The Theory of Death

by Faye Kellerman

  “Too many people want to know what is in them. It’s safer to show them to someone outside the university to prevent plagiarism.”

  “Providing that your outside source is trustworthy.”

  “Dr. Mordechai Gold at Harvard,” McAdams said.

  Ferraga smiled. “Of course. And when you find out what the papers are about, perhaps you can relate to all of us what could be so valuable that Elijah felt the need to hide his work. From our limited conversations—we did have a few conversations, yes—it did not appear that Eli was on the verge of a major breakthrough.”

  “But you wouldn’t know for sure.”

  “No. I do know that he was taking his research into different directions.”

  “What kind of directions?”

  “More applied than theoretical. Not surprising. Eigenvalues and Fourier transforms have many practical applications.”

  “Such as?” Decker laughed. “Let me back that up. I have no idea what a Fourier transform is.”

  “Why would you know?” Ferraga said. “I don’t know how to question a witness.”

  “Can you explain anything in layman’s terms?”

  “Specifically, it is applied integration to turn a function of time into a function of frequency—sine waves or cosine waves for instance.”

  “And what kind of practical applications would use this?”

  “Anything that has a chart. Anytime you have a complex shape and you want to see the composition of it, you would use Fourier transforms.”

  Ferraga paused.

  “I don’t know if this is true or not. I don’t want to start rumors, so this is strictly off the record. But I’ve heard that Elijah was working with Lennaeus Tolvard for the past year.”

  “Why off the record?”

  “In Kneed Loft, it is frowned upon to choose one primary adviser and then work with someone else.”

  “It’s certainly not going to hurt Eli’s reputation anymore.”

  “But it may impact Lennaeus Tolvard.”

  “Why would a professor care if any student worked with someone else?” McAdams asked. “Isn’t curiosity a good thing?”

  Ferraga looked long-suffering. “We are all very busy, Detective. Once we take on a student and that student is part of our lab, he or she is expected to work with us, not take our information elsewhere.”

  McAdams said, “Turf battles.”

  “More like stealing intellectual property, Detective.”

  Decker said, “Could you spell ‘Lennaeus Tolvard’ for me?”

  Ferraga complied.

  McAdams said, “If Eli was working with this Tolvard, it could explain why he hid his papers behind his drawer. He didn’t want anyone finding out that he had found another mentor.” He looked at Ferraga. “What would have happened if Eli had wanted to switch advisers?”

  “As I said, once a student is in upper division and has chosen an adviser, it is frowned upon to switch.”

  “So he wouldn’t have been allowed to switch?” McAdams asked.

  “It is doubtful that any faculty member would have agreed to the switch. It would have to be on the fly—pardon, the sly. Be on the sly.”

  “And you don’t have any ideas what Eli and Tolvard were working on?”

  “Tolvard’s appointment is in the physics department. His specialty is cosmology. The applications for Fourier transforms in outer space are endless. I suspect that this wasn’t part of his thesis although you’d have to ask Dr. Rosser about that. I suspect he was doing this on his own because the field interested him.”

  “And you don’t think Dr. Rosser had any idea about it?”

  “I’m sure he has heard the rumors, the same as I have. How he dealt with it?” Ferraga gave a shrug.

  Decker said, “If Eli had done something with Tolvard, who would have owned Eli’s research? Rosser or Tolvard?”

  “Ah, that is an interesting question. If something was published, I would suspect both would get authorship. But who would be the primary author, I don’t know.”

  “Eli wouldn’t get primary authorship?”

  “Of course not. He’d get some recognition, but the primary authorship goes to his supervisor.”

  “So if he published with Tolvard as the lead author instead of Rosser, that would create a problem.”

  “Yes, of course. But I doubt that a turf battle would lead to his suicide.”

  “How about if he were mentally unstable to start?”

  “You’re in the wrong department, Detective.” Ferraga looked at his watch and grimaced. “The Kneed Loft Psychology Department is on the third floor.”

