The Theory of Death

by Faye Kellerman

  “I believe he is. You can certainly ask him questions.”

  “Not in front of my husband.”

  Rina paused. “I’ll give you his cell number if you’d like.”

  “Why not?” Ruth Anne took out a scrap of paper and a pencil and Rina gave her the number. “You never know what you need, right? Not that I’d even know what to ask him.” She folded the number and placed it in her pocket. “Thank you.”

  “Can I ask you when you last spoke with Elijah?”

  “It was a month ago. His research was going well. He didn’t seem at all down. Maybe he hit a setback. If he had, he certainly wouldn’t have told me about it.” Her eyes leaked tears. “Now it really is in the past. Are you done with the salad?”

  Rina nodded. “Do you have dressing for the salad? I’ll be happy to toss it.”

  “Just add a little olive oil and lemon.”

  “Sure.” Rina began mixing the greens.

  Ruth Anne wiped her eyes. “I know that God has tests for all of us. And I have no idea why He’s testing me. But that’s all right. I’m strong. Elijah was weak. Even as a boy, he always depended on Jacob to get things done. Why would God test such a weak boy? Surely He can pick on stronger people.”

  Rina shrugged. “Sometimes our understanding as well as our faith elude us.”

  “Isn’t that the truth.” She turned to Rina. “I am so angry! I’m angry at God, I’m angry at Elijah, I’m angry at Ezra, I’m angry at the world. And it isn’t good. I have children. I can’t be this angry person and do right by them.” She stared at the ceiling. “I just don’t know where to turn or what to do.”

  “When my first husband died, I was very angry as well. I had two little boys to take care of and I couldn’t see how I could manage. But I did.”

  “How?”

  “The passage of time. Ultimately I reconciled with God. I didn’t want to lose my faith because selfishly it was helpful to me.”

  Ruth Anne didn’t answer. They both heard a screen door open and close. She said, “The boys are here. Can you take the salad out for me?”

  “Of course.”

  Ruth Anne looked at her. “I’m assuming you’ll tell your husband what I told you. I want you to tell him, but I don’t want Ezra to know what I told you.”

  “Whatever you want. And if you want to keep everything confidential, I won’t mention it to Peter . . . Detective Decker. I’ll tell him we talked food.”

  “No, no. Tell him everything. Maybe it’ll help him understand Elijah. Because I certainly didn’t understand my son at all.”

  CHAPTER 8

  MCADAMS IGNORED THE doorbell. The Deckers weren’t home and nobody except the police department knew he was in town. But by the third chime, he was irritated. He rose from the dining room table where he had spread out his papers and books. Maybe they were expecting a package. Or maybe one of their many children had dropped by for a pop-in visit, although he suspected that they had keys. Most likely it was a nuisance call. To him, all calls were nuisances.

  Swinging open the door, he was face-to-face with Mallon Euler. She was dressed in a Windbreaker over a thick sweater, black jeans, and high-tops on her feet. Her hands were covered but her head was bare. He tried to hide his surprise but he suspected he wasn’t doing a good job. “Hi there.” He stepped outside. “Detective Decker isn’t in. Can I help?”

  “Actually, I came to see you.”

  A pause. “Sure. If you give me a minute, I’ll phone the station house and we’ll talk down there.”

  “It’s personal.”

  “O-kay.” His mind was racing. He looked at his watch. “Wow, it’s past noon. No wonder I’m hungry. Care to join me?” She smiled. It didn’t seem angry or happy, just a facial gesture. He shrugged. “While you decide, I’ll get my coat and shoes.”

  “You could invite me in.”

  “I’ll just be a moment.” He closed the door in her face and immediately called Decker’s cell. It rang four times before he picked up. McAdams said, “Sorry to bother you. Are you with Elijah’s parents?”

  “Yes. Is everything all right?”

  “Mallon Euler just showed up on my doorstep . . . rather, your doorstep, wanting to talk to me.” McAdams started lacing up his boots. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where I’m staying, but it does take a modicum of effort. Plus, she doesn’t want to talk at the station house. She says it’s personal. And in case you’re wondering, I haven’t invited her inside. But I did invite her to lunch.” He pulled on his jacket and gloves. “Is that okay?”

  “Seems reasonable. Save the receipt and we’ll pay for your expenses. Find out what’s on her mind.”

  “How’s it going with you?”

  “I’ll let you know when I get back. Call me if you have any questions.”

  “Will do.” He clicked off his cell phone and walked outside. “Let’s go toward campus. More places and choices. What are you in the mood for?”

  “Whatever you want.” Her voice was testy. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Okay. Let’s just walk and we’ll find something.”

  “You could have invited me inside.”

  “It’s not my home and it’s not my place.”

  “I’m sure Detective Decker wouldn’t have minded.”

  “Maybe not, but he wasn’t here to make that decision.” McAdams stopped and faced her. “Or if you don’t want to eat, we can talk on a park bench. It’s a little cold, but I’m dressed for it.”

  “Why don’t you trust me inside the house? Are you that arrogant to think I’m going to throw myself at you?”

