The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

lifesaving in nature. And I did think I was making a contribution when I helped a student in such a way that she became a better member of society. When you added it all up, however, Bruce got the prize—providing a service that often meant the difference between life and death.
    It felt good to have an in with the emergency services pool. I hoped I’d never need them. And if I continued to lead this very unexciting, no-risk life, I never would.
     
     
    Rachel was waiting for me in the MAstar parking lot, outside a heavy-duty chain-link fence. We walked across the gravel lot and embraced. Or rather, Rachel threw her tiny self into my arms. When she stopped crying and had removed long, wet locks from her face, she asked, “Remember when I asked you to talk to Dr. Appleton for me?”
    Strange question. Was I being criticized for not having had time to appeal to Keith on her behalf before he died?
    “I do remember, and I was going to contact him right after the party,” I said, a little on the defensive.
    “No, no. I mean I wouldn’t have asked you to do that, would I, if I were going to . . . to kill him?”
    I patted her back. “No, you wouldn’t have, Rachel.”
    Things were worse than I thought if that was her only defense.
    With Bruce off duty these few hours, I’d called Gil Bartholomew and asked if she could let us into the MAstar trailer, secured behind the ten-foot fence.
    “Oh, and I’d like to use your bedroom so Rachel and I can talk in private,” I’d added.
    She’d laughed. “No one’s ever asked me that.”
    Gil was the only woman in the crew at MAstar’s Henley Airport base, and therefore had her own bedroom. All the pilots were men, as were the other flight nurses. “Most of these nurses come from a military background,” she’d explained, “and regular nursing in a hospital just doesn’t have that edge. As much as they might deny it, they’re looking for the thrill of the battlefield.”
    “And you?” I’d asked.
    “Guilty,” she’d said, with a smile. “When I got out of the reserves I took a job as an ER nurse, but even that didn’t cut it. We flight nurses get a lot more training, especially in drugs, and we have a lot more autonomy.”
    “I’m not tempted,” I’d said.
    As requested, I called Gil now from my cell. She came out wearing her navy flight suit up to her waist, a sleeveless white T-shirt on top. Bruce called the outfits “extra large, fire-retardant onesies for EMS professionals.” The jacket part of Gil’s suit hung over her butt, its sleeves looking like the arms of a raggedy doll. Or a corpse, I thought, unexpectedly.
    We climbed the rickety metal stairs, then entered the double-wide. Anyone’s first visit to the trailer held many surprises. Rachel seemed to be examining the unfamiliar features as if she were being sentenced to live here.
    The washer/dryer combo was situated right at the front door, where you might expect a comfortable chair and reading lamp, or at least an inviting rug. A toaster and other small appliances lined the counter next to the imposing laundry set, and the kitchen stretched out a whole ten feet back.
    By trailer standards, this one wasn’t all that bad. Sure, the brown paneled walls looked like they could use a good scrubbing, but the grime was hardly noticeable, with so many signs plastered all over—schedules, maps, warnings about safety, flight preparation and protocol lists, even a kitchen duty sign-up sheet, the numbered lines on which were blank except for Gil’s name. What a surprise.
    The overlapping notices reminded me of the kiosk in the student center at Henley, which, of course, reminded me of the turned upside-down campus.
    I glanced at the weather maps, which I always enjoyed perusing. I’d memorized the special coding to indicate flight—or not—conditions. Today’s map showed some splotches of pink, which meant dense fog, but larger areas in green. Depending on where a call came from, this afternoon’s victims and patients needing transport might not be stuck with snail’s-pace ground level conveyances.
    “REMEMBER THE KEYS” was the most prominent alert today, in large letters, tacked over the door we’d just walked through. Did helicopters have ignition keys? If so, did pilots really forget to take them out the door?
    “Nice party yesterday,” Gil said, bringing any small talk among us to a halt.
    Except for the way it ended hung in the air, unspoken. Gil’s face indicated that she