The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

work. “Don’t you dare tell me how it ends,” she said.
    I zipped my lip. “Not a chance.”
    “Gotta go. Mi casa . . .” she said, closing the door behind her.
    Gil didn’t have to share this room, but the eight-by-ten space could have belonged to anyone in the crew. In fact, Bruce’s room had more homey touches, with movie posters on one side (his) and NASCAR images on the other (his roommate’s). Gil, on the other hand, had gone with the MAstar-issue dull blue bedspread, kept the walls free of decoration, and had just one photo, of herself with Hal and Timmy on Hal’s graduation day.
    I wondered if Gil had been ribbed by her colleagues about changing to a more feminine look, and so had changed back. As one of the few women in the graduate mathematics program, I’d had my own minor problems; I imagined Gil would have had even bigger ones. I remembered her mentioning how she chose her nickname.
    “Most Gillians use ‘Jill’ or ‘Lil,’” she’d said. “I use ‘Gil’ so when you’re reading it, you might think it’s a boy’s name, a nickname for ‘Gilbert’.” She’d emphasized the hard G in Gil and laughed. “It gives me a little head start in getting an assignment. Then I show up and, voila, I’m a girl. But I do a good job, so it’s not usually a problem from then on.”
    I understood perfectly.
    Once Gil had left us, it was zero hour for Rachel and me.
    Rachel sat on the edge of the bed, allowing me the luxury of the folding chair Gil had dragged in. An open window onto the airfield made the room seem less cramped and stuffy. I looked longingly at a twin engine, wishing I were airborne, or anywhere but here.
    It was clear that Rachel wasn’t going to start without some prodding. I could tell by the tears that started to well up in her eyes.
    This was not my forte. Give me a student scared to death to take a math test or demonstrate how she evaluated a definite integral and I’ll boost her confidence and have her ready well within her timeframe. I’d also had my share of successes in getting a girl back on her feet after being dumped by a cruel boy from another school. But a murder suspect looking to me for help—that was beyond the scope of my experience. I hoped I could get up to speed in a hurry.
    I plunged in.
    “Rachel, tell me what happened when you brought the plate of food to Dr. Appleton yesterday.” Was it just yesterday?
    Now her tears came in torrents, her sobs beating a quiet, steady rhythm. At least Gil’s room was equipped with tissues. I handed her the box.
    “You have to talk to me, Rachel.”
    I heard a thunderous clattering in response.
    Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.
    The Bat Phone.
    We covered our ears. I thought the pummeling sound would never stop.
    Besides the assault from the Bat Phone, there was so much stomping and loud activity in the hallway that I was afraid to open the door.
    I heard a man shout, “Four-vehicle crash on Route Three Southbound near the Sagamore.”
    Then, Gil’s voice: “Code yellow, everyone.”
    I’d never been here when a call came. My heart raced as if I, too, had to suit up and rush out. I took a breath and told myself no one’s life depended on me.
    “Did she say code yellow?” Rachel asked. “I would have expected code red or code blue.” She shuddered.
    I was quick to share my insider knowledge with Rachel. “Code yellow reminds the crew to go at a sensible pace. Too fast and they might slip up; too slow and they’ll blow their mission. Yellow means just right.”
    Seconds later, Gil crashed into her room. “ ‘Scuse me,” she said.
    She zipped her flight suit to the top of her very fit body, hooked a radio onto her belt, and grabbed her helmet from one corner and a backpack from another, in seamless, swift motions. Army Reserve training, I guessed, reinforced by all her jobs since. Rachel and I both went stiff, not moving a muscle, lest we interrupt the choreography. Gil dashed from the room as quickly as she’d entered, leaving the flimsy brown door to swing in its frame.
    The clamor had shifted to the airfield where MAstar’s helicopter was parked. Rachel and I turned to look out the window. A pilot—the PIC, pilot in command, as the in-group knew—was already in his seat. The tall, lanky guy next to the pilot in the front was one of two flight nurses that made up the group of three who responded to every call. Gil ran to the back of the aircraft and climbed in and they were up in a flash,