thermonuclear astrophysics overnight—that’s a myth. That’s purest fiction. At the top level, science becomes so complicated that in order to become a foremost expert of the sort that does groundbreaking research, you have devote your life to that area of study and it alone. You don’t pop in and out from DNA coding to astrophysics and back again, not at the expert level.”
“But you’re saying that Dr. Jacobs did?” Reed asked. Gustafson had yet to hit us with any dense, techno-gobbledygook, which was to his credit. I was sitting across from him in a chair I suspected was usually occupied by either his students or other faculty members, padded along the armrests, back and seat rather nicely. The office smelled of stale coffee.
“He did it more than anyone else,” Gustafson said. “He was conversant—which, I mean a lot of us do this, you know, watch other fields with a casual eye. But his heart, his expertise was in his research, the science of DNA, with a little … call it extracurricular focus on engineering, on creating mechanical interaction.”
There was the techno-gobbledygook. “In practical terms,” Reed said, asking so I didn’t have to, “what was Dr. Jacobs looking to do?”
“Nothing, yet,” Gustafson said, a little forlornly. “He hadn’t moved into practical applications. He was still experimenting with … you know, I don’t think I can adequately explain it. He was dealing with DNA markers of a sort that most people don’t … it was an area of research most people didn’t touch because it doesn’t have any immediate practical application. It was really oriented toward helping us understand ourselves better.”
“President Breedlowe was telling us about a professional rivalry,” I said, “between Dr. Jacobs and a Dr. Mirabella Stanley—”
“Marabella,” Gustafson corrected gently, pushing his glasses back up on his nose from where they’d fallen.
“Knew I should have written that down,” I said with a smirk. “Do you know anything about their feud?”
“Look,” Gustafson said with a broad shrug that didn’t even force him to unfold his arms, “people in our field disagree. There was no heat between Carlton and Marabella. They’d met, they were professionally friendly; calling it a feud would be giving it too much credit. They disagreed on an area of study, it was all polite, written into academic papers published in the biggest journals. It wasn’t like a—” His arms came up now as he searched for a way to explain, “it wasn’t a knife fight, you know what I mean? No one’s reputation was on the line. No names were called. The blood didn’t come up—”
“Cold blood runs the hottest of all,” I said then wondered what the hell I was saying. I mean, I knew what I was saying, but I doubted my words reflected it.
Gustafson frowned at me. “That’s … poetic.”
“Yeah, it’s right up there with ‘a smile can hide evil intent,’” I said and smiled at him. “Look … we’ve got nothing so far on why Dr. Jacobs is dead. Nothing was taken from him in spite of him carrying a wad of cash, and he had a boatload of money in a safe at his house, he was living high on the hog,” I watched Gustafson writhe very subtly. “How much was he paid by the University?”
“Not nearly enough to afford his apartment, if that’s what you’re asking,” Gustafson said. I could smell the discomfort wafting off of him.
Reed smelled it too. “Do you know why Dr. Jacobs would have been in an alley off State Street in the middle of the night with a roll of hundreds in his pocket?”
“He had a gambling—” Gustafson put his face in his hands and grasped at the black ringlets at the top of his growing forehead. “I guess it wasn’t a ‘problem,’ because if you saw the safe, you know he wasn’t losing.” He brought his eyes up and looked at us. “Like I said, he was brilliant.”
“What, he was a card counter?” I asked.
“Crudely, yes,”
“But you’re saying that Dr. Jacobs did?” Reed asked. Gustafson had yet to hit us with any dense, techno-gobbledygook, which was to his credit. I was sitting across from him in a chair I suspected was usually occupied by either his students or other faculty members, padded along the armrests, back and seat rather nicely. The office smelled of stale coffee.
“He did it more than anyone else,” Gustafson said. “He was conversant—which, I mean a lot of us do this, you know, watch other fields with a casual eye. But his heart, his expertise was in his research, the science of DNA, with a little … call it extracurricular focus on engineering, on creating mechanical interaction.”
There was the techno-gobbledygook. “In practical terms,” Reed said, asking so I didn’t have to, “what was Dr. Jacobs looking to do?”
“Nothing, yet,” Gustafson said, a little forlornly. “He hadn’t moved into practical applications. He was still experimenting with … you know, I don’t think I can adequately explain it. He was dealing with DNA markers of a sort that most people don’t … it was an area of research most people didn’t touch because it doesn’t have any immediate practical application. It was really oriented toward helping us understand ourselves better.”
“President Breedlowe was telling us about a professional rivalry,” I said, “between Dr. Jacobs and a Dr. Mirabella Stanley—”
“Marabella,” Gustafson corrected gently, pushing his glasses back up on his nose from where they’d fallen.
“Knew I should have written that down,” I said with a smirk. “Do you know anything about their feud?”
“Look,” Gustafson said with a broad shrug that didn’t even force him to unfold his arms, “people in our field disagree. There was no heat between Carlton and Marabella. They’d met, they were professionally friendly; calling it a feud would be giving it too much credit. They disagreed on an area of study, it was all polite, written into academic papers published in the biggest journals. It wasn’t like a—” His arms came up now as he searched for a way to explain, “it wasn’t a knife fight, you know what I mean? No one’s reputation was on the line. No names were called. The blood didn’t come up—”
“Cold blood runs the hottest of all,” I said then wondered what the hell I was saying. I mean, I knew what I was saying, but I doubted my words reflected it.
Gustafson frowned at me. “That’s … poetic.”
“Yeah, it’s right up there with ‘a smile can hide evil intent,’” I said and smiled at him. “Look … we’ve got nothing so far on why Dr. Jacobs is dead. Nothing was taken from him in spite of him carrying a wad of cash, and he had a boatload of money in a safe at his house, he was living high on the hog,” I watched Gustafson writhe very subtly. “How much was he paid by the University?”
“Not nearly enough to afford his apartment, if that’s what you’re asking,” Gustafson said. I could smell the discomfort wafting off of him.
Reed smelled it too. “Do you know why Dr. Jacobs would have been in an alley off State Street in the middle of the night with a roll of hundreds in his pocket?”
“He had a gambling—” Gustafson put his face in his hands and grasped at the black ringlets at the top of his growing forehead. “I guess it wasn’t a ‘problem,’ because if you saw the safe, you know he wasn’t losing.” He brought his eyes up and looked at us. “Like I said, he was brilliant.”
“What, he was a card counter?” I asked.
“Crudely, yes,”
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