Innocent Bystander (15 page)

Physics Department Chairman Dr. Thomas De Stefano deposited the third of the five pages on the center console of Desmond’s Mercedes Sports Coupe. He produced an exaggerated sigh and shook his head. “It’s the same old thing,” he muttered. “Impossible to generate anywhere near that much power.”

Desmond maintained his silence. He knew De Stefano had a curious habit of commenting on a sentence or an equation as he read it. It was as though the filter that separated what he thought from what he said was deactivated when he read.

“Even if you could, the wormhole wouldn’t remain stable,” De Stefano said.

Though only forty-six, De Stefano appeared much older. He had the world-weary look of a man who had witnessed more in nearly a half-century than most people might in three lifetimes. His sharply receding hairline and wisps of dull gray hair only accentuated his tired appearance.

No wonder he jogs every day
, Desmond thought.
His life probably depends on it
.

He regarded the department chairman with hidden resentment. That the school had given the chairman’s seat to a younger man with less experience was a snub he could not ignore.

He sat in the driver’s seat of his idling Mercedes and watched De Stefano pick up the final page. The chairman’s eyes zigzagged their way down the paper.

Desmond relished the surprise that emerged on De Stefano’s face. Then the chairman’s body shook as though someone had snuck up on him and yelled, “
Boo
.”

“You okay?” Desmond asked.

The department chairman did not reply. He lifted his hand to support his head. He had become so engrossed in the paper that his running commentary ceased.

De Stefano’s gaze returned to the top of page five. He read it a second time, mouthing many sentences. When he reached the bottom of the page, he leaned back in the seat. In his hand he still clutched the fifth page.

“Unbelievable,” De Stefano said. “I had no idea you were interested in time travel.”

“Some people don’t take it seriously,” Desmond replied.

De Stefano offered an emphatic nod. “I have to be honest with you, Connor, I was one of those people. I’ve always been fascinated by it, but never truly believed it was possible.” He paused. “This has actually forced me to rethink my position.”

Desmond could not contain the smile that spread across his face. The chairman understood. More than that, it had converted him into a believer. Truly this demonstrated the power of the piece.

“I’m amazed at how you solved the problem of temporal paradoxes,” De Stefano said.

“Simply a thought experiment,” he said without thinking.

“I can’t imagine there was anything ‘simple’ about it.”

Desmond recognized that he had spoken too quickly. He had no desire to elaborate on the subject.

“More than that, though,” De Stefano said, “is how you solved the energy problem.” He chuckled with irony. “I thought I felt a jolt of energy when I read it. That’s why I reread the last page.”

Desmond thought back to the first time he had read the paper. He recalled experiencing what could only be described as a jolt of energy. At the time he had chalked it up to his astonishment that the paper he had longed to write had literally fallen into his lap. Now he recognized there may have been more to it.

De Stefano eyed him. “I have to confess, I didn’t think you had a work like this in you.”

This time Desmond chose his words carefully. “It’s taken me a long time.”

“Are you trying to be clever, Connor?”

Desmond merely smiled.

“It’s right up there with the man himself,” De Stefano said.

Endorphins flooded Desmond’s nervous system. The chairman had compared his work with Einstein, the man he had idolized since junior high, the man twentieth-century
Time
magazine readers had voted the Man of the Century. Might a similar compliment await him at the close of the twenty-first?

He savored the moment, then forced himself to regain his composure. “As you know, there are few people in the world who truly understand the Special Theory of Relativity.”

“And you’re one of them?”

He nodded, uncertain whether or not he had detected a hint of sarcasm in De Stefano’s voice. “As I said, this has taken me quite some time. I’ve been working on it for nearly five years.”

“I’m not surprised to hear you say that. It feels different from your other papers. Not as cohesive.” De Stefano paused. “Anyone help you with this?”

“No. I have a lengthy bibliography if you would like to read it.”

The chairman shook his head. “I was just curious. As I said, it feels different.”

“In what way?”

“Well, your other papers were—oh, how should I say it—far more pedestrian.”

Desmond raised an arm to protest, but De Stefano waved him off.

“It’s not an insult,” De Stefano said. “Some people publish garbage. Others can’t get their work in print.”

