I don’t know of any—” She paused, thinking about it. “Now, hold on. I suppose there was one critique of his work of late that comes to mind, but …” She laughed, way fake. “I’m sorry. The thought of someone disagreeing academically and it spiraling into murder is simply unfathomable to me.”
“It’s true,” I said, nodding along, “human beings never kill each other for anything less than perfectly solid, logical reasons. Never petty, vain, selfish, stupid ones. Not ever—”
“What my sister means to say,” Reed came in behind me and wallpapered over my attempt to be a sarcastic asshole, “is that we can’t rule anything out at all, even something so small as what I’m sure is a very professional argument. No stone unturned,” he said, almost apologetically, smiling pleasantly at President Breedlowe. “As an educator, surely you understand the need to pursue truth at all costs.”
I thought he was laying it on a little thick, but I watched President Breedlowe eat it up like puppy chow right out of his hand. For my part, I kept from making a fake vomiting motion.
“Of course,” she said, nodding, the wall down. “Dr. Jacobs had a disagreement across several academic journals with a—yes, a professional rival by the name of Dr. Marabella Stanley.”
“What was the nature of their disagreement?” Reed asked, with a little pen and paper out and everything, like a real detective. I was sitting picking my nails, trusting my pretty decent memory to hold this probably irrelevant nugget, and he was all Columbo over there, sweet and unassuming.
“Oh, it was very technical,” Breedlowe said. “I’m not sure I can adequately explain. Dr. Jacobs had written a paper about encoding of DNA—”
“Yeah,” I said, cutting her off. “You know what? You might have to forward that one to us for later reading.” With an expert providing layman’s commentary, and another expert distilling it down even further, since I had topped out at home-taught high school chemistry and Reed was way more of a language arts and social studies guy than a science whiz.
Breedlowe nodded. “Of course. If you’ll leave your contact details, I’ll have the full text of both Dr. Jacobs’s paper and Dr. Stanley’s rebuttal sent to you immediately.”
“About Dr. Jacobs,” I said, elbowing in to ask my questions. I glanced at Reed, but he seemed done. “Who here would know him better? Maybe on a personal level?”
“His department head,” Breedlowe answered. “Dr.—oh.” She looked past me at the open door, which I had not closed on my way in, for whatever reason. “Well, he’s right here. Dr. Gustafson?”
I turned to see a middle-aged guy with big black glasses, a diminutive stature, and a face that looked like someone—maybe me—had punched him in the stomach. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, about two steps shy of tears, sad-looking enough that even I felt sorry for him, “but I just heard … is it true?”
“I’m afraid it is,” President Breedlowe said. “Ms. Nealon, Mr. Treston … this Dr. Art Gustafson, the head of Dr. Jacobs’s department.”
“I wasn’t just his department head,” Dr. Gustafson said, running a hand over his curly black hair, “he was my friend. And if there’s anything I can do to help you catch the person responsible for this …” his eyes hardened, “… I’ll do it.”
7.
“The thing you need to understand about Carlton,” Art Gustafson (“Call me Art,” he’d told us on the walk back to his cluttered office) said, “is that he was a genius among geniuses in the academic world. It’s not normal for someone to cross disciplines. At a certain point, you buckle down and really work hard to become an absolute expert in one arena.” He leaned against the top of a cluttered desk that would have put Jacobs’s coffee table back at his apartment to shame. “The scientists of the movies, the ones that are—you know, Tony Stark, expert in
“It’s true,” I said, nodding along, “human beings never kill each other for anything less than perfectly solid, logical reasons. Never petty, vain, selfish, stupid ones. Not ever—”
“What my sister means to say,” Reed came in behind me and wallpapered over my attempt to be a sarcastic asshole, “is that we can’t rule anything out at all, even something so small as what I’m sure is a very professional argument. No stone unturned,” he said, almost apologetically, smiling pleasantly at President Breedlowe. “As an educator, surely you understand the need to pursue truth at all costs.”
I thought he was laying it on a little thick, but I watched President Breedlowe eat it up like puppy chow right out of his hand. For my part, I kept from making a fake vomiting motion.
“Of course,” she said, nodding, the wall down. “Dr. Jacobs had a disagreement across several academic journals with a—yes, a professional rival by the name of Dr. Marabella Stanley.”
“What was the nature of their disagreement?” Reed asked, with a little pen and paper out and everything, like a real detective. I was sitting picking my nails, trusting my pretty decent memory to hold this probably irrelevant nugget, and he was all Columbo over there, sweet and unassuming.
“Oh, it was very technical,” Breedlowe said. “I’m not sure I can adequately explain. Dr. Jacobs had written a paper about encoding of DNA—”
“Yeah,” I said, cutting her off. “You know what? You might have to forward that one to us for later reading.” With an expert providing layman’s commentary, and another expert distilling it down even further, since I had topped out at home-taught high school chemistry and Reed was way more of a language arts and social studies guy than a science whiz.
Breedlowe nodded. “Of course. If you’ll leave your contact details, I’ll have the full text of both Dr. Jacobs’s paper and Dr. Stanley’s rebuttal sent to you immediately.”
“About Dr. Jacobs,” I said, elbowing in to ask my questions. I glanced at Reed, but he seemed done. “Who here would know him better? Maybe on a personal level?”
“His department head,” Breedlowe answered. “Dr.—oh.” She looked past me at the open door, which I had not closed on my way in, for whatever reason. “Well, he’s right here. Dr. Gustafson?”
I turned to see a middle-aged guy with big black glasses, a diminutive stature, and a face that looked like someone—maybe me—had punched him in the stomach. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, about two steps shy of tears, sad-looking enough that even I felt sorry for him, “but I just heard … is it true?”
“I’m afraid it is,” President Breedlowe said. “Ms. Nealon, Mr. Treston … this Dr. Art Gustafson, the head of Dr. Jacobs’s department.”
“I wasn’t just his department head,” Dr. Gustafson said, running a hand over his curly black hair, “he was my friend. And if there’s anything I can do to help you catch the person responsible for this …” his eyes hardened, “… I’ll do it.”
7.
“The thing you need to understand about Carlton,” Art Gustafson (“Call me Art,” he’d told us on the walk back to his cluttered office) said, “is that he was a genius among geniuses in the academic world. It’s not normal for someone to cross disciplines. At a certain point, you buckle down and really work hard to become an absolute expert in one arena.” He leaned against the top of a cluttered desk that would have put Jacobs’s coffee table back at his apartment to shame. “The scientists of the movies, the ones that are—you know, Tony Stark, expert in
Similar Books
