Red, Green, or Murder

Chapter Twenty-one

I’d been inside Guy Trombley’s drug store a thousand times in the past three decades. With the passing of the years, chasing various health episodes had threatened to become a major hobby of mine. I’d never considered Trombley’s Posadas Pharmacy as particularly old-fashioned, any more than I thought of myself as aging-unless I looked in the mirror or started to push myself from a low-slung chair. It wasn’t hard to imagine that Louis Herrera, a youthful, progressive pharmacist, might regard Posadas Pharmacy and its long-time owner as relics.

Comfortable is what the place was. All the aromas, most of them pleasant, mingled into a good, solid, dependable potpourri. I knew where I was when I walked into Guy’s place, even recognized most of the teenaged counter attendants. The floor was old-fashioned, well-oiled wood that squeaked a welcome.

With construction of the Guzman/Perrone clinic, Trombley’s would no longer be the only retail pharmacological game in town. I doubted that he’d deign to lower his monopolistic prices with the competition.

We stood quietly and watched while Guy fumbled with the keys for both the door and the alarm system. At one point, he stopped and twisted his tall, gangling form toward me. “I wouldn’t do this for just anybody,” he whispered, as if the streets had ears. He turned 180 degrees so Estelle could hear him. “Not just anybody.”

“We appreciate it, sir,” she said.

“I’m not even going to ask why all this can’t wait until a reasonable hour,” he said. His voice reminded me of a banjo. “But I’m sure that the sheriff has his reasons.” He grinned at me as the door clicked open. “Robert isn’t coming over? He was the one who called me.”

“Ah, no,” I said. “He decided that the two of us could handle you all right.”

Trombley barked a laugh. “Well, then, here we are.” He bowed and ushered us both inside. “My kingdom.” He closed the door behind him, clicked the dead bolt shut, and palmed a four-switch panel for the lights. The fluorescents tinkled and blinked into life. “Now what can I do for the minions of the law?” He held up a hand before either of us had a chance to answer. “You know, nothing would taste better right now than a cup of coffee. Do you mind if I take a moment to put on a pot?”

“Oh, I never touch the stuff,” I said, and Trombley guffawed again.

“Just herbal tea now, eh?” he chortled. “I know you’re not to be tempted,” he said to Estelle. “But I have Earl Grey, Oolong, and some other stuff that’s mostly chopped up flower beds if you’re in the mood.”

“No, thank you, sir. But we really appreciate you coming down to meet us,” Estelle said.

We followed him through the aisles, around a tall counter, and two steps up to the pharmacists’ work counter. From this spot, Guy could look out over his domain. In a moment, he had the drip brewer hard at work, and I was beginning to think that a hot bagel with cream cheese would go nicely. He rubbed his hands in anticipation. “Now, then.”

“We’re interested in a particular chemical,” Estelle said. Trombley tilted his head back, locking her in focus through his half glasses, his ruddy, pocked face a mask of serious interest. “Histamine diphosphate.”

Trombley’s head sank back down until his head rested on his chest, his eyes never leaving Estelle’s face. He watched as she consulted her notebook. “Histamine diphosphate,” she repeated.

His sparse eyebrows raised, and he cocked his head. “That’s a little off the wall, sheriff.”

“Yes,” she agreed, and let her explanation go with that. “I’d appreciate whatever information you can give us.”

“You’ve talked to your husband, or to young Herrera?” He asked the question with enough tact that it sounded more self-deprecating than anything else.

“Briefly.” Estelle didn’t elaborate.

“I see.” Guy looked across at me, then back over his shoulder at the coffee pot. It was thinking, but hadn’t produced much. “I sincerely hope that’s not the new street craze, folks. If it is, you guys are going to be picking up a lot of dead bodies.”

“We hope it isn’t,” I said.

“Well, while we’re waiting for this pokey thing, let me show you where I keep ours. It’s back in the compounding area. Histamine diphosphate isn’t a drug, per se, you know. Your husband might have already told you all this, I suppose. It’s really just a chemical that is compounded into a treatment. Never administered by itself.”

He moved past me toward the steps. “Follow me this way,” he said. “The drug you mention has been shown to be efficacious sometimes in the treatment of multiple sclerosis. That’s its major claim to fame.”

“It’s ingested orally? The treatment, I mean?” I asked as we followed him through a narrow passageway to a tiny room in the back. Except for a touch of gray where dust touched unused flat surfaces, the place was tidy, with a gadget at one end that looked like a hi-tech bead-blasting chamber.

Trombley shook his head. “Oh, no. Through a skin patch. Like those things you wear to stop smoking.”

“So the histamine diphosphate is easily absorbed through the skin, then.”

“Indeed it is,” Trombley said. “And that’s how we can keep the dose very small, and very controlled.” He ran a hand along a shelf, ticking off the jars and boxes. “It’s pretty squirrelly stuff, folks. Histamine is a natural chemical in the body, as I’m sure you’re aware. That’s what triggers the body’s response mechanism in allergies, for instance.” He turned his head to cough once into his cupped hand, a loud, racking ratchet that didn’t sound good.

