

Sam continued, “His name was James Worthing. He was a professor of marine biology.”

“You’re right, as a matter of fact,” Lisa stated. “He did pass through the hospital the other day. I rounded on him. He - on second thought,” she said, interrupting herself, “I really shouldn’t tell you, what with HIPAA and privacy laws.”

“You can tell us,” Chuck asserted. “I’m the detective working the case, after all. Actually, I was going to drop by the hospital later today to gather that info, but if you could tell me a little about it right now, it might save me a trip.
“Now, me and Sam spoke to some people at the university, and then I spoke to Worthing’s wife before I came here. From everything I’ve heard, I gather that he had knee surgery a couple years ago and that, while he was in the hospital recovering, he developed DVT.”

“What’s DVT?” Sam asked.

“DVT stands for ‘deep vein thrombosis’,” Lisa chimed in. “It’s when a blood clot forms in a vein and blocks blood flow. It’s a potential complication of being stationary in a bed for long periods of time, and so it’s relatively common in people laying in a hospital bed while recovering from surgery. It can be fatal if it breaks away from the vein and makes it to the lungs. To prevent that, we treat it using blood thinners like heparin or warfarin. According to Worthing’s medical history, he was treated for DVT with heparin. The doctors decided that, based on his cardiovascular health and the history of heart problems in his family, he should be put on a long term regimen of heparin. He took a daily dose of heparin with a syringe. He also took other medications to control his blood pressure and heart rate.”

“He was diagnosed with a tumor too, right? His wife said that it was terminal, and that he’d mentioned something about writing a memoir before he died,” Chuck said.

“Yeah, a little over six months ago, a radiologist caught a mass in his brain during a routine MRI. He was referred to a neurosurgeon who determined that the tumor was inoperable. It hadn’t metastasized, as far as they could tell, so it was localized to the brain, but it was in such a spot that it would eventually kill him. The neurosurgeon said it wouldn’t happen immediately, but rather, within a few years.”

“He died of acute kidney failure, though?” Sam questioned.

“That’s right,” Lisa responded. “The path lab didn’t find any poisons or toxins in his system. The kidney failure came on very quick. There were only a couple days between when it started and when we pronounced him. He was an older man on a lot of medications, and that’s probably what precipitated his decline.”

“I see,” Chuck said. “Anything else we should know?”

“Nothing important,” Lisa replied. “During the last few hours of his life, he became feverish and delirious and started talking nonsense, but that’s not unusual.”

“Talking nonsense? What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“He mumbled a lot. He kept repeating phrases like ‘porch geese’ and ‘fizz Alice’. Does that mean anything to you? Was his wife’s name Alice or something?”

“No, her name was Elizabeth,” Chuck said. “Sounds like nothing more than the ramblings of a delirious man. What do you think, Sam?”

“Yeah, I think you’re right. Still, it could help us determine the contents of the drawer. Chuck, are you heading back to the university tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’m scheduled to interview a few more people tomorrow afternoon. Are you going to join me?”

“No, thanks. But while you’re there, you should ask if anybody knows what those phrases mean. They may not mean anything to us, but perhaps they mean something to the people that knew Worthing.”

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to ask,” Chuck replied.

A high-pitched ring suddenly pierced the air. Lisa reached into her pocket and pulled out a pager. She studied it for a second before putting it away. “Looks like I’m needed back at the hospital,” she explained. “But it was good seeing you two.”

***​

“I see, Mrs. Smith. So these phrases don’t mean anything to you?”

“No, Detective Spencer. I wish I could be more help.”

“Don’t worry about it, ma’am. Now, you said something about frequent visitors to Dr. Worthing’s office. You’re familiar with the people who pass through here?”

Carol Smith, the department secretary, looked about nervously. Unease was traceable round the lines of her pudgy face. Naturally, the middle-aged redhead hoped the investigation would come to a swift and distinct conclusion. Her office was, after all, situated mere yards down the hall from Worthing’s office. Irrational though her fears may be, the thought of a crime having taken place so proximal to her place of work disturbed her.

“He’s right down the hall, and my desk is pointed toward my door, so I saw anybody who passed by. Sometimes, I heard them talking, too,” Smith explained.

“Who were some of Dr. Worthing’s more frequent visitors?” Chuck questioned.

