Chapter 16
A little research revealed that the head of the Princeton Chemical and Biological Engineering Department was a man named Dr. Troy McGill.
Darnell was surprisingly upbeat as they navigated the interior of Sherrerd Hall, an impressive, square, all mirror glass building on the northern edge of the Princeton campus.
The detective even went as far as to crack a few jokes. Vaughn knew that his partner used humor as a defense mechanism, but it was still unnerving, Darnell joking while all he could do was picture Aaron Treadman’s naked corpse.
Vaughn found the office he was looking for at the end of the hall: a corner office, befitting of a department head.
Or so he figured.
Instead of Princeton—not that this was really an option considering A, Vaughn’s grades, and B, his financial status—Vaughn had attended Mercer County Community College. They didn’t have department heads at MCCC.
He knocked.
“Enter.”
They opened the door.
Dr. Troy McGill had thick glasses and long hair. He sat behind a desk—a desk littered with papers and energy drinks—and his slender forearms rested on the dark wood.
If Vaughn had to guess, he thought the man had probably been dozing when they’d knocked.
“Dr. McGill?”
“Yes?”
“PPD Detectives Ryan and Sacker.”
Dr. McGill perked up.
Yeah, he’d been sleeping, all right.
“What can I do for you, detectives?”
“Just have a couple questions. Do you guys have hydrogen sulfide gas in the department?”
“Yes. Why?”
Vaughn ignored the question.
“You keep the tanks here in the building?”
Dr. McGill shook his head. His gray hair flopped in front of his face, and he pushed it back with the palm of one hand.
“No—outside. Locked up. What’s this about?”
“Think you can show them to us?”
“Detectives—”
Darnell stepped up. He might be a drunk who made inappropriate jokes, but he was also an imposing figure.
“Dr. McGill, you’re not in any trouble.” Yet. “All we’re asking is to see where you keep the hydrogen sulfide.” For now. “If that’s not something that you’re capable of or willing to do, we can go above your head.” We will.
Dr. McGill stood.
He was skinny. Almost emaciated. When he swallowed, like he did now, Vaughn could practically see the saliva making a track down the inside of the man’s throat.
“No, no. That’s fine, I just—here, come with me.”
They walked three abreast down the hallway.
“Do you know a man named Aaron Treadman? Used to work security here on campus?”
“Don’t think so.”
Vaughn pulled up the photo he’d taken from the morgue. He wasn’t in the habit of shocking civilians with pictures of the dead, but he had no other options.
“This is him.”
Dr. McGill stopped, lifted his glasses to his forehead.
“Jesus, what happened to him?”
When he inched closer, Vaughn put his phone away.
“You recognize him?”
“No.”
They exited the building, went around back.
Dr. McGill led them to a fenced-in area filled with gas tanks. Dozens of them. Different sizes. Some white. Others chromed like the one at the barn.
“We use hydrogen sulfide for biodegradation experiments and for some pharmaceutical applications. It’s very volatile. Dangerous, even. Strictly controlled.”
Vaughn observed the fence. It was chain-link, but the individual steel wires were closer together than a typical yard fence. Too small to fit a hand through, let alone a tank. The top was also covered, completely boxed in. No jumping over.
Several specialized-looking vents—much more sophisticated than the dryer ducts in the barn—exited through the top of the fencing.
No cuts or breaks that Vaughn could see.
Dr. McGill produced his wallet, swiped it against a card reader. It beeped and the lock on the gate disengaged. He opened it and held it that way.
“You first,” Darnell said.
Vaughn used his foot to keep the gate from closing while Dr. McGill and Darnell entered.
They wove through the cannisters, all attached to pillars with those tie-down straps with ratcheting mechanisms.
Vaughn read the thick black letters on the tanks: Ammonia. Chlorine. Oxygen.
Dr. McGill stopped abruptly.
“What the hell?”
He was staring at a pole. An empty pole. Tan-colored tie-down straps lay on the ground.
“Something wrong?” Darnell asked.
Dr. McGill muttered something to himself. There was a plastic-covered clipboard hooked on the pole. He grabbed it, flipped through the pages. Flipped back and forth.
“Dr. McGill?”
He turned, his eyes impossibly wide behind his magnified lenses.
“They’re supposed to be here—the hydrogen sulfide gas is supposed to be here.”
“How many canisters?” Darnell demanded.
“Four.”
“You mean to tell me that four canisters . . .”
Vaughn didn’t hear the rest of his partner’s admonishment. The word “four” kept repeating in his head, drowning everything else out.
Four . . .
Four missing canisters.
Four potential crime scenes.