  McAdams laughed. “I am arrogant, but that was the last thought on my mind. Look, Mallon. I’m not officially on the case. But I’m not officially off the case. If you don’t want to talk at the station house and you don’t want to talk in a restaurant, pick a place as long as it’s semipublic. I’m just trying to be professional, that’s all.”

  She didn’t answer, stared at the tip of her shoe sweeping over the hard ground.

  “Or you can change your mind about talking to me.” Mallon stared at him and then she bolted ahead. Not knowing what to do, McAdams followed. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” She faced him with tears in her eyes. “Let’s go Indian. I’m a vegetarian.”

  “Great. I love Indian.”

  They walked a half mile until a collection of storefront cafés and bistros came into sight: three square blocks of eateries and shops catering to the college crowd. Rajah’s was on Harvard Street closest to Duxbury, the oldest of the five institutions.

  Once inside, McAdams’s nostrils were filled with the pungent aromas of exotic spices. Mallon did a once-over of the place and chose a table farthest from the entrance and closest to the kitchen: the warmest and noisiest spot in the restaurant. Even before they had managed to park their butts on chairs, a server in a black shirt and black jeans was already there with naan on the table.

  The server smiled. “Buffet?”

  “Yes,” Mallon answered. “Unless you want to order off the menu?”

  “Buffet is dandy,” McAdams said.

  “Two chai?” the server piped in.

  “Yes,” Mallon told him.

  “With milk?”

  “Yes,” Mallon barked out.

  The server didn’t seem to notice her anger. “Right away.”

  She sat down while McAdams hung up the coats on a provided hook. When he came back to the table, he noticed she was sulking. He rubbed his hands. “I’m really sorry about Eli.”

  She looked at his face and then at the tabletop.

  “We’re still in the dark. Anything that you’d like to tell us would be helpful.”

  “I don’t know anything. If I did, I would have told you yesterday.”

  “Did he seem depressed or worried lately?”

  “No. I already told you that.”

  “Maybe on reflection, you thought of something?” No response. McAdams said, “Okay. I’ll stop pressi
ng you. I hate being pushed and I imagine you don’t like it either. Talk when and if you feel like it. I am legitimately hungry, so I’m going up to the buffet.” He stood and so did she. “Would it offend you if I ate meat?”

  “No.”

  McAdams filled his plate with tandoori lamb, basmati rice, raita, fresh cucumbers and tomatoes, the dal of the day, sag paneer, and fresh mango and orange slices. She filled up on vegetables, fruits, and salads. When they both sat back down, Mallon said, “Thanks for asking.”

  “Pardon?”

  The waiter came by with two piping-hot chai teas. “Anything else?”

  “Water,” McAdams said. “Do you have garlic naan, by the way?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Could you bring an order?”

  “Right away.”

  After he left, Mallon said, “Thank you for asking whether or not I’d be offended if you ate meat.”

  “No problem. Don’t want you to lose your appetite. If someone eats eggs in my presence, I get a little queasy.”

  “Eggs?”

  “One of my half sibs has an anaphylactic reaction to eggs. Luckily I’m just sensitive to them. I can eat them in baking and cooking, but I can’t eat like a plain egg without getting sick.”

  Mallon nodded. “Must be hard to do brunch with you.”

  “I don’t go out a lot, so it’s not a problem.” He looked up and took in her face. She hadn’t bothered with makeup except for a little mascara and lipstick. The blush on her cheeks was probably from the cold. As hard as he tried not to notice, he did. She was a very pretty woman in that waifish way. “You want to tell me what’s on your mind or do you want to finish eating first?”

  “Don’t be too blunt.”

  “I would think you’d appreciate it. Math people are usually no-nonsense. It’s the social-science people that love the ambiguity. They can discuss minutiae for hours and seem very happy about it. It used to drive me crazy, listening to people who loved to hear themselves talk.”

  “Everyone wants their fifteen minutes.”

  “Right you are.”

  She put down her fork. “How’s this for bluntness? Do you have anything new in regard to Eli?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I heard you found a stack of papers with formulas hidden behind his desk.”

  “Word gets around.” McAdams didn’t bother to look up. “Who told you that little ditty of info?”

  “Why should I tell you anything if you hold back on me?”

  “It wouldn’t be very professional if I just gave you random facts.”

  “You’re really into this professional thing.”

  “I try to do a good job in whatever I do.”

  “Bully for you.”

  “No need to be hostile.”

  “I’d like to see those papers.”

  “That decision is not up to me, Mallon.” McAdams’s brain was whirling. He didn’t want her to seize up, so he had to say something encouraging. “But if you tell me why you want to see them, maybe I can make a case for you.”

  She didn’t speak right away. She played with her rice, shoving it around the plate. Finally, she nibbled a few grains. “I have a feeling those papers have to do with my research. I wouldn’t want them falling into the wrong hands.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “So you’ll let me see them?”

  “Not my decision. But I’ll tell you this. Decker is keeping them off-limits to anyone in the school until he knows what’s in them. We’re both aware about plagiarism and academic stealing.”

  “So show them to me. I can tell you what they’re about.”

  “I’m sure you can. But I think Decker wants someone not associated with the school to look them over.”

