Free The Nitrogen Murder by Camille Minichino

together a picture of Matt’s first wife, Teresa, from what Rose and Frank told me about her low-key personality, her work with special-needs children, and her long illness. One evening after Matt and I had been seeing each other regularly for a couple of months, he took an album from a desk drawer. We went through it page by page, photo after photo: birthday parties; sailing trips around Nantucket Sound with Matt’s sister, Jean, and her family; Fourth of July barbecues; Thanksgiving turkeys; Christmas trees. His life with Teresa.
    “Remember the time you shared your Teresa album?” I asked him now.
    He took a sip of coffee. “I do.”
    “I loved that moment.” I cleared my throat and tasted lemon frosting. “Do you also have a police album?”
    Matt laughed and took my hand. A noble gesture since it meant he had to sacrifice half a biscotto for the time being.
    “First, you know I love you, and I would never keep anything from you deliberately, to deceive you or to—”
    “It’s not about that.”
    He nodded. “I believe it.”
    The house was very quiet, except for what I thought might be Elaine’s hair dryer, down the hall. Matt kept my hand in his lap but stared straight ahead, where a framed art print of sunflowers hung on the wall. I couldn’t name the artist, which would sadden
Elaine, who’d tried to fill in the gaps in my very technical education. The lines in the painting were curvy, and I thought I remembered that feature went with van Gogh. Or Cézanne. Matt seemed to be tilting his head to figure it out himself.
    I sensed rather than heard the hard swallow that preceded all his serious disclosures. Some were upsetting: My wife died ten years ago today . Then, later, I have cancer . And some were thrilling: I love you, I want us to be married.
    I knew this one would be difficult.
    “It was my worst moment,” he said. “On the job, anyway. I wasn’t much older than Dana. Kenny was a dispatcher I knew very well; I’d gone to school with him in Everett. We’d been at a retirement dinner at a hotel on Route 1.” Matt took a long breath. I felt him pull back to that day “We’re walking to our cars together.”
    I squeezed his hand. “If you’d rather not …” Fine time to be magnanimous , I thought.
    He shook his head. “If you ever want the illusion of safety, put yourself in a banquet room where more than half the people are cops and firefighters. We’re physically fit and highly trained in self-defense. We’re armed and tough. We’re essentially a paramilitary corps. We’re used to being in control. People expect us to be confident, take charge. Nothing can touch us, right?” He sighed. “I think it’s called denial.”
    I thought it was the longest speech I’d ever heard from Matt. Eventually he got to the story itself.
    “We’re down in the garage, we say good-bye at Kenny’s car, and I split to go to mine. I’m about two cars over when I hear a kid yell, ‘Gimme me your wallet. Hand it over. Gimme your keys.’ I turn and the kid has a gun under Kenny’s chin. I had a split second to decide what to do. I remember thinking, How dumb is this kid? But we’re in civvies, and he couldn’t have known that we were law enforcement and about a hundred cops were twenty feet above him on the ballroom floor.”

    “I can’t imagine,” I said, weak from picturing myself in that garage.
    “I yell, ‘Police, freeze.’ But even before it’s out I know this kid doesn’t care. He swings his gun around to me, giving Kenny a chance to reach for the kid’s neck, and I hear two shots. One is mine; one is the kid’s. I can’t tell you how long it took me to figure which bullet went where.”
    A light knock at the door. Elaine. “Hey, you two. Thanks for making the coffee.” I knew she’d be impatient to get on with the day’s business. A trip to the caterer was on the list, and then our eagerly awaited nitrogen lunch with Phil.
    “Give us ten minutes,” I said.
    “I’ll