“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.