He continued his own personal guided tour of the shelves, working his way downward through the alphabet. “Ah, here we are,” he said, pulling a small bottle off the shelf. He handed it to Estelle. “Don’t open it.”

She twisted it this way and that, scanning the label. “This says haloperidol powder, Mr. Trombley. Is that the same thing?”

“Hardly,” he replied, reaching hastily for the bottle. He squinted at it, looked heavenward, and turned around muttering, “Don’t ever, ever get old, either one of you.” I knew exactly what he’d done. The eyes see the target, but the hand and the attention drift a bit. I did that very thing at the supermarket, sometimes arriving home with a truly puzzling substitution for what I’d intended.

“It’s too late for me,” I said.

“Lest you think the wrong thing,” Trombley said as he bent down to scan the inventory, “I do have a system of checks that would have prevented my mixing the wrong stuff in a batch for a patient. But…” and his voice trailed off. Estelle stood quietly in the corner, watching him.

“What’s the haloperidol used for?” I asked.

“It’s a heavy-duty tranquilizer,” he said, still looking. “Various psychotic disorders call for it by injection. Sometimes by caplet or tablet. Wouldn’t do much good in a patch. Well, damn.” I heard the crack of his knee joints. “This is where the histamine diphosphate should be,” he said, “and I don’t understand why it’s not.” He tapped an empty spot on the shelf. He exhaled an irritated mutter, and I glanced at Estelle. Her face remained expressionless.

“Okay,” Guy said, “Excuse me for a minute.” He slipped past me and headed back for his work bench. “Bill, the coffee’s ready.”

“Perfect,” I said, and wandered after him, taking in the sights. Other than dark corners, mops, utility sink, and piles of boxes, there wasn’t much to see. I stepped up to his work counter. From here, he could look down on the tops of his customers’ heads. I wondered if the superior position was necessary for him.

The pharmacist was bent over the keyboard, but without looking away from the computer’s screen lifted a hand to point at the coffee maker. “Cups are down below. Help yourself. Pour me one, too, if you will. No additives. I like to use the green cup with the sunflowers.”

“Done.” As I stepped past him, I looked over his shoulder at the computer screen. He was scrolling down through what appeared to be an inventory list.

“We don’t just run out of drugs,” he said, rapping keys and waiting with obvious impatience. “We just don’t. That’s supposedly one of the great things about these damn gadgets. When I invoice out a prescription, all of the information goes in and modifies the inventory list here, right then and there. Then the order list is modified for restocking.” He straightened up enough to take the cup I handed him. “Just like a hardware store,” he added. “Just as if we were card-carrying members of the twenty-first century.”

He shifted his half glasses to bring the screen into focus, adopting that characteristic scrinched up, bared teeth expression that goes with trying to read fine print.

“Huh,” he grunted. “The last time I compounded that’s the particular application that I use with histamine diphosphate and caffeine citrated…” He scrunched his face up some more, putting a finger on the computer screen to follow a line across. “The last time was May 10,” He stood back. “In the drug business, that’s ancient history.”Histolatum…

“So it’s been the better part of six months,” I said.

“Does the chemical have a shelf life?” Estelle asked. She stood on the lower level, looking up at us like an expectant customer.

“Sure it does,” the pharmacist replied. “Probably a couple of years. And the computer knows all about that, too. The reorder would have been automatic. This shows,” and he touched the screen, “that the inventory for histamine diphosphate was virtually new in May when I compounded that prescription.”

“And none since then.”

“No.” He beckoned. “Now, let me check again,” he said. “Let’s give senility its due. I might have reshelved it improperly.” Once more, we trooped after him and watched while he searched the shelves. He shifted boxes and bottles this way and that, even surveying well beyond the “H” section. After a few moments, he stood up and held up both hands in surrender. “It’s gone.” His eyes continued to scan the shelves. “Now, I have to ask,” he said. “You’ve come here in the middle of the night, asking for a chemical that I see now is obviously missing from my inventory.” He turned to gaze at Estelle. “I’ve told you nothing about histamine diphosphate that your husband or Louis couldn’t. So I’m assuming that you’re looking into illicit use.”

“Who else has access to this room, sir?”

“Access?” He held up his hands in puzzlement. “I work back here. The kids,” and he waved a hand toward the front, “They never do. Other than taking trash out to the dumpsters, there’s no reason for them to ever be back here.” What an interesting way to describe the place as wide open, I thought.

“You have an assistant, though,” I said.

“Of course. Harriet Tomlinson has worked for me for years, as you well know. But she does none of the compounding. I’m the only one who does that.”

“Is this area ever unattended?” Estelle asked. The sweep of her hand indicated the pharmacist’s counter including the computer, the general area of drug storage, and the small back work room.

