Physics Can Be Fatal (9 page)

     “I reached a sister late last night.  She’s flying over tomorrow. And I spoke with the head of the department here at Cushing, a Dr. Helen Mann.  She was plenty shook up.”

     “There was digoxin at the scene,” Chief Val read, “with his name on the prescription, so he had a heart condition.  He could have died of a heart attack in his sleep.”

     “Possible,” said Will. “We’ll know a whole lot more when we get the coroner’s report.”

     “Find me some Advil, would you, Will?” the Chief said, rubbing her forehead.

*

     Detective William Tenney, aged thirty-two, was a hard-working, solitude-loving New England Yankee, like his father, a country doctor.  Will’s mother, Cecile, was a classical musician, and had grown up in Paris.  She and Will’s father met in New York when Cecile was studying at Julliard and Will’s father was interning at Mt. Sinai Hospital.

   Cecile’s parents––Will’s grandparents––had fled to England in 1939, before finally being able to move back to their native France at the end of the war.  The stories his grandparents told him had impressed Will deeply as a boy, and instilled in him a desire to become a protector of those in need of protecting.

  Will’s parents had offered him in a simple formula for happiness. Find out what you love to do, they instructed him, carve out a niche where you can do it, and then try to improve your little corner of the world. 
Imagine if everyone did that,
his mother used to say.

     Will was engaged in the pleasurable activity of building a house for himself on a secluded piece of land twelve miles outside New Guilford.  The majority of his spare time went into this project.  He enlisted the help of friends only when he needed to––for the laying of the foundation, for instance––but much of the work he could manage alone, and he preferred it that way.  Like Edwina, Will was an only child. Self-reliance was something of a religion with him. 

     The two-story clapboard house would have an open interior––one big living space––with stairs leading to a sleeping loft area. He had recently completed construction on the stone chimney and fireplace that would eventually heat the whole house.  He hoped to have the roof completed before the first heavy snowfall, and it looked like he would be on schedule.

       For the time being, Will had erected a tipi on the property, twenty-four feet in diameter, where he lived during construction on the house. He bathed in a spring-fed pond on the property. Reactions of his family and friends to this arrangement ranged from worried concern to stark envy.  Will paid little attention to any of it.

*

     Will was doing paper work when Chief Val called him into her office.

     “Got the coroner’s report back,” she said. “Alan Sidebottom died from a heart attack caused by digitalis poisoning,” she read.

     “We know he was taking digoxin for a heart condition,” she continued, “but now we know his blood alcohol was point-one-four.  I’m thinking that maybe he took too many of his pills by mistake––when he was drunk––and passed away in his sleep.”

     Will nodded thoughtfully. 

     “What about suicide?” he asked.

     “Possible,” Chief Val replied.  “I want you to canvas the folks at the college.  Ask around the department,” she paused to glance at the report, “Physics and Astronomy.  See if you can get anything on whether he was depressed or upset about something, or recently divorced or in financial trouble––” 

     “Got it,” said Will.       

*

      Detective Will Tenney drove through downtown New Guilford––described in guidebooks as ‘picturesque’ and ‘quaint’––past white-trimmed, brick buildings with green awnings, shop windows with tidy flowerboxes and clean sidewalks, and an abundance of bicycle racks. Main Street appeared dozy at the moment but it would be bustling by lunchtime. 

      Will parked his official police vehicle in a visitor’s area of the parking lot behind the Cushing College administration building.  He set out for Sanborn House along the pedestrian path that wound for miles through the bucolic college grounds.  As Will passed by a low, glass and concrete classroom building nestled alongside a row of ivy-covered, Georgian brick buildings, he noted appreciatively how harmoniously the old architecture mixed in with the new.

     Will ascended the steps of Sanborn House, home to the Physics and Astronomy Department, and was greeted at the top by a pair of lions carved in stone, flanking the main entrance.  He pulled open a heavy wooden door, and entered the main vestibule, which was dominated by a massive marble staircase.  The directory told him reception and staff offices were on the second floor.

     There was no one sitting at the desk in the spacious reception area at the top of the stairs.  Hallways at the north and south end of this area led to offices.  Will started down one hallway in search of Alan Sidebottom’s office.

     A plaque reading, ‘Prof. A. Sidebottom’ appeared on a door halfway down the long hallway. It was unlocked.  Will let himself inside, closing the door behind him.  Bare bookshelves and an empty desktop awaited the new tenant.  The only sign of occupancy was a half-filled wire mesh wastebasket.

     Will sat down at the desk and pulled the wastebasket toward him.  The contents included a packet of coupons from local shops; a notification from the public library of upcoming events; an invitation from a classical music society; and an advertisement for a month’s free membership at a gym.  Will opened the desk drawers and found nothing other than a few stray paper clips.

     Will stood by the window and surveyed the scene, his view partially obscured by a mature maple tree.  The pedestrian path was intermittently visible through its branches.  He watched the students hurrying along the path, cheerful, buoyed by the certainty of happy lives ahead. The thought popped into his head that Alan Sidebottom was once just like them.

*                                                            

     Will closed the door to Professor Sidebottom’s office and continued along the hallway.  The name on the next door was that of Donald Gaylord.  He knocked.

     “Come in,” Donald called. 