  THE COFFEEHOUSE AT Kneed Loft was lined with walls of whiteboard filled with indecipherable equations. Students bounced up and down between their seats and the boards, writing things down as it occurred to them. Their work was visible to everyone. In this day and age, privacy had become a rara avis.

  McAdams took a sip of his espresso. “Looks like Eli was doing a big no-no. But even if he was, I don’t see why that would lead to his suicide.”

  “Neither do I,” Decker admitted. “And it’s not up to the police to discover why he did it.”

  “So you’re done looking into Eli’s death?”

  “Any further probing is counterproductive. We’ll see his parents tomorrow, and that’s that. Since you’re going to Harvard anyway, we’ll take the papers to Gold. See what they’re about. But I doubt if it’ll have anything to do with his suicide.”

  “So what’s on tap now?”

  “I’m going back to the station house. I’ve got a couple of small burglaries I’m working on. Electronics stores. I’ve got some CCTV to look through. You can go home and study.”

  “Or I can talk to Lennaeus Tolvard.”

  “If he talks to you, he’s not going to admit that he was working with someone else’s student.”

  “I can still try.”

  “Sure, if you think that’s a better use of your time than studying for your finals.”

  Mallon Euler burst through the door, loaded down with two carry-on suitcases and a knapsack strapped to her back. She was with Damodar Batra, the senior who first identified Elijah Wolf through a postmortem photograph. She was talking animatedly, but then she stopped in what appeared to be midsentence when she saw Decker and McAdams. She wheeled her suitcase over to their table. Batra was in tow, wearing a ski jacket, jeans, and boots. Mallon still had on her pea coat from this morning.

  “She was a no-show,” she announced. “God, that pisses me off.”

  “Uh, the she being Katrina Belfort, correct?” McAdams asked.

  “Yes, Detective McAdams, that is correct!”

  “No need for the snappish attitude,” McAdams answered.

  “I happen to be a little bit more than concerned,” Mallon went on. “I can’t reach her by phone, text, e-mail, Twitter, or Facebook. And no one has seen her this morning. After what happened last night, I’m nervous.”

  Decker said, “Did you call campus police?”

  “She doesn’t live on campus, Detective. She lives in town. I believe that’s your territory.”

  “Do you have her address?”

  “Bluejay Lane.” She recited the numerals. “Could you stop by like in right now?”

  “Sure.” Decker stood up. “Did you find a place to crash, Mallon? You can’t go around living like a turtle with your home on your back.”

  “Damodar invited me to stay with him until I’ve found another place. We trust each other since our research is totally orthogonal.”

  “Completely,” Batra added. “We were just going to grab coffee before we moved her in.”

  “If you find out about Dr. Belfort, can you let me know?” Mallon asked. “It’s not like her to miss a meeting.”

  “She is very prompt and very meticulous,” Batra added.

  “I’ll swing by . . . let you know.” To McAdams, he said, “Are you coming?”

  “I thought I’d stick around here,” McAdams said. �
�Maybe talk to Professor Tolvard.”

  “Ah, so you’ve heard the rumors, also,” Batra said. “That Eli was working with Tolvard.”

  “I’ve never heard that,” Mallon said.

  “You’re more theoretical. I’m more applied. So I have my fingers in both areas. And I hear things.”

  “What have you heard?” McAdams asked.

  “Just what I said. That Eli was working with Tolvard.”

  “Any idea on what?”

  “Nope, but since Tolvard is in the outer space department of physics and Eli was working on Fourier series—”

  “Fourier transforms,” McAdams corrected.

  “Ah, so he redirected his interests from theoretical to applied. And now that makes total sense. He was probably doing something with cosmic rays.”

  “Isn’t that verboten . . . to switch advisers?” Mallon said. “God, if it isn’t, I’m done with Katrina.”

  “I don’t think he formally switched,” Decker said.