“When we’re open, either Harriet is here in the back at the prescription counter, or I am,” Guy said flatly. “But I’m the only one who actually does any compounding back here. Harriet cleans up once in a while.”

I knew that his first remark wasn’t true, just as was Fernando Aragon’s protestation that he would never use canned chile as part of the burrito grande. On many occasions here, I had dropped off a prescription to have it filled, and it had waited for half a day. Guy might be off at the links, or at a Rotary luncheon, or who the hell knows where. Harriet had her own errands. There the prescription sat, waiting for the return of one or both of them.

There were times when it would be simple enough to stroll toward the back of the store, and then, while the register attendant was dealing with another customer up front, slip around the corner to this small room.

I stepped to the compounding room’s door and peered out. The door that led outside to the alley was steel, with no dents or gouges around the locks. In addition to the keyed deadbolt, it had a hefty sliding steel bar.

“Nobody has broken in,” Guy said. “If they had, you or the village police would have heard about it.” He watched Estelle, who had pulled her small digital camera out of its belt holster. “Now what?”

“Sir,” Estelle said, and knelt down close to the shelving. “I’d like to take a photo of this area.” Even I could see what intrigued her. A jar of something had once taken up the tiny space between the haliperidol and what I could see now was labeled as hydrocortisone powder. Someone had removed that jar, leaving a nice little dust-free circle about the size of an ink bottle.

“In May,” the undersheriff asked, adjusting the camera for the odd light. “You said May was the last time you compounded the histolatum?”

“Yes.” Guy Trombley’s answer was considerably more guarded now, his manner less casual and affable.

“Would it be a violation of privacy to ask who the patient was?” I asked.

“Of course it would be,” Guy said, and coughed again. He looked at me over his half-glasses, and his fishy blue eyes were amused. “But if I can’t trust you two, then the world might as well stop spinning right now. The patient has passed on, anyway. You remember Norma Scott? She passed away here a while back, first part of the summer. She was the last patient I compounded the histolatum for. The MS didn’t kill her, though. She had a massive stroke.”

“Ah,” I said. “I don’t remember.” Every once in a while, I heard about someone in Posadas whom I didn’t know, and it always surprised me.

“Well, that’s the last time I’ve prepared that particular compound. Months ago, now.” He watched Estelle take several more photos of the empty spot on the shelf. “Where’s this all going?”

There were a couple dozen ways I could have answered that simple question, but at this point it was convenient to remember that none of this was any of my official business. No one was injecting cattle with histamine diphosphate. “I wish I knew,” I replied.

“Now wait a minute,” Guy said. “If this affects me or my store-or my drugs-then I have every right to know.”

“Yes, you do, sir,” Estelle said, and pushed herself back to her feet. “We have evidence that histamine diphosphate was involved in an incident earlier. We’d like to know where the chemical came from.”

The pharmacist regarded Estelle without expression. “And?”

“And that’s all I can tell you at the moment, sir.”

“What kind of ‘incident’, sheriff?”

I wondered how Estelle was going to side-step that question, since I couldn’t imagine that she wanted to discuss George Payton’s death while the investigation was so preliminary.

“At any time in the past week or two, can you recollect anyone other than yourself or Mrs. Tomlinson back here?” she asked.

“No, I can’t.” Guy’s impatience grew. “That door,” and he pointed at the compounding room’s entrance, “is always closed unless I happen to be working back here. None of the clerks ever come in here. They have no need to. And you still haven’t answered my question. What prompts all this, anyway? What’s important enough to justify skulking about in the middle of the night? You mention an ‘incident’, and that’s all you can tell me?”

“We’re not skulking, Guy,” I said. “But you know the drill.”

“Well, in this case, I don’t know the drill, Bill. Somebody’s been in here, and it looks like they helped themselves to a dangerous chemical. My God, man, I don’t think I can impress on you enough just how lethal this stuff can be. I mean, it makes rattlesnake venom look like weak tea.”

“We understand that, sir,” Estelle said patiently. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it. At the moment. We’re asking your cooperation and discretion in this.”

Guy looked across at me, then back at Estelle. “And if it turns out that I had a moment of brain fade and just shelved the chemical incorrectly?”

“Then I hope you’ll tell us immediately,” Estelle said. “And if you should find it, please let us know before you touch the bottle, sir.”

“Because?”

“Because we’ll be looking for fingerprints, sir.” She handed him one of her cards, but he waved it off.

“For heaven’s sakes, I know where you live, work, and even play,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she said, holding the card out until he took it with considerable impatience. “If something comes up, or you remember something else, please feel free to call that cell number any time, rather than going through dispatch.”

Guy Trombley scrutinized the card, slowly shaking his head. “Is this involving something going on over at the school?”

“We certainly hope not, sir.”

He huffed a sigh. “Well, I hope to God not. Teenagers today are a new breed to me.” I saw his jaw set a fraction, and his gaze wandered toward the front of the store. I supposed he was already indicting his counter help.

“We’ll get back with you, Guy,” I offered. “Give us some time.”