“Uh, let’s see now. There were the people from his own lab, of course. Mark was there a lot. Mark Lynes, I mean. Sometimes, they seemed to be very friendly, but other times they were hostile. There was also Dr. Patel, Dr. Jones, Dr. McCarthy, Dr. Chang and, oh, who else? That’s right! Kyle Roberts, from the mail room, and Victoria Culhane, from upstairs. I guess Dr. Worthing had a lot of visitors, but most of these professors do get a lot of visitors, you know?”

“I see. And what abou-” Before Chuck finished his sentence, a shrill sound sliced through the air. “A fire alarm? Now?”

Chuck joined the mass of human beings exiting the building as metallic crimson fire engines, sirens blaring, cut down the street and pulled up in the fire lanes next to the building. Heavyset firemen in bulky clothing rushed into the building in an attempt to locate the source of the disturbance as bystanders looked on. A warm July breeze provided some sense of comfort, but the crowd was anxious to re-enter the air conditioned building as soon as possible. They had been waiting for roughly ten minutes when Chuck observed a friendly face approaching through the horde.

“Chuck!” It was Sam.

“Sam? What are you doing here?” Chuck ejaculated.

“There was a Shakespeare symposium in the English department. I knew you were coming back here today for some more interviews and I thought I’d join you!” Sam told him.

“I’ve been interviewing all morning. Nothin’ of any use to us. I asked everybody, including the people we saw yesterday, if those phrases meant anything to ‘em. Nothing. I went back to Worthing’s home to look for ‘porch geese,’ but the house doesn’t have a porch or geese. None of the houses in that neighborhood do. His wife didn’t know who Alice could be. I think this is as far as we’ll get.”

“Don’t give up on it yet,” Sam encouraged. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some things to finish up back at my apartment. Give me a call if you find out anything, I’d love to hear it.”

“Sure thing, Sam.”

***

Sam sat huddled in a gray swivel chair in his apartment, staring intently at his computer while concurrently examining a set of crinkled off-white papers. An unkempt apartment surrounded him on all sides. Clothes were strewn about in a pile next to a bed covered by celadon sheets. A dusty turntable rested atop a small desk, and an intricate collection of vinyl classic rock records was crammed into a box beside it. A bookshelf in the corner held an unorganized plethora of reads ranging from computer science to Chaucer to Middle Eastern politics. A pair of hiking boots lay next to a set of boxing gloves, which partially covered a lock pick set.

“Aha!” Sam proclaimed. “It’s Man.!”

He snatched up his cell phone and hurriedly dialed a number. “Hello, Chuck? Any developments? No? Nobody recognized the phrases either? Good. Listen, meet me in the Anatomy and Cell Biology building at the university tonight after dark when everybody’s left the building. Bring some of your cop buddies, just in case, and we’ll hide in the secretary’s room. What? Yes, I’m serious. No, no, you don’t understand. You’ll have to trust me. I’ll see you then.”

***

“You better be right about this, Sam. For what it’s worth, I think you’re sending us on a wild goose chase. We caught the culprit two days ago, and now you tell me it wasn’t him and that the real thief will be here tonight. I hope you know I’m spending department resources on this.”

“Relax, Chuck. He’ll be here. I know he’ll be here.”

Sam, Chuck, and two officers from the police department lay patiently in wait in the secretary’s office. The night air howled eerily against the building’s brick walls. One officer, named Gregson, was sidled up against the closed door, listening carefully for unusual sounds while Chuck, Sam and Reilly, the other officer, sat softly by. The building and office lights were off, though the full moon emitted a dim luminescence that peeked through the window shutters.
A footstep in the hall broke the silence. Gregson signaled the others by pointing at the door, indicating that somebody was outside, then he pressed his index finger up against his lips to indicate that they should remain quiet. Several more footsteps were heard, followed by the slow and deliberate creak of a door, and finally the flick of a light switch. Chuck motioned the order to move in, but Sam held up his palm to stop him. Sam put his ear to the door, listened to the hushed din for a few more seconds, and then mouthed the word “now” to his comrades. The foursome burst out the door, bounded down the hall to Worthing’s office, and blocked the suspect’s escape route.
The suspect swung his head around, revealing a face contorted with shock. He held a painting in one hand and a notebook in the other.

“McCarthy!” Chuck yelled in surprise, his gun pointed at the professor.