  “So he was doing it on the DL,” Batra said.

  To Mallon, Decker said, “Why are you done with Katrina Belfort?”

  “She’s a nice woman, but she never has enough time for me. It took me nearly a week to get an appointment with her and she’s my adviser. What’s going to happen when I really need her in a month or so?”

  “Never choose a professor that doesn’t have tenure,” Batra said. “The underlings are too busy and there’s too much temptation for them to rip off your ideas.”

  “It’s just odd that she hasn’t shown up anywhere,” Mallon said. “And after last night, I’m very nervous.”

  Decker put on his jacket. “I’m on my way.”

  McAdams stood as well. “I’ll walk out with you.” After they left the coffeehouse, Decker said, “I’ll let you know if I find out anything at Belfort’s house. You let me know if you find out anything significant about Eli and Tolvard. It’s called being a team player.”

  “That isn’t my forte.”

  “What is your forte?”

  “Getting under people’s skin. It’s a good skill to have as a detective.”

  “Then I’ll say this, Tyler. It’s certainly the one skill that you mastered beyond excellence.”

  CHAPTER 15

  THE HOUSE WAS a turn-of-the-twentieth-century bungalow. It featured white wood siding, blue shutters and trim, a small porch with a chair, and a planting area for flowers that was currently under a blanket of snow. There was a shoveled pathway to the door, where multiple footprints were rounded out by a thin layer of snow. The rear of the house backed up to woodlands. Decker walked up to the front door and knocked. When no one answered, he took off his gloves and retrieved a set of lockpicks from his jacket. Kneeling down until his eye was in line with the keyhole, he inserted the first pick into the lock and felt for the tumblers to click into place. He was working away when he heard a male voice.

  “Excuse me. Can I help you?”

  Decker turned around and stood up. He brushed off his knees, now dusted with snow. “Police.” He took out his badge and the man gave it a once-over. He appeared to be in his late seventies or early eighties with white thin hair sticking out of the front of his green Celtics snow cap. He had pale, blue eyes with weathered skin and a stooped gait. “And you are?”

  “Harvey Calloway. I live across the street.”

  “I’m looking for Katrina Belfort. She didn’t show up for work this morning and her colleagues are a bit concerned. Have you seen her this morning?”

  “No, not this morning.”

  “What about last night?”

  “No, not last night, either.”

  “Would you know when was the last time you saw her?”

  He gave the question honest thought. “A day or two ago. I usually take a very early morning constitutional and I come home just around the time she leaves for work.”

  “And what time would that be?”

  “Around seven-thirty.”

  “Is she a friend of yours?”

  “Just an acquaintance. We exchange morning salutations. ‘Hi, Katrina. Hi, Harvey.’ She picks up our papers when we go out of town to visit our daughter. By ‘we,’ I mean the missus and myself. Katrina says she likes picking up our papers because she doesn’t subscribe to any newspaper and it’s a treat for her to read them in the morning with her coffee. I asked her why she doesn’t subscribe to the local paper. She told me she just gets her news off the Internet. It’s a generational thing.”

  He held up a finger.

  “We did get her a subscription to the New Yorker for Christmas. Actually it was the missus’s idea. Katrina was very appreciative. She made us a cake. Very professional. One of those thin layered things with lots of cinnamon and spice. I think she said it was a Dutch kuchen. She had some Dutch blood in her. Anyway, it was a delicious cake even though we didn’t need the calories.”

  “Sounds like you two were pretty friendly,” Decker said.

  “Just because I’m a friendly guy. I talk to everyone. What’s going on?”

  “Like I said, her colleagues were concerned that she didn’t show up for work today.” Decker paused. “Does she seem to have a lot of friends?”

  “She isn’t the party type, if that’s what you’re asking. You think something happened to her?”

  “No idea. I just want to take a look around because her no-show is unusual.” No one spoke. Decker said, “You’ve been in her house before?”

  “A few times . . . to thank her for the cake, for instance.”

