Death by Hitchcock (3 page)

Chapter 6

“Classical mechanics,” Edwina said to a lecture hall half full of beginning physics students, “is the basis for all physics.  Classical mechanics allows us to describe the motion of things, and in so doing, to predict the future.  It provides us with a set of rules from which we can deduce the laws of motion in any given system.  All we have to do to understand the physical universe is to follow where the logic takes us.”

Edwina drew a diagram of a simple system on the blackboard, labeling several points along the way.  Her students assiduously copied it down.

“Of course, there are many different
kinds
of systems, ranging from simple ones like this,” she said, tapping the board, “to incredibly complicated ones, which we’ll get to later.”

She reached into the pocket of her jeans, pulled out a piece of candy, and tossed it a short distance away.

“In physics we are in the business of predicting the future,” she said. “We do that based on what we know about the present. I just showed you an example of a system.” 

“Now, then. How did we know where that piece of candy was going to land?” she asked, gazing around the classroom.

“The way we knew where it would land,” she said, walking slowly toward the piece of candy sitting on the floor, “is that we already had all the information we needed in order to predict what was about to happen in the future. You all watched me throw that piece of candy, right?  Okay. Think about this.” 

“We knew the size of the object,” she continued.  “We observed its velocity, saw the force with which it was thrown.  And we knew its initial location.”

“Everybody with me?  Just shout out, if you’re not,” she encouraged, smiling.

“Did we need to know what flavor that piece of candy was, in order to predict what would happen when I threw it? No, we didn’t. The question of flavor was irrelevant. Did we need to know
why
I threw it?  No, we did not. Irrelevant, again. We couldn’t care less why I threw it.”

“Those questions did not concern us, you see
. All we needed to know in order to predict what was going to happen, was the size of the object, its point of origin, and its velocity. Simple. We already knew more or less where it was going to land.”

“Once we know the rules of the game for any given system, all we have to do is follow the logic. The fact is, we ask pretty limited questions in physics, and we come up with some really good answers. That’s the beauty of it. With one or two basic laws, we can deduce everything.”

The students smiled and nodded appreciatively.

“Have some of you read John Steinbeck’s novel,
Of Mice And Men
? I hope so. Anyway, this character, Lenny asks his buddy, George, to tell him about physics, and George says, ‘Okay, Lenny, but just the minimum.’

“‘What makes things move, George?’ Lenny asks.”

‘
“Forces, do,’ George says.”

‘
“What makes things stop moving, George?’ Lenny asks him.”

‘“
Forces do,’ George answers.”

The class laughed.

“The Stanford physicist, Leonard Susskind, was inspired by this anecdote to write a book called,
The Theoretical Minimum.
I highly recommend reading it––for those of you who continue in physics, and maybe especially for those of you who won’t.”

Edwina reflected with satisfaction on the rare opportunity her job afforded her to ignite a sense of wonder in her students. In some ways she preferred teaching the beginning students, even though many would go on to major in other things. The beauty of classical mechanics was still pure, uncomplicated poetry to them. They were not yet bothered with deterministic reversible laws, or second derivatives. These students became wide-eyed just thinking about

the fundamental workings of the universe.

As she stooped to pick up the piece of candy on the floor, the idea that one of them might be a murderer never crossed her mind.

Chapter 7

Professor Cadbury’s wire-rimmed glasses slid down his nose repeatedly. He poked them back into place as he addressed his graduate film students. The class had just seen the 1965 film,
Loves of a Blonde,
and Professor Cadbury strode energetically back and forth in front of the class as he spoke.

“What is it Milos Forman wants us to understand about the sexual revolution in Czechoslovakia in 1965?  Remember; it’s all taking place against the background of Communist Party promises of radical social change!  What’s his point here?” Professor Cadbury spoke with a contagious urgency of unadulterated delight in his subject that made him look younger than his years, his twinkling eyes peering out from under a thatch of gray hair.

A lively class discussion was soon underway around the table, notable for the lack of participation from a saturnine Milo Marcus. Milo considered himself superior to his fellow students because of his remarkable intellect, and paid little attention to the conversation. Why should he? Questions such as this one posed by the amiable Professor Cadbury were child’s play to him.

The only child of two psychoanalysts, weaned on film festivals growing up in Chicago, Milo Marcus had seen all of Milos Forman’s films by the age of fifteen, and had analyzed them many times over.
Loves of a Blonde
was a particular favorite of Milo’s, and he had no intention of sullying his intensely personal feelings about this movie––forged during the emotionally vulnerable roller coaster of adolescence––by joining in what struck him as a juvenile conversation about the movie’s political implications.

