The police detectives were just like on television: A fat one and a thin one, wearing slouchy suits and knit ties, came walking down the hall like they owned the place. Once their eyes locked onto me, they never let go.

     "Are you Mr. Benjamin Candidi?" asked the thin one.

     "Yes"

     "We’re with the Miami Police Department. Would like to have a few words with you."

     My eyes took refuge in my coffee cup. Little ripples threatened to turn into tidal waves. Mentally half-prepared and emotionally unprepared, I glanced back towards McGregor’s laboratory. Luckily, he wasn’t in.

     "I’m sorry, but I’m in the middle of a timed experiment," I lied, not daring to ask them to state their business out in the hallway.

     "That’s okay, Mr. Candidi. We can wait as long as it takes." The technician from Kozinski’s lab caught these words as she passed by with a rack full of scintillation vials. She looked back curiously. McGregor would be ten times as curious.

     "How long do you need to speak to me?"

     "It’s hard to say, but at least an hour."

     "Let me see what I can do about the experiment."

     Stalling for thinking time, I went into the lab and fiddled with the knobs of a spectrophotometer, which wasn’t even switched on. I thought it through and returned.

     "Where do you want to talk? I don’t have my own office or anything."

     "We can take you to our office," said the fat one. "It’s just five minutes away."

     It was a silent walk down the hall and a quiet elevator ride. Their unmarked car was double-parked in front of the main entrance to General — one of those big black Plymouths with a handle-activated spotlight mounted on the driver’s side. Two wheels rested on the sidewalk, narrowing the hospital entrance way. The trunk blocked the wheelchair incline.

     They got in the front, letting me open the rear door for myself. People looked at me funny, like I was a robbery suspect. The car was in motion before I could slam my door. We accelerated across the zebra stripe like there wasn’t a pedestrian around for miles.

     "I guess you guys don’t like to waste time." This elicited a half-grunt from the fat one behind the wheel. "So why don’t you guys tell me what this is all about?"

     "Later, when we get to the station."

     I always did want to play in a B-grade movie. While the detectives discussed their work schedules, I tried to think about the interview. But the erratic motion of the car hurt my concentration. The fat guy drove like it was a chicken race. Blowing the horn was his way of being polite, and flashing his badge was his way of being politely assertive. So I used all my mental energy looking at the horizon and striking poses to not look like a criminal. Occasional humiliation can be humanizing experience.

     The police station is a 12-story building rising out of a one-block-square parking lot. Fatso threw the transmission into park before the car was completely stopped. I slammed my door harder than they did, but neither cop seemed to notice.

     The room on the 10th floor had a small table, a couple of chairs, no windows, but a large mirror on an inside wall. In the corner, next to a pile of leather carrying cases and her three-legged machine, sat the stenographer/court reporter — about 32, peroxide blond, skinny and a little unhealthy looking, I’m sorry to say. A one-piece pink chiffon dress covered her from shoulder to leg, blooming out four inches below the knee. Her right leg was crossed over the left at the knee, toes pointed to a spot on the floor two feet in front of her, said pointing effect accentuated by a pair of high-heeled patent-leather shoes. Funny how you notice such things on your hay wagon ride to the guillotine.

     She didn’t return my glance. The two detectives motioned me to sit down. The thin one sat across the table from me, the fat one sat to the side and farther back. The inhospitable environment made me feel defensive and mousey.

     "Mr. Candidi, we’re doing a routine investigation into the death of Dr. Charles Cooper, who was the Chief of the Department of Pharmacy at the General Medical School."

     I let out a nervous laugh, and they looked at me strangely.

     "I’m sorry, but he was the Chairman of Pharmacology at Bryan Medical School. Dade County General is only affiliated with Bryan Medical School."

     The steno machine clicked away while I was talking and continued for a few seconds, as the Chiffon Lady took down my last words. The detectives waited patiently as if my initial response was not worthy of a reply.

     "I’m sorry," I said, looking from them to the stenographer. "I understood that he died unexpectedly, but I never met the man. I wasn’t even associated with the Department until after he died." I laid in a pause. No answer. "So I really don’t understand why I have been brought down here with this court reporter."

     The fat one winked and said, "Mr. Candidi, we can assure you that you are not a suspect in any criminal investigation. The only reason we have brought you here is to help us with scientific information in your department — information that might be useful to us in understanding Dr. Cooper’s early death."

     "Well, fine, but I can’t imagine that I would be of any use to you on that."