  “See, that’s the problem, Tyler.” She leaned over and grabbed his hand. “If it is my research, I don’t want any third party seeing what I’ve done. The chance of someone hijacking research is very high.”

  McAdams extracted his hand and studied her face. The blush in her cheeks had reddened. Her lower lip was trembling. “No one is going to steal your research, Mallon. I promise.”

  “How can you guarantee that?”

  “Because I know the man who we’d like to show the papers to. He’s a full, tenured professor at Harvard. He doesn’t need to steal any research.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “Let me talk this over with the boss. Maybe I can have someone contact you after he’s looked at the papers, okay? You tell him what you’re doing. He’ll know right away if it has something to do with your research.”

  She bit her lower lip. “Who is this guy?”

  “Someone trustworthy.” McAdams speared a piece of lamb. “Why do you think that Eli was hiding your research?”

  “Eli was secretive whether it was his research or anyone else’s papers. It’s not that our professors routinely steal data. But reading other people’s research . . . sometimes it gives them ideas that they later claim to be their own.”

  “Has this happened at Kneed Loft before?”

  “It happens everywhere, Tyler.” She leaned over again. “I can call you ‘Tyler,’ right?”

  “Sure.”

  “If you went to Harvard, you probably know that academia is a very evil profession.”

  “Evil’s a little strong. More like amoral.”

  “No, ‘evil’ is the right word. There are some people that will do anything to get a name, an award, or even to get published. Stealing is the quickest way to tenure if you haven’t had a novel idea in years. Professors routinely steal and plagiarize. At the very least, they take over first authorship when they’ve had nothing to do with your research.”

  “As unfair as it might be, Mallon, professors are entitled to put their names on any research that came out of their labs.”

  “That is total bullshit!”

  “I agree. But that happens all the time. How else do you get a million publications to your name?” A pause. “Plagiarism and stealing are different animals. Do you know for sure that this has happened at Kneed Loft?”

  “I have very strong suspicions.”

  “And you’ve never told anyone?”

  “I told Eli.”

  “No one in authority?”

  “And get blackballed from every major graduate school?”

  “Right.” A pause. “Do you think that idea stealing had something to do with Eli’s su—death?”

  “It was suicide?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You started to.”

  “No, I didn’t. I started to say suspicious death.”

  “So you think there was foul play, as you guys say in detective speak?”

  “Every death that’s not natural causes is suspicious. We don’t have the coroner’s report. I can’t tell you anything more because I don’t know. Let’s go back to my question. Do you think someone was trying to steal Eli’s research and claiming it for his or her own?”

  “I think that stealing ideas is always a possibility—his ideas or my ideas.”

  “Do you think it had something to do with Eli’s death?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Are you worried about your safety?”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “What do you mean by that? You’re not worried or you are worried but you can protect yourself.”

  “That’s very Socratic, Tyler.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I’m not worried for my personal safety but I am worried about my research. If you really want to get a feel for Kneed Loft, Eli’s death and what’s going on, you should check out the math department one by one by one.”

  “How many people are we talking about?”

  “All the professors and the grad students.”

  “Kneed Loft has grad students?”

  “It has a few graduate departments and math is one of them. You can get a Ph.D. in theoretical math there. It’s not as
prestigious as the big universities like Princeton and Chicago and Berkeley, but I suppose it worked for Eli.”

  “He was going for a Ph.D.?”

  “He was studying math. I think the degrees for him were incidental.”

  “How big is the math department?”

  She did a quick mental calculation. “There are fourteen professors and ten grad students.” A pause. “Yes, twenty-four in total. You should look at every one of them.”

  “Could you narrow down the search for us?”

  “No, I can’t. In case I’m wrong, I could be accused of slander, so I want you to treat everyone equal. And maybe in your inquiries, you’ll find other evidence of wrongdoing.”

  “I’ll talk to Detective Decker about this. It would help if I had more information. It’s hard to investigate people on someone else’s say-so without a shred of evidence.”

  “You have your evidence. Eli hid those papers from someone.”

  “Maybe he was hiding them from you.”

  Her blue eyes darkened. “You’re being deliberately provocative.”

  “I’m just asking questions,” McAdams answered. “You’re very interested in the case. That makes us interested in you.”

  Tears formed in her eyes. “I’m trying to help you.”

  “I know, Mallon. But if you choose to get involved, you open yourself up to all sorts of possibilities.”

  She continued to eat in silence. Then she said, “I know you’re only doing your job.”

  “Mallon, what personal thing did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Nothing other than what I told you,” she whispered. “I feel more comfortable talking to you than Detective Decker. Same age and a history and all that.”

  What history? McAdams thought. “Okay. Feel free to call me if something else comes to mind, no matter how trivial.”

  “When will you find out if it’s a suicide or not?”

  “I don’t know. That’s Detective Decker’s domain. You can call him, also. He’s very easy to talk to.” He glanced at her plate. She had barely eaten. “Not hungry?”

  “Not really. I’m done.”

  “Then I’ll call for the check.”

  When he took out a credit card, she said, “I can pay my own way.”