Innocent Bystander (12 page)

Burnett and Emma approached the front door of Dr. Stone’s ivory colonial. With its immaculately landscaped yard and white picket fence, it resembled a house from a fifties TV show.

Standing on the porch, he couldn’t bring himself to press the doorbell. Torn between his unwillingness to put anyone else in danger and their desperate need of help, he stood immobilized. He reflected upon his promise to do everything in his power to keep Stone and his family out of harm’s way. At that moment the promise rang hollow, little more than a cheap deal he’d brokered with himself to get to the front door. And now that they’d arrived, he questioned whether he should go through with it. If the police discovered that Stone had aided and abetted a fugitive, he could end up in jail, his career ruined.

He brokered a second deal with himself. He‘d waste no time gathering evidence against Desmond. Within twenty-four hours he’d retrieve Henri’s computer and have Stone present it to the authorities.

As he reached for the doorbell, the fear that he might be wrong overcame him. What if Desmond wasn’t the one who’d set him up? What if Desmond had, but he couldn’t recover the laptop?

“What’s wrong?” Emma asked.

“I don’t know if I can risk getting him involved.”

“He’ll probably tell us to go to hell anyway.”

Burnett needed to smile, but couldn’t.

“As I said, it’s my fault you’re here,” Emma said. She raised her hand and extended a finger.

Gently he lowered her arm. “I’ve got to do this.”

A car whizzed by. He leaned forward, guided his index finger to the tiny, glowing yellow circle, and pressed. A series of chimes rang out, each peal a tiny dagger flung at his chest. Now committed to a path that could bring a great deal of suffering to more innocent people, he felt anxious, in unfamiliar territory.

At least the pounding in his head had not gotten any worse during the ride here. For that he was grateful.

The porch light flickered on, and Burnett swallowed hard. Dr. Stone opened the door, hesitated, then stepped out. For a moment all three stood in silence beneath the porch light.

“You got the number of that lawyer?” Burnett said. An uneasy smile curled his lips.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“I have a wife. Kids. I can’t get mixed up in this.”

“We’ll go.”

“I know you’re not a murderer,” Stone said. “I’m sorry someone’s trying to set you up for it.”

“I think I know who it is,” Burnett said. “I think it’s one of the teachers at SUNY.”

“What?”

“I think it’s Desmond.”

“You really believe he’s capable of something like this?”

“Suppose Henri had written a brilliant paper and no one knew about it except him. I mean a paper far beyond anything Desmond could ever imagine.”

“You’re talking about murder,” Stone said.

“I’m talking about a man whose entire body of published work is ordinary at best.”

“Hardly grounds for killing someone.”

“Everyone knows he has high aspirations,” Burnett said.

Stone snickered. “He thinks he’s such a damn genius. Every time he publishes a paper he expects to be hailed as the next Einstein.”

“Yet people laugh at his work,” Burnett said. It surprised him to see Stone nod.

“Then you’ll help us?” Emma asked.

“It’s still a big jump,” Stone said. “I’ve known Connor Desmond for seven years. I find it impossible to believe he would murder one of his students and frame another one for it, all to publish a paper.”

“What if it
was
that good?” Burnett asked. “Good enough for him to be hailed as a genius?”

Stone sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know Mr. Laroche was smart. Dr. De Stefano mentioned he thought Henri should have taught half the classes he attended.”

“I read it,” Burnett said.

“And it’s that good?” Stone asked.

Burnett nodded. “I heard something interesting on the news last night. Henri’s computer is missing.”

“I hadn’t heard that,” Stone said. “You really believe Desmond took it?”

“I think he hired someone to take it for him.”

Stone just stood there, the disbelief on his face unmistakable. “What’s the subject of the paper?”

“Time travel,” Burnett answered.

Stone half-stifled a snicker.

“A hundred years ago people laughed at Special Relativity,” Burnett said.

“Only those who didn’t understand it. Which was pretty much everyone.”