     The thin one said, "Our questions will have to do with information that you have about substances and methods which are used in your Department."

     I tried to keep my mind innocent and sing righteously.

     "Do you mean things that he could have been exposed to in the laboratory? You don’t mean — "

     "Mr. Candidi, if you could please let us ask our questions."

     "Yes, please do."

     "On the evening of December third, nineteen ninety-three, did you visit Dr. Westley at his residence on Bayshore Drive, Miami."

     "I believe so. That was a Thursday, wasn’t it?"

     "Yes"

     "Then the answer is yes," I said, falling into the routine. The steno machine was beginning to click in a smoother rhythm.

     "In the course of that conversation, did you state to Dr. Westley that Dr. John Ledbetter was working on a drug system that can take protein-type drugs and put them into pills that can be swallowed, and the proteins go into the bloodstream?" He read the question from a sheet of paper.

     "Yes, I think I did tell him something like that . . . Yes, I’m sure that I did. Say! Did you bring me down here because Dr. Ledbetter is a suspect in a — "

     "Mr. Candidi, I am afraid that we are the only ones who will be asking the questions here."

     Wouldn’t my innocent answers and questions make me sound more convincing? Proof that I wasn’t a coached witness? I didn’t appreciate being reprimanded. But perhaps all they were interested in was a clean steno record.

     "Very well," I answered.

     "What is your relationship to Dr. Geoffrey Westley?"

     "He is my former employer . . . and a good friend of mine. Well, he was really more like a Dutch Uncle. We have kept in touch since I left his organization."

     "Are you an employee of the DCMEO?" he asked. I pretended that I didn’t understand the acronym. "The Dade County Medical Examiner’s Office," he said.

     "Oh, the M.E.’s Office! No, I resigned that position when I was accepted in graduate school."

     "Then is it true that you have no official relationship to the Dade County Medical Examiner’s Office?"

     "That is correct."

     "Do you have any relationship with the DCMEO?"

     "They have paid me to come back there once in a while to service their instruments when they need it. I agreed to do that for them."

     "So you are paid to service their instruments?"

     "Yes, they have paid me on a per-visit basis. I’m an independent contractor, of sorts."

     "Why does the DCMEO call you back to work as an independent contractor?"

     I told the detective that Steve Burk and Jake Brown didn’t know shit about troubleshooting instruments, and how I was saving them big money on factory-trained technicians from Atlanta. "Besides, its a good moonlighting job for a penniless graduate student. I mean, it beats working in the Seven-Eleven!"

     The fat cop chuckled. The thin one asked, "Did your consultant — strike that — independent contractor services for the DCMEO involve investigating or consulting on cause-of-death cases."

     He shook his head at himself after saying "strike that." Maybe he was going to law school at night.

     "No, I wasn’t involved in that kind of stuff — just keeping the instruments working."

     "When you made these service visits to the DCMEO, did you confer with Dr. Westley?"

     "No, I hardly ever saw him. His office was on another floor and he was usually very busy."

     "Did you confer with him on matters of cause of death during your visits to his residence?"

     "No."

     "Did you confer with Dr. Burk on any DCMEO matters other than the status of the instruments?"

     "No."

     "Could we turn back to your conversations with Dr. Westley at his residence. Did you discuss the work of other professors in your department?"

     "Yes. Probably all of them."

     "Did you visit Dr. Westley more than one time?"

     "Yes, he and Margaret had me over for dinner five or six times."

     "Did your visits to Dr. Westley have any special purpose?"

     "No, they were . . . social. I think that they liked having me over, and I think . . . well you know . . . I’m sorry, I’m a little confused right now."

     "Excuse me a moment." He got up and left the room.

     The Chiffon Lady leaned over, searched in her bag and pulled out a thick paperback book. On its cover was a big-breasted woman in an evening gown, one strap dropped from her shoulder, in the arms of a bare-chested man. The century and setting were indeterminate. A generic romance novel — the type the drugstores sell. It was probably the right reading material for someone who records pain and suffering day in and day out. I wandered over to the mirror. On the other side of this one-way looking glass, the thin detective was probably conferring with Dr. Westley and an Assistant State Attorney. All I needed to get a good look at both of them, was to cup my hands on the sides of my face and put my nose to the glass. What were they discussing? Whether my testimony gave them probable cause to go after Ledbetter — and whether there was sufficient distance between me and the D.C.M.E.O. On whim, I strolled back to the fat detective who had been watching me.

     "Did you ever study physics in high school? Transmitted light, reflected light and that kinda junk."