“Dr. Simon McCarthy, you are under arrest for breaking and entering, burglary, and the murder of James Worthing,” Sam shouted authoritatively with his finger firmly pointed at the man. Chuck and the two officers stared at Sam skeptically.

“Murder? That’s preposterous!” McCarthy snapped back. Chuck and the officers, their guns still trained on McCarthy, looked to Sam curiously.

“The jig’s up McCarthy,” Sam continued. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got most of the story down, so don’t bother trying to cover it up, but feel free to fill in anything I’ve missed.
“At first, I was surprised. How could Leon Corman be so careless as to use his ID to pick up liquid nitrogen on the Tuesday afternoon before the break-in, and then drop it in Worthing’s room? Of course, Chuck, that is, Detective Spencer, was right that criminals are often careless. Perhaps Corman had been flustered. After all, he found out Tuesday morning that his boss was ill, and maybe he got nervous while trying to steal something valuable as quickly as he could. But then I saw that Corman denied any involvement, and all his co-workers said he never had any arguments with Worthing, not to mention that Corman is a skinny, non-threatening fellow. He would hardly be able to smash open a door knob and a drawer lock with a hammer, despite his frequenting the gym.
“I suspected that he was framed, and first my thoughts went to the post-doc in Worthing’s lab, Mark Lynes. He was standoffish, intimidating, and had a history of disagreement with Worthing, but ultimately, I decided this was just a man under a lot of pressure to publish a paper, advance his career, and support his family.
“I happened upon Dr. Simon McCarthy that same day, but had no reason to suspect him at the time. Later on, you’ll remember we had lunch with Lisa, and she mentioned those odd phrases Worthing uttered in the delirium preceding his death.
“After I thought about it, I realized that ‘fizz Alice’ or ‘porch geese’ must have been ‘physalis’ and ‘Portuguese,’ which, of course, refer to Physalia physalis, commonly known as the Portuguese Man o’War jellyfish. I distinctly remembered seeing a painting of the creature in Worthing’s office,” Sam said, pointing to the painting in McCarthy’s left hand, “so I went back after lunch that day to examine the painting. Lo and behold, there was a notebook carefully hidden behind the art,” Sam went on, pointing to the notebook in McCarthy’s right hand.
“That notebook was the handwritten version of Worthing’s memoir, which you said his wife mentioned. Apparently, his terminal brain tumor caused him to face his mortality, and he felt that it was important to leave behind a memoir as a sort of legacy; at least, that’s what he wrote in the introduction. The contents of that memoir were very revealing,” Sam enunciated with a pause, “but I’ll get to that in a minute. Let’s just say, for now, that Worthing chronicled an event in the memoir that would ruin both his and McCarthy’s careers if it were made public. According to what was written Worthing was wracked with guilt and wanted to come clean. He must have mentioned this to his old acquaintance and friend Simon McCarthy who, as we’ve heard, frequently visited Worthing. McCarthy, of course, was not terminally ill like Worthing, and he couldn’t have this career-destroying information come out, so he killed Worthing, stole the evidence of his misdeed, and framed a hapless Leon Corman.”

“That ridiculous!” McCarthy spat back. “Jim died of kidney failure!”

“What evidence was in the drawer?” Chuck asked.

“The drawer contained,” Sam resumed, “a tape recorder! Worthing used a tape recorder to record his thoughts, and later wrote them down in the notebook. It would explain why, as Lydia Fischer said, Worthing seemed to talk to himself, not to mention the audio tapes found in the drawer. Plus, she said that Worthing hated new technology, which means he didn’t type up his memoir. McCarthy, who knew Worthing very well, must have been familiar with all this, but he didn’t know where the notebook was hidden. He tried to look for it when he broke in, but couldn’t find it. That’s why some papers were shuffled around.
“You told me, Chuck, that you asked everybody if they knew what ‘fizz Alice’ and ‘porch geese’ meant, and you didn’t receive any positive responses. Since, by that point, I’d read the memoir, I knew McCarthy was the prime suspect, and I knew that, being an evolutionary biologist familiar with marine life and species names, he must have recognized these terms instantly. So when you asked McCarthy if he understood those phrases, he denied it but, secretly, in his head, he realized what they meant. I figured he’d want to return to the scene of the crime and steal the last piece of evidence, the notebook, as soon as possible. That’s how I guessed he would be here tonight.”