Burnett waited for a sign he was getting through to him.

“Time travel,” Stone said softly. “Just the kind of subject Desmond would use to try and shock the scientific community.” He stared at the floorboards and rearranged a small pile of sand with the tip of his shoe. “It’s really that good?”

“I wish you could have read it,” Burnett said. He searched for the right words. “It stays with you.”

Stone motioned to the garage. “You can sleep there. There’s a storage area in the back. And a spare mattress against the wall. But I want you gone in the morning.”

Emma opened her mouth, but Burnett silenced her with a wave of his hand.

“Thank you,” Burnett said.

“What about my car?” she asked.

“Car?” Stone said.

“It’s parked around the corner,” she said.

Stone shook his head for the third time. “You two are really trying to ruin my night, aren’t you?” He massaged his chin. “Put it in the garage. I’ll park my wife’s car in the driveway. Actually that’s better. Less chance of her seeing you when she leaves in the morning. I’ll think of some excuse why her car’s outside.”

“Oh, one more thing,” Burnett said.

Stone’s exasperated sigh almost prevented him from asking.

“Got any Motrin?”

“I’ll bring you a couple.”

Connor Desmond floated effortlessly just north of the coordinates for downtown Tokyo. A mushroom cloud billowed above the Japanese capital, now a wasteland a thousand feet beneath him.

A cacophony of voices filled his head. They spoke Japanese, yet he understood them perfectly: “
Why have you done this to us?”

“I did nothing,” he insisted. His objection simply riled his accusers. He covered his ears, but the pain in his skull crept from unbearable to intolerable.

Desmond sat up in bed with a start. Instinctively, he searched for the clock that had brought so much relief the previous night. He spotted it and was stunned to see it read 1:35—only a minute later than last night.
I can’t get by on two hours sleep.

He caught sight of the
Master Lucid Dreaming
book on his nightstand. Once again its advice had proven useless. In a moment of rage he snatched the book and hurled it across the room. It caromed off the wall and settled on the floor beside his wife.

He took a moment to observe her. He hoped his outburst had not woken her.
She really hasn’t changed that much since we got married,
he noted. A few more lines on her face, a couple of gray hairs, but nothing more. He leaned over and kissed her warm cheek. She did not stir. The moment passed, and a frown replaced his grin. An important phone call needed to be made, a call that could not wait for morning.

He hopped from the bed and marched into the hallway. He entered the living room, grabbed the phone, and began punching in the number of his department chairman. Midway through, he stopped. Waking a man in the middle of the night was not the ideal way to proceed. Yet he recognized that his decision to delay the peer review explained his nightmare. He would have preferred to wait a month or two, perhaps longer, before unveiling his masterpiece. That would lessen the likelihood of anyone suspecting a connection between the paper and Mr. Laroche’s demise.

Laroche’s demise
. The words were Mozart to his inner ear. His lone regret was that the young man had not suffered enough. The plan had been for Audrey to visit him a number of times over the course of several weeks—he would generously grant an extension if Henri requested one. Each time she would reveal further details about the consequences of his paper. This, in conjunction with his sleepless nights, would eventually drive him to suicide. If not, he knew someone who could eliminate him and dispose of the body where it would never be found.

For some reason his former student took his life after only one visit from Audrey.
He must have been far more unstable than I thought.
In retrospect, perhaps it was not entirely unexpected. Henri Laroche truly was a mad genius.

Henri’s attitude, in fact his overall personality, stood in perfect contrast to his genius. From the moment Desmond had welcomed him into his office to evaluate the first draft of his paper, he had been insolent. Unforgivable was a better word.

He recalled his astonishment as he laid Henri’s paper on his desk. A few of the mathematical equations, particularly the final one, were beyond his comprehension. Only after extensive research had he been able to understand them. All but one: the last equation. It continued to baffle him. Henri had used symbols and figures he had never seen before. No matter what books or journals he consulted, he could make no sense of it. Henri had been functioning on a different plane than mere mortals. Yet based on what he did understand, Desmond felt confident about one thing—his young student just might have uncovered the secret to time travel.

