SIEMENS

Sooner or later, we all have to cash in our chips. For most of us it’s natural. For a few, it’s not. My job is to discover the difference. It was a cool, sunny Monday morning in June. After a week of rain, it was the kind of day you feel like calling the office and telling ‘em you’ve got better stuff to do than analyzing the results of molecular tests or figuring out whether grandpa broke his neck on the stairs or had a little help from the Mrs. For 84-year-old Henrietta Gabrielli all the signs indicated a naturalcauses ticket to the happy hunting grounds. Almost all the signs.

“Sorry to bug you first thing on a Monday morning, detective,” said the medic whose vehicle had responded to the 911. “But the guy looks kind of nervous.” He gestured over his shoulder at a man shifting nervously from foot to foot near the sofa where Miss Gabrielli’s body slouched. Even from where I was standing I could see the sweat stains on the guy’s shirt. “Who’s that?” I asked. “He’s the one who called us. Name’s Pulsifer.”

“Taken care of the preliminaries?” I asked. “Routine blood test,” said the medic. “Analyzer found what you’d expect – a high level of troponin – you know, one of those proteins released by cardiac cells in response to damaging events. Pulsifer said the victim sounded short of breath when she called him. Put the two together and it looks like a brainstem stroke leading to respiratory depression and cardiac arrest. Shall we put the body in the ambulance?”

I walked over to Pulsifer and introduced myself. “You related to the victim?” I asked. “No,” he said. “Just a close friend. Known her for years. My mother used to be Miss Gabrielli’s housekeeper. When mom passed away, I just felt – you know – obligated. Miss Gabrielli was so alone. No friends, only one or two distant relatives down south.” “Perfect situation,” I said provocatively as I took in the size of the house and the apparent quality of its furnishings. “You wouldn’t happen to be in the old gal’s will, would you?” I said.

Before Pulsifer could respond, the medic interrupted. “Detective, we’ve gotten a sign-off from a relative on Miss Gabrielli’s medical records. Better take a look.” He handed me his smartphone. Gabrielli had apparently been very health conscious. The records indicated that back in 2015 she had had a full genome scan. Predispositions for various heart diseases had been identified. After that, Gabrielli had apparently lived like a saint. A diagnosis of stroke was starting to look implausible.

But here was something that caught my attention: Just a year ago Gabrielli had had a retinal prosthesis installed as a result of macular degeneration in her right eye. And apparently the implant – a microchip that interfaced directly with her optic nerve – was outfitted with memory functions. What’s more, the chip was wirelessly accessible to allow for maintenance and upgrades. “Cool,” I said to the medic. “Let’s see if it’ll bark.” A few minutes later, after another sign-off, we were able to download an access code from Gabrielli’s medical record and use my smartphone to tap into the chip’s content.

Key images from the last 48 hours flashed by like a high-speed silent movie. It was all routine stuff. Then, at about 18:30 the previous evening Pulsifer appeared in the images. After what appeared to be a few formalities, he took a small giftwrapped package out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the victim. Inside was a silk scarf. He helped Gabrielli fasten it around her neck. Then he was gone. After that, the victim apparently sat on the couch and eventually fell asleep. The only other recorded event was her phone call to Pulsifer this morning just before she expired.

Something was fishy. I looked down at Gabrielli. There was the scarf – a pretty, understated pink with an unobtrusive flower pattern. Just the kind of thing to melt the old gal’s heart.

“What was the occasion for the gift?” I said to Pulsifer. “No occasion,” he said. “I work for a ladies’ apparel distributor and Miss Gabrielli liked fine things. I often gave her gifts from our collections to brighten up her life.”

I knelt down and looked carefully at the scarf. It had a dark pink inner lining. Not wanting to contaminate any potential evidence, I unsealed a package of sterile surgical gloves and pealed back a couple of millimeters of the scarf that had been in contact with the victim’s skin. Then I extended a flexible antenna-like aspirator nozzle from my smartphone, activated the vacuum, and brushed the nozzle head back and forth against the smooth silk.

Inside the device, I knew, nano particles from the scarf’s surface would be detected by a vast selection of “catcher molecules” embedded in a tiny piece of specialized material. Each molecule that was caught would electronically signal its identity to a specialized chip beneath the material that would in turn process the information, compare it to an online database, and assemble a graphic representation of the results. The technology saves police time and delivers clean results that stand up well in court.

Within seconds, a long red column marked “Fentanyl” had developed in the display. As anyone in my field can tell you, Fentanyl is a powerful – and potentially deadly – analgesic. In powder form, it can be absorbed transdermally. Once in the body, its effect is irreversible. Generally speaking, it causes the victim to progressively retain carbon dioxide, leading to increasing shortness of breath and the outward symptoms of brainstem stroke.

I stood up and looked Pulsifer in the eye. “Why’d you do it?” I said shaking my head in disbelief after I had secured his damp wrists behind his back with handcuffs. Though the morning was still fresh and cool, Pulsifer’s face was covered with beads of sweat. His eyes went red and I could see that he was crumbling inside. In little more than a whisper he said, “She treated me like her son. But she wanted more and more of my time. Finally she began nagging me to move in with her. I couldn’t do that. But I couldn’t just leave her. So I thought I’d give her a gift that would make her happy forever.”