Page 4 of The Botanist's Assistant
Margaret looks down to see the voice belongs to a youngish-looking campus police officer who is easily three inches shorter than she, a fact that, Margaret has learned, often results in men turning defensive and puffing out their chest like some over-hormoned chicken. Still, she can’t let a male’s tender feelings get in the way of facts.
“Actually, there is a lot here to see, Officer…” She peers at his name tag. “Bianchi,” she adds.
“There’s the overturned photo and the Post-it note withthe time four thirty written on it. There’s Dr. Deaver’s jacket and a Diet Coke container on the floor, and the empty scotch bottle in the trash. Plus, the cocktail glass he uses is missing.”
“Scotch?” The officer’s gaze slides sideways to the wastebasket.
“Yes. Johnnie Walker Black Label. Professor Deaver’s favorite.”
“He was a drinker, then.”
A wave of outrage washes over Margaret.
“He was not a drunk, if that’s what you’re saying.”
“Some people hide it well, you know.”
Margaret is about to inform him that she, of all people, would know if Dr. Deaver was an alcoholic, when, suddenly, a voice interrupts. It’s Calvin.
“It’s my fault,” he says.
Calvin is at the door, twisting his hands as if he were wringing out a very wet and stubborn sponge.
“How is it your fault?” the officer asks. “Are you confessing to something?”
Is that excitement on Bianchi’s face? Margaret guesses the only things people confess to him are fistfights and petty thefts. Not dead bodies.
“I guess I am,” Calvin says.
Officer Bianchi takes a step closer. “Tell me more.”
Calvin’s voice shakes. “Well, you see, Dr. Deaver has this genetic heart condition that can cause sudden death. It makes your heart go out of rhythm so badly that it finally stops. It’s like having a ticking time bomb in your chest.”
Officer Bianchi frowns. “I don’t see how that involves you.”
A low groan escapes Calvin’s lips. “Because I thought helooked really pale the other afternoon and I told him he should see his cardiologist. They can implant a little defibrillator in your chest so, you know, you don’t die. My great-aunt had one and she didn’t pass until she was ninety-four. He told me that he was just feeling a little off and that I needed to calm down—which is what everybody is always telling me—so I got a little upset and left. I should have insisted, maybe even taken him to the clinic, but I didn’t.”
“Well, that’s something, I guess,” Officer Bianchi says.
It’s more than something, Margaret thinks. How had she missed the signs of Dr. Deaver’s unwellness?
“Did he mention his symptoms?” the officer asks Calvin.
The postdoc raises his gaze to the ceiling. “Fatigue, lightheadedness, a bit of nausea,” Calvin says. “Oh, wait. I think I was the one who was nauseous that day.”
“So, it’s his heart, you say.” The officer pulls out a leather-bound notepad.
“That’s the only thing it could be,” Calvin says.
“What about you, ma’am?” Officer Bianchi finally turns toward Margaret.
“He did have a genetic heart condition,” Margaret admits, “but he told me it was under control.”
Before she can say more, however, a small black mic on the officer’s shoulder squawks to life. Bianchi presses a button and listens through an earpiece in his right ear. Then: “Victim is 10-45D. Request 10-40 for Sergeant Leland at Coroner’s Office,” he says. “Also, I will be 10-7B in forty-five.”
What do the numbers mean? Reflexively, Margaret addsthem up in her head. One hundred sixty-seven. It doesn’t help.
She can’t hear the reply to that barrage of numbers, but Officer Bianchi lowers his voice. “Son’s soccer practice,” he says.
