by Alex P. Berg
“I have,” said Shay. “Two, actually.”
“Really?”
Shay looked up again and tapped the pages of the magazine she was reading. “Yes. These are some of the most recent journals in which Gill Sr. published.”
“I know,” I said. “You were all too eager to dive into them when presented with the option of doing that or digging out more from the stacks. I’m telling you, that sandwich you ate isn’t going to do any good unless you put in some long hours of heavy lifting to go along with it. I’m thinking we should put you on a regimen.”
My partner smiled and shook her head, ignoring my witty tangent. “My point was going to be that even though none of these recent articles list a contact address for Gill, they do provide clues. For one thing, Buford published two articles this past year in the same journal, Philosophical Science Letters—” She tapped the periodicals in question. “—which just so happens to have its offices right here in New Welwic. If Gill sent his articles to the journal headquarters via courier, it’s possible he left them with a return address for correspondence. Or, perhaps he dropped by the offices himself. Maybe someone there knows where we might be able to find him.
“And there’s more. Both of the articles published in Philosophical Science Letters list a coauthor, someone by the name of S. Tanner. Unfortunately, they don’t list an address, personal or professional, but if we could find this person, chances are they could point us in the direction of Gill.”
I scrubbed a hand across my mouth and chin as I grunted.
“What is it?” said Shay.
“I’m trying to figure out how I didn’t see that earlier,” I said, which wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. I had a fairly good idea of what had distracted me, and she had pointy ears, dark hair, and a smile that shone even outside of direct sunlight, apparently. Thankfully, my partner cracked as many head-scratchers as she prevented me from solving with her feminine wiles, so I suppose the overall situation was a zero-sum game, although it did make me look like a fool in front of the other detectives on occasion…
“So, if you’ve figured that out, what are we sitting around here for?” I asked.
Shay shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I got caught up reading this article on space tensors.”
“You know, I was sort of kidding earlier about the whole separate language business,” I said, “but now I’m changing my mind.”
“Look, I don’t understand all of it,” said Shay. “But sometimes it’s interesting to delve into the mind of a genius, just to see what’s lurking there.”
Was that a not-so-subtle dig at me?
“Well, your passing interest in geometrical tensors can wait,” I said as I stood. “We’ve still got a murderer on the loose, in case you don’t remember. So let’s wrap this up. And while we’re at it, let’s bring some of these journals with us for evidence purposes. You’ll have to put them on your library card, though.”
Shay furrowed her brows. “Huh? Why?”
“Because the librarians here still haven’t forgiven me for the last…incident. As it turns out, they frown upon people who overturn a centuries’ worth of documents from a series of library stacks in one full-bodied blow. Now come on, let’s hustle.”
28
The address we gleaned from the pages of Philosophical Science Letters led us to a nondescript, four-story, multi-tenant office building on the north side of town, west of the Earl. I stood with Steele across from the second floor landing outside a door with a frosted glass pane set into it at roughly face height, assuming one was human or elven. Etched into the glass were the words “Philosophical Science Letters” and the address.
“I think we’ve found the right place,” I said.
“What gave you that idea?” said Steele as she knocked, making the door rattle in its frame.
“Just a hunch,” I said. “I’m clever like that.”
A tired voice responded from the other side of the glass, one that quivered and creaked, possibly from disuse. “Come in.”
I wrenched on the doorknob and opened the door—or at least tried to. It stuck on something after I’d pushed it to about a thirty degree angle.
“Oh, sorry about that,” came the voice again. “Here, give me a moment.”
I heard a rustling of paper and a soft scuffing of shoes on lumber. The door jerked in its hinges, and I heard a muffled curse.
“Oh forget it,” said the voice. “Look, you’ll just have to wriggle your way around. I’m sorry. I hope you’re not one of the city’s jumbo-sized inhabitants, otherwise you simply won’t be able to fit.”
I looked in through the door gap, but all I could see was a wall covered floor to ceiling with journal reprints held in place by round metal tacks affixed to the upper left-hand corners.
“After you,” I said to Steele.
She shot me a fake smile. “You’re such a gentleman.”
Steele slipped a foot into the opening and slid around the not even halfway open door, her slim frame making the curve with ease. As I readied myself to follow, I heard her voice from the other side of the door.
“You, uh…might have to suck it in, Daggers. It’s a little tight in here.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said the mystery voice. “I’m terribly sorry about the mess. It piles up over the years, you understand. And I can’t get rid of it. Too attached to it, you see. Although I suppose I could put some into storage, but I don’t know how I’d manage that in my condition. Regardless, there’s a path there to the left. If you shuffle a little…”
I shoved myself sideways into the opening and squirmed around the edge of the door, barely squeezing my bulk through the gap, at which point I understood Shay’s comment. It didn’t refer to the entryway, but rather the office as a whole.
Mountains of paper occupied almost every cubic inch of the room, in every way, shape, and form: books, magazines, journals, pamphlets, and circulars, some bound in hard or soft covers, others loosely collated with staples and binder clips and shiny brass brads. Some sat on their sides on bookshelves, which occupied two full walls of the room, but the majority stood in huge stacks on the floor or rose up in a massive, rectangular pile in the middle of the space. Only after I caught a glimmer of glossy wood from underneath the pages did I realize there was probably a desk underneath the mound.