“Amazing!” officer Gregson blurted out. “But how does framing Corman fit into all this?”

“I was just getting to that,” Sam said smirking. “After I read the memoir and suspected McCarthy, Corman’s story became a lot more believable. Corman said that on Tuesday he went to the store room and used his ID card to get some dry ice, which was confirmed by the store room computer. So, McCarthy had to have stolen the ID between Tuesday morning when Corman had it and Tuesday afternoon, when McCarthy used it to withdraw liquid nitrogen. The notion that Corman wouldn’t notice it was missing is plausible; after all, Carl Zhang said they rarely have to use the Facilities ID card.
“Moving on, I remember Lydia Fischer saying that Corman went to the gym after work every day. I visited the gym and asked to see a list of members who’d entered around that time on Tuesday, and what items they checked out.”

“And they just let you look at the list?” Chuck questioned with an eyebrow raised.

“I may have flashed a police badge I bought from Toys ‘R’ Us and told them I was you,” Sam said. Chuck rolled his eyes and quietly laughed. “Anyway,” Sam went on, “I looked at the list. Corman came into the gym on Tuesday at 2:30 and checked out a towel along with a lock and key to use with a gym locker. McCarthy came in at 2:32 and checked out a lock and key. McCarthy left a few minutes later at 2:36, but Corman left at 3:30.
“Now, I’m not positive on this next part, but I’m guessing,” Sam said, “that McCarthy pulled a switcheroo in the locker room. The way I would have done it is to hang around in the locker room until Corman changed, put his stuff in his locker, and locked it. Just as he’s about to put the key in his pocket and leave I would bump into him, knocking the key out of his hand. I’d apologize, bend down and secretly switch his key with mine, and hand him my key. After he left, I would use his key to open his lock and locker, find his wallet, take the Facilities ID, and replace everything else as I found it. Then I’d take his lock, replace it with my lock, and close it. Since he would have my key, and I put my lock on his locker, and all the locks and keys appear identical, he would eventually return and open the locker without any problem. He’d never suspect a thing. I, having stolen the ID I came for, would return to the front desk and return his lock and key, and they’d have no way of knowing the difference because, again, all the locks and keys look identical on the surface. Then I’d head to the store room and take as much liquid nitrogen as I needed, because I’d know that Worthing kept the tape recorder in a locked drawer and freezing the lock with nitrogen would be the easiest way to break it.
“Afterward, I’d place a hammer identical to the one I was going to use to commit the burglary into Corman’s staff room drawer because, as Mark Lynes told us, the room is kept unlocked during most of the day. Then, during the robbery, I’d intentionally drop Corman’s ID on the floor. Does that sound about right, Dr. McCarthy?”

“Hmph,” McCarthy grunted.

“Where does murder come into play?” officer Reilly questioned.

“Since I’d read the memoir, the sudden kidney failure became a lot more suspicious,” Sam explicated. “I also knew that Worthing took his daily injection of heparin right here in his office.”

“How could you possibly know that?” officer Gregson asked.

Sam pointed to the orange sharps box on the floor next to the trash can. “I’d noticed that sharps box, which is full discarded syringes. Who keeps a sharps box in their office unless they regularly throw needles away? I figured McCarthy must have known this and spiked one of Worthing’s syringes with a toxin.”

“Lisa said they didn’t find any toxins in his system,” Chuck interjected.

“Well, once I suspected McCarthy poisoned Worthing, I thought it might be worth looking around McCarthy’s lab. After all, it’s easy to obtain a lot of substances that can act as toxins - if you’re affiliated with a research lab and order them under the guise of using them for research.
“So, in the same afternoon that I went to the gym, I posed as a delivery man with a package for the McCarthy lab. One of the students in his lab signed for it. When I handed a receipt to the student, I took notice of where he put it. I came back the next day, and ‘obtained’,” Sam said, gesticulating quotations with his hands, “all their receipts. I had to make sure McCarthy’s lab was empty to do that, though. Remember the fire alarm?”

“That was you!” Chuck pieced together. “Then the Shakespeare symposium was a lie?”