  “So you can come in with me, tell me if the house looks like it did the last time you went inside. Just don’t touch anything, okay.”

  “Is that allowed?”

  “It wouldn’t fly if this were LAPD. Neither would picking her locks. But this isn’t Los Angeles. It’s a small town, and when the folks here don’t show up for work and no one can contact them, I get concerned. You don’t have to go in, Mr. Calloway.”

  “No, no. I want to help.”

  “Okay. This should only take a few minutes.” Decker bent down and finished picking the lock. It sprang open, but there was a chain lock preventing the door from opening all the way. That was usually an indication that the person was inside the house. It was also possible that she left via a back door. “Hold on.” Decker closed the door partially and, with a hook, managed to displace the chain from the slot.

  He opened the door into a tidy living room stocked with old-fashioned furniture that could have come from Grandma’s attic. More than likely, the pieces came with the house. There was a curlicue oak-framed couch with white and blue iris upholstery, an oak coffee table, and a couple of used wing chairs. There was a desk piled high with papers and an oversize computer monitor, and behind it was a bookshelf filled with academic texts. Several framed photographs: her with a blond man with long hair, both with full smiles and holding skis and ski poles. There was another photograph of an older couple framing the blond man and Katrina. Lastly, in a silver frame, there was a head shot, Katrina’s chin resting in her hand. Decker slipped on a latex glove and picked up the ski picture. “Boyfriend?”

  “No idea.”

  “Okay.” He put it back down. “Does the house look tampered with?”

  “Not at all.”

  The living room was divided from the kitchen by a marble countertop. Decker glanced at the kitchen. Nothing was out of place. The food in the refrigerator wasn’t old or rotten. He said, “I’m going to have a look around.”

  “Can I come?”

  Decker took in a deep breath. No foul odor indicating a dead body. But it was cool inside. “It might be better if you waited for me here. I shouldn’t be more than a minute.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just please don’t touch anything or sit down . . . if that’s okay.”

  “I’m fine.”

  It took around ten minutes to do a preliminary search, and everything appeared to be in order. The house had two bedrooms with one bathroom that was off t
he hallway. The beds were made, the bathroom was clean, and the back door was locked. Decker went back to the living room. “We can go now.”

  “Anything suspicious-looking?”

  Decker shook his head no. “I’m going to look around back and trample through the woods a bit. I’d hate to think she was out there with a broken leg or something, waiting to be rescued.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  “No thanks. This is a police job.”

  “Can you let me know if you find anything out—good or bad?”

  “Of course.”

  “If you need to warm up, I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “I may take you up on that. I’m fine for now.”

  The two of them left by the front door with Calloway going back to his house. Decker retraced his steps through the house and left by the back door. The rear yard was small and covered with snow. But it did tell a tale. The snow layer was anything but pristine. No clean footprints but a lot of upheaval with bumps and lumps all over.

  Like someone was covering tracks.

  Decker stared at the yard for a minute, trying to decide what to do next. He took out his phone and called McAdams. “What are you doing now?”

  “I’m studying for finals in the café at Kneed Loft, waiting for Lennaeus Tolvard to call me back for an appointment.”

  “Keep studying. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Wait a minute there, pard. What’s going on with Dr. Belfort?”

  “She’s not in and her house looks undisturbed. Go back to your studying.”

  “You didn’t call me just to say everything’s okay. What’s going on? Truth, please?”

  Decker owed him that much for being a good cop. “Her backyard looks hinky. The snow layer has been messed with, like someone was trying to erase footprints or drag marks. I say that because her house backs up to the woods and I’m wondering if her body might be there. I’m going to go poke around.”

  “Peter, wait for me.”

  “No need.”

  “You called me. That classifies as a dangled carrot.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait. But get here soon. I’m cold.”

  “I’m in a coffee shop. I’ll bring coffee.”

  “Make it a large. I have a feeling we’re going to be here for a while.”