Narrow corridors snaked around the room, allowing passage to the far corners and the various stacks of knowledge that resided there, assuming you were the sort of person who enjoyed jogging and had an aversion to food.
The latter at least seemed to apply to the source of the quavering voice: an old, rail-thin man, probably in his seventies, with thinning gray hair, knobby hands, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles and sporting a conspicuous liver spot on his forehead over his right brow. Either he or something in the room smelled like my grandfather’s prized sweater collection. We locked eyes.
“Um…hi,” I said.
“Oh, uh, yes. Hello.” The old man blinked and shook his head. “Where are my manners? I’m Dr. Lester French, editor-in-chief of Philosophical Science Letters. How may I be of service?”
Shay spoke up. “I’m Detective Steele. This is Detective Daggers. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
“Detectives?” Lester’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t tell me there’s an academic fraud scandal brewing?”
“No, Dr. French,” said Steele. “That’s not the sort of…crime we investigate.”
Lester sighed. “Oh. Thank goodness. There’s nothing worse than fraud. That sort of thing can affix a black stamp to a scholarly journal for years.”
“Well, you may think there’s nothing worse than fraud,” I said, sidling past a particularly wobbly-looking stack of reprints. “But I assure you the victims in our department think there’s at least one crime worse.”
Based on the look the old guy gave me, I don’t think he got my joke.
“Yes, uh, well, anyway,” he said, “why don’t we sit and
discuss…whatever it is you wish to discuss.”
“We’d be happy to,” said Steele with a raised eyebrow, “but if you don’t mind my asking…where are the chairs?”
“Oh, they’re there,” said Lester. “I’m sure of it. You might need to rearrange a few things to get to them, and move a few papers once you get there—”
“It’s alright,” I said. “We’ll stand.”
The old man looked pained. “You won’t hold it against me if I sit, of course? My arthritis acts up more than it used to. It’s a miracle I can still get up and down the stairs every day.”
Steele and I both nodded. With a sigh, the old man shuffled back behind the massive pile of documents that covered his desk and collapsed into his chair, which I could actually see once I got close enough to peer over the mound of paper.
“So, if you’re not investigating fraud,” said Lester, “what exactly are you investigating?”
“Homicide,” I said.
Lester sat up straight, something I wasn’t sure he was capable of given the state of his joints. “What? Someone’s been murdered?”
“No one you know, in all likelihood,” said Steele. “But we have reason to believe someone you’re familiar with may be in danger. Do you know a scientist by the name of Buford Gill?”
“Oh, yes, Buford. Of course I know him,” said Lester. “Anyone who reads our publication would be familiar with his name. You’re saying his life is at risk?”
“Possibly,” I said as I glanced at a mound near Lester’s desk that I suspected might be hiding a chair. “What can you tell us about the man?”
“Well, he’s brilliant, for one thing,” said Lester, leaning back in his seat. “I’d dare say he’s one of the sharpest minds of our age. Makes me feel like a first-year undergraduate at times with the intricacy of his theories—” A bit of a bitter frown crept across his face as he said that last part. “—but, regardless, I’m glad he chooses to publish with us. The issues featuring his papers always sell better than those that don’t.”
“He’s popular, then?” said Shay.
Lester French rolled his eyes. “Well…in a sense. Let’s just say that, while Gill’s papers inevitably get published, they always engender a healthy debate, both during the peer review process and afterwards. While many of our readership look forward to Gill’s publications to read his insights, others look forward to them simply to try and find holes in them.”
The old man chuckled and shook his head. “And Gill’s never been one to shy away from debate. He’s always been very combative toward others who try to disprove his theories. So invariably, Gill will publish a paper, and someone will publish a rebuttal to his points, and Gill will publish a fiery counter-rebuttal. Honestly, we usually see a spike in our circulation for several issues after Gill’s initial publication for just such a reason.”
“That’s great,” I said, not entirely truthfully, “but the real question that concerns us is, do you know where to find him?”
“Ah, no, unfortunately,” said Lester. “He’s quite the recluse, which I assume you probably already know if you’re asking me about his whereabouts. I suppose you could ask around his old department at the University of New Welwic. Someone there might have some idea where he disappeared to. And by old department, I mean Physics and Astronomy, not Physics and Chemistry. That department was shuttered years ago at the same time the building housing it was condemned for chemical contamination. Damned shame, really. It was a nice building.”
“You can’t tell us you honestly have no clue where the man might be,” said Steele, resting an elbow on a stack of textbooks. “He publishes in your journal. Surely you have some open method of communication with him? Otherwise how would he be able to submit his findings?”
“Well, that’s the clever part,” said Lester, waggling a finger. “I’ve seen Gill a couple times over the past few years—chance occasions, mind you—but after he lost his position at the University following that spat with the offices and the departmental changeover, he went into hiding and, for lack of a better term, became very…wary of people, including me. I mean, he’d always been antisocial, but he just got… Well, it doesn’t matter. Long story short, we set up a system whereby he could submit papers remotely.”