“Of course not!” Sam said defensively. “There was a Shakespeare symposium. I just didn’t go to it,” he said grinning. “Later that afternoon, I went back to my apartment to examine the receipts. It took me a lot of Wikipedia and Google searching to figure out exactly what each order was. Among the receipts was one order for ‘Glu., Fru., Rib., Gal., Man., Lac., Xyl.’ Turns out these were just sugars: glucose, fructose, ribose, galactose, mannose, lactose and xylose. I know these are commonly used in a lot of experiments. But not long after, I came across a receipt with an order for NADH and mannitol dehydrogenase. That’s when I called you, Chuck.
“Mannitol dehydrogenase is an enzyme that converts the simple sugar mannose to mannitol in the presence of a chemical called NADH.”

Chuck and the two officers stared at Sam blankly while McCarthy gazed off into space, harboring a look of discontent on his face.

“Mannitol is commonly used in a medical setting as a diuretic. In other words, it makes you urinate and lowers blood pressure, and it’s got uses in diabetics. But in high doses, it rapidly causes - guess what?” Sam explained climactically.

“Acute kidney failure...” Chuck concluded.

“I guess it wasn’t natural causes after all,” officer Gregson commented.

“That’s right,” Sam confirmed. “It’s rapidly excreted and they wouldn’t normally test for it in the autopsy. But if the guys at the hospital still have a preserved blood sample left over from Worthing, they might find what they’re looking for. A high dose of mannitol can cause kidney failure and death within two to three days, so Worthing must have taken the spiked injection on Monday, or Sunday at the earliest. He was hospitalized on Tuesday morning so I’m sure a blood sample will have some mannitol in it.”

“There’s no proof that anybody tampered with his heparin injections,” McCarthy snarled.

“I shook that sharps box earlier,” Sam retorted, “and it was full of syringes. There must be at least two or three week’s worth of syringes in there. I bet one of the syringes near the top was the one you added mannitol to, and I’m sure the guys at your forensics lab,” Sam said turning his head to Chuck and the officers, “can find mannitol in the residue on the sides of the syringe. That syringe should also have McCarthy’s fingerprints on it or, if he was smart and used gloves, large smudges the size of his fingertips, in addition to Worthing’s fingerprints of course.
“Oh yeah, did I mention the dates? The incriminating entry in Worthing’s memoir is dated May 3. He must have had a conversation with McCarthy about it around the same time, because the order for mannose and the other sugars was placed on May 12, barely a month and a half ago. The order for mannitol dehydrogenase and NADH was placed on May 18.”

“Son of a bitch!” McCarthy shouted.

“I’m still puzzled about one thing,” Chuck admitted. “The entry! What did Worthing write about in the memoir that was worth killing him over?”

“We were new,” McCarthy finally relented. “We’d just started workin’ here at the university as assistant professors, and we were collaboratin’ on a paper on echinoderm evolution. The university was goin’ through a tough time, financially, an’ our jobs were on the line if we didn’t get the paper published and bring in some grant money. Me and Jim, we agreed to falsify the data ta get it published. We promised it’d just be that one time, that we did it ‘cause we had to.
“An’ it was the truth. I never did it again. Nobody would ever know the data was fudged unless they were told and decided to investigate it. We were in the clear.
“But recently, Jim found out he was eventually gonna die of a brain tumor. He started feelin’ guilty and said he had to get it off his chest and that he was going to write about it in this memoir of his. Do you have any idea what that would do? I cheated once, once, but my entire lifetime of work, everything I’ve pushed so hard to establish, would go on trial. I’d be humiliated. My credibility’d be gone, it’d all crumble under my feet and the ivory towers’d come crashing down on my head.
“Maybe it was easy for him, he was gonna be dead in a year or two. But me, I’m in great shape an’ healthy as an ox. I’m the one that’d face all the repercussions. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t sleep for days. That’s when I decided, it had to be done. It had to be done. You were right about everythin’ else, Detective Hudson. Guess it’s time to pay the goddamn piper.”

***

“Sounds like you had to break a lot of laws to gather that evidence,” Chuck said to Sam back at the station. “But I’ll let it slide,” he added, beaming. “It’ll be admissible in court because you’re a civilian, not police. But that doesn’t even matter, to be honest, ‘cause we got a confession.”

“Glad I could help,” Sam exclaimed.

“Listen Sam, that was some damn good work. Maybe I could get you a job here,” Chuck offered.

“Thanks,” Sam replied with a wide grin, “but if I worked here, I’d have to follow the rules. What fun would that be?”
 
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