      Will entered the neat and well-appointed office to find Donald Gaylord working at his desk.  He looked up, and seeing Will, closed the computer.

     “Yes?” Donald said.

     “Donald Gaylord?  I’m Detective William Tenney from the New Guilford Police Department.  May I ask you a few questions about Alan Sidebottom?” he said, showing identification.

     “What?” Professor Gaylord said, startled. “Oh, of course, the Sidebottom business.  Please, sit down.”

       Framed photographs of Donald Gaylord playing college football were hung artfully along one wall.  Books took up the rest of the wall space.  The orderly desk displayed a single photograph in a silver frame of a handsome young woman, alongside a Victorian inkwell set with two glass inkwells in an ebonized wood tray.

     “Your wife, sir?” the detective asked, regarding the photo.

     “Yes, my wife,” Donald Gaylord said.  “What can I do for you, detective?”

     “We’re making enquiries about Alan Sidebottom.  I’ll be speaking with everyone in the department.  I wonder if you can tell me anything about his short stay here at Cushing?”

     “How do you mean?” Professor Gaylord replied.

     “For instance, were you acquainted with him before he came to Cushing?  Do you know anything about his personal life?  Can you shed any kind of light on his untimely death?”

     “No, not really,” Professor Gaylord said, folding his hands in his lap.  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have anything to offer the investigation.  I mean, I can tell you that his reputation preceded him.  And, of course, I have read all of his books.  I think most of us around here have.”

     Will gazed coolly at Professor Gaylord, his curiosity provoked by Gaylord’s fidgety evasiveness.

     “Had you met him before he arrived at Cushing?” Will repeated.

     “Well, yes, as a matter of fact. I did meet Alan about eighteen years ago, when I was doing undergraduate work at Cambridge for a time.  I took one of Alan’s seminars.”

    
Christ, I’d call tha
t
being acquainted! 
Will thought.

     “Were you in touch with him during the years in between?”

     “No.  I kept up with Dr. Sidebottom’s work over the years, but we had no personal contact.”

     “We think Professor Sidebottom died in his sleep from a heart attack. We’re looking into what might have caused it.  Do you know of any reason he might have been unusually stressed or depressed?  Had he had a shock of any kind?”

     Professor Donald Gaylord fiddled with a silver letter opener fashioned to look like an arrow.

     “N––no––not really.  I mean, anyone will tell you that Alan, although brilliant and highly respected in our field, was probably not universally well-liked . . .”

     “Meaning?”

     “I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, detective. I really don’t.  It’s just that he had a bit of a reputation––for philandering and plagiarism, among other things.  As such, he alienated any number of people.  Maybe someone confronted him?  I expect something like that could bring on a heart attack.  And, of course, lots of people in the field had reason to be jealous of Alan.  Of his fame and success, and so on.  That may have been upsetting for him as well.”

     “Care to be more specific, sir?”

     Professor Gaylord cleared his throat.

     “One doesn’t wish to tell tales.  But there was quite a commotion last year when Professor Sidebottom published a book that some of us felt borrowed heavily from Mitchell Fender’s work on black holes.  Perhaps meeting Mitchell face to face activated Alan’s conscience.  I would certainly want to speak to Mitchell Fender if I were you.”

     Will made notes but said nothing.  He knew Donald Gaylord was not done spilling. The guy was on a roll. 

     “Nedda Cake had reason to be angry with Alan, as well, come to think of it.  Nedda is the senior member of our department; she’s almost ninety. Alan was a student of Dr. Cake’s late husband many years ago in England.  The story goes that Alan drove Old Professor Cake to an early grave when he plagiarized some of his work.  Perhaps Alan had an attack of conscience about that, seeing Nedda again.”

     Will sat back in his chair and nodded encouragement, hoping for more.

     “There’s Seth Dubin, of course.  He’s a gifted young physicist, certain to get tenure here at Cushing––mild-mannered, a nice man.  The night of the cocktail party to welcome Alan into our merry cadre, Alan behaved horribly toward Seth. Actually made fun of his stammer, mocked the poor man.  I don’t know how Professor Sidebottom felt about the encounter, but Seth Dubin certainly had cause for being greatly upset.  Not to mention Seth’s wife, whom I’m told felt deeply humiliated by the whole incident.”

     “Told by whom, sir?”

     “I beg your pardon?”

     “You were told that Mrs. Dubin was upset and humiliated by Professor Sidebottom’s mocking behavior toward her husband. Who happened to tell you that?”

     Donald straightened his tie.

     “You know, I believe it was Mrs. Dubin, herself, who told me,” Donald said.

     “Anything else come to mind, sir?”

     “Not at the moment, no,” Professor Gaylord said.  “But if I think of anything . . . oh, and I’d appreciate being kept apprised, as the investigation goes along.”

     “In due course, sir.  Thank you for your time.  And please do get in touch if you think of anything else,” Will said, placing his card on Donald Gaylord’s uncluttered desk.

*

     Edwina, dressed in jeans and a flowery, button-down shirt, could almost see over the top of the armload of books she was carrying.  But not quite. As Will exited Donald Gaylord’s office, she collided with him.

     “Sorry!” Will exclaimed, squatting down to pick up the books.  “I didn’t see you coming,”

     “That’s okay,” Edwina replied.  “It was my fault; I couldn’t see where I was going.”