Instead, Milo focused on Mary Buttery. Mary sat across the table from Milo, unaware of his covert surveillance
––he hoped. He studied her discreetly from a lowered gaze, his eyes shielded behind thick, tortoise- framed glasses and an unruly head of bushy hair that tumbled over his forehead.

What a sublime creature she was
, Milo thought, drifting into daydreaming. He imagined touching Mary’s creamy complexion and playing with her luxuriant hair. He imagined playfully pinching her nose, and tracing the contours and planes of her face ever so gently with his fingers, lingering on her pouting lips, and then moving in slowly and kissing her. In Milo’s imagination his hands were no longer pasty or chubby, but elegant and elongated, like those more befitting his true, aesthetic nature. The hands of Jean Cocteau.

Milo had not yet summoned the courage to speak to Mary, other than perfunctory greetings around the Department.  He was reasonably sure she didn’t have a boyfriend, and therefore he imagined there was hope for him. Mary stood a few inches taller than Milo, but as Milo was on the short side, there were few people who didn’t. For Milo
, this disadvantage in height was the norm. Besides, Mary struck Milo as the sort of girl who didn’t place importance on such trivialities as physical stature. And as for his being overweight, Milo hoped the fact that Mary herself was on the pudgy side would fall in his favor. He was building up the courage to approach her one of these days.

But what would he say when he got the chance to speak to her? He would have to be clever. To interest the likes of brilliant Mary Buttery he would have to be inventive and intelligent and witty. The circumstances would need to be just right. He would have to pick the moment carefully. He couldn’t let a girl as wonderful as
Mary Buttery slip away from him. Otherwise, once they graduated from Cushing he would probably never see her again. And he couldn’t let that happen, because deep down Milo knew that Mary Buttery was his destiny. No, he mustn’t let that happen.

Milo’s fantasy was interrupted by the muffled vibration on Wallace Duncan’s cell phone.

Typical Wallace!
Milo thought. 
He thinks he’s such a player, leaving his phone turned on in class like a bigshot!  Putz!

Wallace Duncan was in fact a talented young filmmaker. His privileged upbringing was sometimes met with jealousy and resentment from his peers, human nature being as it is. But Wallace Duncan was made of sturdy stuff. He was determined to go the extra distance to prove himself
––to demonstrate to the world his talent and originality, to forge his own road to success. Wallace relished the challenge. He would earn this success on his own terms––with determination and hard work. Toward that end, he was seriously considering changing his name to Duncan Wallace. He thought it sounded better. A slight, soft-looking young man, Wallace spent a small fortune on clothes with the generous allowance he received from his parents. 

For his final thesis
, Wallace was making a documentary called,
Cinephilia In A Small Town
, which examined the friendship between fellow film student, Milo Marcus, and the owner of New Guilford’s only movie theater, Louis Edwards. Wallace hoped the film would put him on the map in Hollywood.

Specifically, the subject of his film was the unlikely, town-and-gown friendship between Milo and Louis. It was about how their differences were bridged by a shared passion for movies, and an encyclopedic knowledge of movie history and trivia. Bridged to the point of bonding, of actual ‘bromance
.’ Milo Marcus and Louis Edwards never tired of discussing film, and were regularly seen around town in deep conversation about things like the accidental boom shadow in a scene from Renoir’s
La Regle du Jeu
, or the continuity gaff involving a spear in a scene from Kurosawa’s
Seven Samurai
, and other such arcane matters. Wallace had captured all of this on film in what he felt sure was a smart and entertaining documentary

With all possible discretion
, Wallace inched the phone out from his pocket until he could view the message. A bored and nosy Milo made it his business to view Wallace’s message, too.

In order to avoid suspicion, Milo shifted sideways in his chair, leaning as far away from Wallace as looked natural, yet managing to maintain a clear view of Wallace’s phone. Milo easily made out the contents of the starkly racy message. His curiosity piqued, he focused his eyes as sharply as he could, and successfully read the name of the sender.

Goodness, me!
Milo thought, smiling.
What a naughty, naughty boy you are, Mr. Filmmaker Man!