     "No, never got that far, fella. But I made varsity wrestling."

     "Probably much better training for your job — twisting people’s arms."

     The stenographer didn’t bat an eye. Probably deep in her vicarious love affair. Two minutes later, the tall, thin detective was back. The stenographer looked up at him, and he waved her off.

     He thanked me for my cooperation, said I’d answered all their questions for now and said he was sorry he couldn’t tell me what it was all about. "I would appreciate your not discussing this interview with anyone. Of course, it would be possible to get a court order to that effect, but then we would have to detain you — "

     "No, it’s okay. I promise to not talk to anyone."

     "Well, once again, I appreciate your cooperation. Joe! Could you take Mr. Candidi back to General Medical School."

     Needless to say, it was a silent walk down to the parking lot. Just as I was about to get into Joe’s car, he flashed his badge and flagged down a squad car leaving the lot.

     "Hey, patrolman, you going north?"

     "Yeah."

     "Then take this feller up to Dade General as a courtesy, fifteen twenty-seven"

     Or was it a "twenty-seven fifteen"? I hopped in the front seat. About ten blocks short of Dade General, the officer received a call for a 13-75 — or was it a 15-37? He slammed on the brakes, ordered me out, made a U-turn and hauled off in a cloud of dust, exhaust and burning rubber, leaving me on the edge of Overtown.

     After a good afternoon’s work on the manuscript in McGregor’s lab, I biked back to Coconut Grove. I ate at Captain Walley’s and talked with some old acquaintances. Then I pulled out a quarter and called up Westley, half out of habit.

     "Hello, Dr. Westley. I’m just calling to see how you are doing."

     "Oh, yes, Ben. Well, we are doing jolly well. Yes, quite fine indeed! How are your classes coming along?"

     "Just fine, thank you. But they were interrupted today." I laid in a long pause which was matched with silence on the other end. "I was visited by two police detectives and interrogated for a half-hour this morning. They wanted me to verify that I had told you something about Dr. Ledbetter. They also wanted to know about my social visits to you."

     "You have me to thank for that, I am afraid. But when you told me a while back about Ledbetter having an oral delivery system for proteins, I had to pass this information on to the police and prosecutors." His voice sounded as distant and formal as when I’d first met him. "It seems that they had an interest in these things. Lord knows why. It may be one of their police theories, or some sort of bureaucratic make-work scheme, for all I know. At any rate, I had to pass on the information. Fiduciary responsibility, affirmative duty and such things. I wouldn’t make too much of it, if I were you. They must have told you as much. I hope you weren’t unduly inconvenienced."

     "It was like a one-way conversation with a guy wearing mirrored sunglasses."

     "Well, sometimes it is better when we do not see everything. The wheels grind slowly, the invisible hand, movement in mysterious ways . . . You are intelligent, articulate and well-educated. You know what I mean. I am very sorry that you were inconvenienced, but I am quite sure that you shan’t be inconvenienced again. By us, that is."

     It was a stupid conversation. They had to interrogate me before they made their move. The Old Man and I were finished, but yet . . .

     "I was wondering about Wednesday evening . . . "

     His answer came quickly, delivered with a combination of professional brusqueness and whining self-excuse:

     "Ben, I am sorry to say that we will not be seeing much of each other for the next several months. Professional matters will be requiring my attention in the extreme . . . and they will spill over into my evenings . . . such that it would be extremely difficult, if not impossible. Perhaps you can see what I mean."

     My head told me we were just acting out a script, but my heart felt abandonment.

     "Yes, I do understand, sir. Quite clearly." If I could only have retrieved these last words.

     "I was certain you would. Also, Margaret has recently taken a turn for the worse and should be having less excitement. She will be disappointed because she did so much look forward to your visits."

     "I’m sorry, Dr. Westley. If there is anything I can do — "

     "No. I am, of course, a physician. I am attending to matters and everything is under proper control. All matters."

     "Then there is nothing for me to do but wish you luck, sir."

     "Quite," he said with finality. Then warming to me he said, "Ben, it has been a joy to have had you working with me for all these years. You are a truly versatile young man. It has been a pleasure to witness the rapid growth of your professional expertise. I wish you the greatest luck with your studies in pharmacology . . . for which you seem to be showing the greatest aptitude. Fair weather and following seas. And I hope you will be able to weather the coming storm. Godspeed." (Click.)

     So it was a done deal. I would not be allowed to call Dr. Westley for a long time. Within a week I would be longing for his advice on how to weather the storm.