He knew the chairman had spoken the truth.

“In all honesty,” De Stefano said, “one or two of these equations are a tad over my head. Particularly the one at the end. Maybe later, when we have more time, you can clarify some of the numbers for me.”

De Stefano stared at him with an intensity he found unsettling. He sensed the chairman was more interested in his reaction than his answer.

“Sure,” Desmond said. “At your earliest convenience.”

He reflected on his own inability to understand several of the equations early on. Only after extensive research had he come close to recognizing the full significance of what Henri had achieved. The meaning of that final equation, however, still eluded him.

“How about now?” De Stefano said. “I don’t have a clue what that last equation is all about. I’ve never seen anything like it. But it sure as hell had some kind of effect on me.”

“I’m not sure where to start.”

“How about you start by telling me where you got this.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This,” De Stefano said, and grabbed the small pile of papers he had just read. “Where did you get this?”

Desmond stammered and grunted something unintelligible, then tried his best to regroup. “I wrote it.”

“Do I need to spell it out for you? In my four years as department chairman I’ve previewed everything you’ve written. Not once have you ever produced anything even approaching this level. Which leads me to conclude that you don’t understand all of it either. But, like me, you recognize its brilliance. Now, are you going to tell me who wrote this?”

“You accusing me of stealing someone else’s work?”

“There’s no need to get upset. I know you didn’t write this. You know you didn’t write this. Let’s get it all out in the open. Before you get into trouble.”

Desmond stared out the window, dumbfounded.

“In all honesty,” De Stefano said, “this reads like something Henri Laroche might have dreamed up.”

Desmond’s heart lurched. He had not disguised the work enough.

“Tell me where you got this,” De Stefano said. “We’ll forget this whole thing. Like it never happened.”

“Forget the whole thing?” he echoed. “I spent years working on this. And I will not let you just toss it out the window because you don’t think I’m capable of something of such quality.”

“Look, Connor, just settle down and we’ll talk this out.”

“There’s nothing to talk out. I don’t need your permission to submit this for peer review.”

“Of course not,” De Stefano said. “That’s not the question. The question is who wrote it? Or at least, who helped you write it?”

The second question, an obvious attempt to diffuse the tension, failed. Desmond had slipped beyond being calmed. Rage clenched his fists.

“This is my paper,” he said. “I’ve worked on it a long time, and I resent your accusation that it’s someone else’s work or that I received assistance with it. I did an enormous amount of research, all of which is documented in the bibliography.”

The urge to strike his chairman filled him, but he restrained himself.

“We should talk about this later,” the chairman said. “Perhaps at my house tonight. I’ll ask Sarah to make chicken Francaise. Remember how much you enjoyed it last time? I do. And bring your lovely wife again. It’s been what, nearly six months. I’m sure the two of them will have plenty to talk about.”

De Stefano’s attempt to change the subject further infuriated him. Half a dozen conflicting emotions surfaced, and each strove to be expressed simultaneously. He croaked out a half-hearted, “No.”

“Please, let’s talk about this later,” De Stefano said.

“We both know my permitting you to read it was simply a courtesy. You have no power to stop me from submitting it.”

“But I do have the power to voice my concerns. And I’ll do just that.”

Desmond’s right hand rose and grabbed his chairman by the back of the head. He felt like a distant observer as his hand slammed De Stefano’s face hard against the glove compartment. The man’s upper lip struck the tiny door with a loud, nauseating crash. He grasped De Stefano’s hair and yanked his head up. The chairman tried to speak, but only blood spewed from his mouth. An incisor dropped to the floor mat.

With all his strength, Desmond repeatedly bashed his chairman’s face against the glove compartment. After each strike De Stefano offered less resistance. By the fifth hit he offered none. Desmond released his grip and the man crumpled into the seat.

His former chairman did not move. He checked for a pulse, but could not find one. Desmond studied him, trying to decide what he felt. There was no regret, no guilt, no euphoria. He had done what he needed to, and that was all. He had snuffed out a man’s life, a man he had worked with for seven years, yet he sensed little more than a flutter in his stomach.

“You don’t think I overheard you talking to Freeman and Stone, laughing at my work? Telling them my papers had only been published because Dean Marshall is friends with the senior editor, or because my wife makes large donations to the school.”