Chapter 8

Indeed, Milo Marcus spent most of his time in the safe company of, self-described ‘film nerd
,’ Louis Edwards.  Louis, tall and gangling, neatly dressed in his usual pressed khakis and sweater vest, was the owner/manager of the Art House Two.  He was also the husband of Hannah, and the proud papa of infant daughter, Elsie.

He and Milo had first met at the Art House, when Milo was hanging around after closing time, studying an original poster on display of Lindsay Anderson’s movie,
If...
. Louis nearly bumped into him as he was vacuuming the lobby.

“You must really love this particular picture,” Louis said affably, shutting off the vacuum. “I couldn’t help noticing you’ve been here three night in a row.”

“It’s a rare treat to see
If...
on the big screen,” Milo muttered.

They began discussing Lindsay Anderson, and soon enough, Louis invited Milo up to his office, leading him through a door concealed in the lobby paneling, and up a narrow staircase. At the top of the stairs was a hallway with storage rooms on either side. The aroma of fresh popcorn wafted along the dingy corridor, at the end of which
, the door to Louis’s office stood open in a pool of light.

Louis’s office was Milo’s Xanadu
––crammed wall-to-wall with vintage movie posters, still production photos, decades of saved ticket stubs, and all sorts of movie memorabilia and promotional materials.  Bookcases were jammed with film theory, film criticism, biographies, and bound screenplays. At one end of the room, Louis’s desk stood with a plaque that said, “The House of Dr. Edwardes.”

“That’s very good,” Milo chuckled at this reference to the novel from which Hitchcock’s
Spellbound
was adapted.

“As a matter of fact, I own a first edition of the book,” Milo added, gesturing toward the plaque. “It was a sixteenth birthday present from my parents.  Signed by the author.”

“No kiddin?” replied Louis. “That must be worth a lot of money! Popcorn?”

Milo followed Louis like a puppy over to a popcorn cart with a red-striped awning in a corner of the office.  Louis filled two paper bags with popcorn.

“So, what’s your special area of interest, Milo?” Louis said, shoveling popcorn into his mouth.

Milo stood transfixed, next to a first-run advertising poster of
Bridge Over The River Kwai
, signed by David Lean.

“At the moment,” Milo replied, still staring at the poster, “I’m researching a family of Russian Jews who settled in the Midwest in the 1800s during the days of traveling theater troupes and tent shows, before movies caught on. There were nine kids in the family
––dirt poor immigrants––and the two oldest sons hit the road to find work. They ended up founding AMC Theaters, and inventing the megaplex. They represent a very interesting part of movie history.”

“Okay,” Louis grinned.  “Now I know you’re pulling my leg!  Who told you?”

Milo looked at him blankly.

“You’re talking about the Dubinskys, right?” Louis said. “The Dubinsky Boys? Take a gander over there, my friend!”

Louis pointed at an advertising poster for AMC Entertainment, showing a photograph of a tanned, middle-aged man with an athletic build, dressed in a business suit, sitting in an empty movie theater and holding a carton of popcorn, smiling broadly at the camera.

“Who is that?” Milo asked.

“You don’t know who that is?” Louis asked excitedly.  “Are you kidding me, or what? Geez, Milo.  As you will no doubt discover, one of the Dubinsky brothers eventually changed his name to Durwood in 1936. That’s old Ed Dubinsky’s son, Stan Durwood, founder of AMC!”

Milo blinked uncomprehendingly.

“I’m serious, Milo! The guy was born a Dubinsky, but became Stan Durwood when his old man changed the family name. He happens to be my hero!”

“Mr. Durwood was a remarkable individual,” Louis effused. “He was a football hero at Harvard, and when he graduated in 1943 he went right into the army air force, and became a navigator. The guy could do one-armed push-ups his whole life, and he even delivered one of his own kids because he couldn’t get his wife to the hospital in time!”

“He was kind of a bigger than life character, you know what I mean, Milo? He could tell you the birthday of every person he ever met.”

“Wow,” Louis grinned, “this is so weird. It’s like fate brought us together.”

“How did you know Stan Durwood––or Dubinsky, whatever?” Milo said.

“My mom worked for him as a secretary when I was a kid,” Louis said. “I worked in one of his theaters every summer. How do you think I got into this business? The guy taught me everything I know
.”

Milo just stood there.

“
Hey, listen,” Louis chirped. “I’ve got a whole bunch of stuff I bet you could use for your research.  I’ve got letters between Ed Dubinsky and Sam Goldwyn––stuff like that––really incredible. C’mon, help me get that trunk down from on top of the bookcase!”