“Remotely?” said Steele.
“Yes,” said Lester. “When he has a paper he wishes to submit to us, he sends it in via courier from—well, who knows where, honestly. Our reviewers read his work and supply their comments and suggestions, and we bundle those together with his original paper and any correspondence we get from readers and leave those in the communal mail slot in the lobby downstairs. Gill then comes by and picks up the bundle, though he must do so very early or very late because I’ve never bumped into him at the office since we instituted the program. Overall, it’s rather inefficient—he only checks the mail slot once a month or so—but it works.”
“That sounds like a lot of effort to go through to make sure one author gets published,” I said.
Lester shrugged. “As I said, the man’s brilliant. And more importantly, he sells journals. Figuratively speaking, of course. He’s not on our payroll.”
I glanced around the office one more time, wondering to myself if there was anyone other than Lester on the magazine’s payroll.
“So you have no idea where we might be able to find him?” asked Steele.
Lester shook his head. “No. I’m sorry. As I said, try his old university. He might still have a few friends there.”
Steele wasn’t willing to let the matter go that easily. “We noticed a few of his recent publications had a collaborator. An S. Turner? Do you know where we might be able to find this person?”
Lester removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose, gesturing with his glasses as he talked. “Unfortunately, no. I know even less about that person than I do about Gill. The first time I saw the name was on Gill’s second most recent paper. Given they’re a coauthor, I have no correspondence system set up with them. We only do that for lead authors.”
“Come on,” said Steele. “Think. You must know something that could lead us to Gill. Maybe a piece of information he dropped in passing. Anything!”
Shay’s jaw was set tight, and she punctuated her remark with a slap of a stack of journals, which made Lester jump as he returned the glasses to his face. The performance was out of line with her normally even keel behavior—in fact, I’d only seen her like this during our good cop, bad cop interrogations. I wondered what might be agitating her, until I realized our current case might be hitting a little too close to home. Perhaps I shouldn’t have drawn so many parallels between Buford Gill and Shay’s father while at the library.
I approached my partner and put a hand on her shoulder. “Steele. We’ll find him, but Dr. French doesn’t know where he is. We’ll have to try something else.”
Steele turned to face me. In her eyes I saw fierce determination, but the fire within melted away after a second or two. “Sorry. You’re right. Dr. French, thanks for your time, and apologies for—” She mimed slapping the books. “—well, you know.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” said Lester. “No offense taken. I imagine your profession must be far more stressful than mine, at least in most senses. Which reminds me…before you go, could I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” said Steele. “Why not?”
“Well,” said Lester, adopting his best set of wide puppy eyes, “academic journals aren’t exactly a high margin enterprise. Perhaps I could interest the two of you in a couple subscriptions? Or some for your friends?”
I glanced at Steele. Suddenly her determination and remorse had turned into apprehension. I could understand the feeling. I felt like a holiday party guest being cajoled into trying Aunt Millie’s famous fruit cake that tasted of sawdust and fossilized raisins.
I considered it a minor miracle when both of us emerged from the office, minutes later, without having purchased a single copy.
29
>
We took Lester’s advice and visited Gill’s old colleagues in the Department of Physics and Astronomy at the University of New Welwic, but the few professors and staff who had anything nice to say about the man knew less about his whereabouts than they did about modern fashion conventions. By time we’d finished knocking on office doors and asking questions, I’d had it up to my eyeballs in four-buttoned vests and extra wide Balthus-knotted ties. Frustrated and disappointed, Shay and I indulged our moods in a bit of silence and quiet contemplation on our rickshaw ride back to the precinct.
Upon arrival, we found Rodgers and Quinto at their desks looking not much happier than we did. Rodgers nursed a mug of hot coffee, and Quinto had broken out the mug he reserved for his strongest brews of tea, which couldn’t be a good sign.
“Tell me you’ve had better luck than we have,” I said as Shay and I approached the pair.
Quinto looked up from his desk. “Hey Daggers. Steele. Your trip went that bad, huh?”
“Are you kidding?” I said. “Buford Gill’s a ghost. Taxation and Revenue’s file on him is a decade out of date. Nobody knows where to find him—colleagues, professional acquaintances, nobody. Not even the journal he publishes with regularly has any idea how to contact him. He has a special drop box system in place with them to allow for anonymous pick-ups and drop-offs. If not for the fact that he checks the box every month or two, I’d think the guy had evaporated off the face of the earth, or at least high-tailed it out of New Welwic for greener pastures.”
“Well, it could be worse,” said Rodgers as he set his coffee down on his desk. “If Gill Sr. is a ghost, then Harland Wyle is a will-o’-wisp.”
I raised an eyebrow. “A what now?”
“A will-o’-wisp,” said Shay. “It’s a flickering light in swamps people talk about in folklore. But I have to admit I’m struggling with the metaphor, Rodgers.”
“Alright. Let me try again.” Rodgers flourished a finger in the air. “If Gill Sr. is a ghost, then Harland Wyle is a breeze on a gust of wind.”