The five pages rested on the floor beneath De Stefano’s legs. He retrieved them before blood trickling down the glove compartment door could stain them.

“I’ve read your papers, Chairman. You’ll soon be forgotten. But my contribution will quickly become part of every textbook in every university.”

He retrieved his cell phone from beneath the seat. He pressed a single digit and waited for a response. “Ryder,” Desmond said in a soft, even voice. “I have something I need you to dispose of. I’m at the reservoir. Okay, I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.” He clicked the phone off.

When he reflected on what had just happened, he realized it may have been a blessing in disguise. Had he published the manuscript without De Stefano previewing it, other instructors at the university likely would have recognized it as a paper Henri Laroche might have written.

Fortunately he had not disposed of the computer. Henri’s laptop was a goldmine of unfinished works. He could develop one into a complete paper and publish it. Maybe he could even publish a couple of papers before he revealed the time travel piece, one or two less flashy works. This would also provide him with the time to further personalize the time travel paper. That way, once he unveiled his masterpiece, his place in history would be questioned by no one.

Burnett watched from the garage as Stone’s wife backed her minivan into the street. Her two children traded playful swats in the middle row. Once the vehicle disappeared, Burnett and Emma entered the house.

When they arrived in the kitchen, Stone lifted a remote and silenced the morning news. He deposited his spoon into a cereal bowl with a clank.

The noise heightened Burnett’s discomfort. He had no clue what to expect from Stone.

“We make the morning news?” Emma asked.

“Just your friend here,” Stone said. “Lead story. Not just here but throughout the tri-state area. Even a mention on the national news.” He set the remote down and faced Burnett. “Congratulations.”

“You said you didn’t think I was capable of murder.”

“I don’t claim to be a psychiatrist.”

“Desmond’s behind this.”

Stone removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “They mentioned Henri’s computer this morning.”

“He’s got it.”

The two men stared at each other.

“I’m absolutely convinced,” Burnett said, “Desmond wants to publish Henri’s paper as his own. I have no evidence to back that up. If I can find the computer, I think it would be a strong piece of evidence against him.”

“Even if he does have it,” Stone said, “he’s not stupid enough to leave it lying around where you, or anyone else, could find it.”

“I need to know.”

“You’re not thinking of …” Stone said, but didn’t complete the sentence.

Burnett gazed at him, expressionless.

“That’s insane,” Stone said. “You want to go to prison that bad, let me turn you in. I could use the reward money.”

“I need evidence.”

“Breaking into the man’s house?”

“I have nothing to prove my innocence. Nothing to prove his guilt.”

“You mentioned,” Emma said before Stone could respond, “that only Michael made the news this morning.”

“That’s right.”

“Nothing at all about me?”

“Not that I heard.”

“Perfect,” Emma said. “We go there tonight. I’ll make up some story about Henri’s family wanting more information about why he was failing the class, something like that.”

Burnett had no intention of waiting until nightfall, nor any intention of permitting her to accompany him. “Desmond’s house is on your way,” he said to Stone.

“It’s practically the opposite direction. This whole plan is insane.”

“You won’t help us?” Emma asked.

“I’ve been to his house,” Stone said. “The man’s got a state-of-the-art security system. As I mentioned, if you really want to go to prison …”

“Will you drop me off?” Burnett asked.

“Us,” Emma said.

Stone squeezed his chin. “No. I’m sorry you’re in this position, but I have to think of my family. I’ve done too much already. Now, I want you to get your car out of the garage and not come back. If you need money I’ll give you what I can, but I can’t get involved any deeper.”

“I understand,” Burnett said. He spun and motioned to Emma to follow.

“It’s not that I don’t want to see justice served.”

“If the situation were reversed, I’m sure I’d do the same.”

“I’m sure you would,” Stone said, though it was obvious he didn’t believe his own words.

Emma and Burnett neared the foyer.

“Want my advice?” Stone asked.

Burnett stopped, turned, and waited.

“Let me give you the name of that lawyer, then turn yourself in. The longer you run, the worse it looks.”

Burnett nodded, then took Emma by the arm and escorted her out the door.