Fatal Reaction

examined the inside of the door carefully without touching it.
    “That’s funny. It looks like the emergency release handle is broken. Do you have any idea how long it’s been that way?”
    “I have no idea,” I replied, seeing my suicide theory evaporating before my eyes.
    “You mind telling me who actually found the body?” asked the second officer, pulling a notebook from his pocket and starting to write.
    “Dr. Dave Borland.”
    “Is he a medical doctor, ma’am?”
    “No. He’s a chemist.”
    “Just like the dead guy?”
    “Yes. This is a pharmaceutical company. They’re all chemists here.”
    “Where is this Dr. Borland, ma’am?”
    “He’s upstairs.”
    “We’re going to need to speak to him and get his statement.”
    “I’ll be happy to go get him for you if you like.”
    On my way up to the first floor I took the stairs two at a time. If things were proceeding on schedule Stephen should have just finished his presentation. I opened the door of the first-floor lunchroom. Partitions had been erected to block the refrigerator and sink from view. A podium had been brought in and a large screen for slides set up in the front of the room. Chairs, which Stephen had personally selected so that he could be sure they were comfortable, had been rented and arranged in rows.
    Lou Remminger was at the podium speaking with great authority about her theory that ZK-501 consisted of two distinct regions—binding and affector. The Japanese scientists were taking notes so furiously that the tables in front of them shook. I slipped into an empty chair beside Borland.
    “The police are here,” I whispered. “They want to talk to you.” From across the room Stephen shot me an inquiring glance, which I chose to ignore. Borland rose to his feet with a little grunt and together we slipped out of the room.
    “Do you know if anybody checked to make sure the room was empty before they taped it shut?” I asked once we were out in the hall.
    “What kind of idiot do you take me for?” he answered. “Michelle and I both looked. Believe me, there was nobody in there when we closed it up. Besides, if he somehow got shut in there by accident all he’d have had to do was use the emergency release to open the door. It wouldn’t be hard to push through the duct tape, even for a wimp like Childress.”
    “The cops say the emergency release was broken.”
    “Broken? Since when?”
    “I don’t know,” I replied as we arrived in the basement.
    During the short time I was upstairs more police had arrived. The team from the county crime lab was there in their Day-Glo jumpsuits with their tackle boxes full of equipment. While Borland gave his statement to the two uniformed officers I lingered in the hallway and watched the forensics team go about their business. No one objected to my presence. Indeed, they all seemed happy to accept my being head of the company’s legal department as a valid reason for staying.
    The plainclothes detectives arrived just as two jump-suited attendants wheeled a stretcher into the cold room. I couldn’t help but notice that on top of the sheets was a neatly folded body bag. The two detectives were as clean-cut as the uniformed officers, though older and not as good-looking. They ambled down the corridor, each carrying a steaming Styrofoam cup of 7-Eleven coffee. From where I was standing it sounded like they were talking about last night’s Bulls game.
    While television may have given us the myth of the raging pursuit and the high-speed chase, I knew that the real business of solving murders was much more leisurely. After all, by the time the homicide cops show up, the bad guys are long gone. Not only that, but the victim sure as hell isn’t going anywhere.
    The two detectives’ names were Rankin and Masterson. Rankin was the taller of the two, with a whippet build and a buzz haircut. He seemed to be acting as the primary investigator. They ignored me and immediately made a beeline for the uniformed officers who were busy questioning Borland. From what I could see, the protein chemist did not appear to be enjoying himself at all.
    Elliott, having no doubt hit the worst of the rush-hour traffic, arrived a few minutes later. I was ridiculously glad to see him. He came up and put his arm around me, and I must admit, I clung to him.
    “You’ve got to stop killing people, Kate,” he whispered into my hair. “I think the cops are beginning to catch on.” I made a face and pulled