“You want to just give me an A now?” Henri had said.

Desmond’s wide-eyed gape betrayed his awe. “Not quite yet. You need to organize your ideas better. There’s no coherency to the work.” He spoke the truth, although that in no way dulled the luster of what he had read.

“Details,” Henri said.

“Never underestimate the importance of details.”

“You don’t understand it, do you? How can you feel capable of grading something you don’t understand?”

“I would prefer it if you did not speak to me in that way.”

“I’ve read your work, Professor,” Henri said, emphasizing the word “professor” with disdain. “Have you ever had an original idea? Your best work is a watered-down rehash of what others have already done. How much did you pay off the editor of that journal? A hundred grand? Five hundred? We both know the garbage you submitted was unworthy of publication. At least the way you sent it in.”

A microsecond from lashing out, Desmond found the self-restraint to hold back. For a student in need of a passing grade, Henri had come in with a hell of an attitude. He didn’t deserve an A, no matter what he’d written. He didn’t deserve to be so gifted. And the more Desmond reflected on it, the more he realized Henri didn’t deserve to live after such an insult. He kept his rage clamped down. His chance for immortality had come.

Desmond rose, stepped to the office door, and eased it shut. The pebbled glass prevented anyone from seeing inside. He twisted the lock so they would not be disturbed.

“Have you shown this to anyone else?” Desmond asked. “Have you told anyone about it?”

Henri shook his head.

Desmond neared him. They stood face to face. Before Henri could speak, the professor grabbed his student’s wrists and raised them between their two chins. He squeezed. “You’re absolutely certain? Not even in passing?”

Henri winced. “No. Look, I’m sorry Professor. I didn’t mean what I said. I guess I’m so desperate to pass your class that I, I don’t know.”

“You decided to insult me,” Desmond said with a grin.

Henri looked at him sheepishly. A moment later he shut his eyes with a whimper.

“I’m sorry,” Desmond said and released his grip.

“Honestly, I say things. I don’t know why sometimes. It’s the lack of sleep. The stress. The need to pass your class.”

“Don’t give it another thought.” He recognized Henri’s state of mind and patted his student’s arm. “Organize your paper and submit it on time. You’ll get your A.”

“Really?”

“But I need you to do one thing for me. Swear you won’t tell anyone about the paper. After you submit it, we’ll see if we can arrange to have it published in a journal. I’ll help you spring it on an unsuspecting scientific community.”

“Thank you so much, Professor.”

“Perhaps we could first develop it into your thesis, if you would allow me to help. I believe you mentioned your plan to enroll in graduate school, yes?”

Henri nodded eagerly. “How can I ever thank you?”

“Keep in mind, if you show it to anyone or tell anyone about it, I will flunk you out of the class. I do not wish to do that, but I will. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“One more question. Are there any copies besides this one?” He snatched the papers from his desk and wagged them in front of Henri’s nose.

“That’s the only one.”

“Let me hold on to it.” He returned the copy to his desk. “Do not make any more copies. Do not tell a soul about it. I will guarantee you an A, not only on the paper, but in the class. Fair?”

“Thank you.”

“Remember, no one must know about it.”

Henri had nodded and backed toward the door.

The portable phone in Desmond’s palm slipped out and clattered onto the floor. He retrieved it, clutched it tight, and stared into space for several seconds. Beginning the process of getting the paper published could not wait, not even for an appointment.

Having the department chairman read a paper an instructor intended to publish had become tradition at SUNY New Rochelle. At first Desmond had resented it and once even refused, but he had since come to appreciate what a valuable prelude it could be to a peer review.

Every morning before dawn, the chairman went for a jog around the reservoir. Desmond would run into him there and introduce him to the paper. Just imagining the chairman’s reaction roused the hair along his arms.

Once the chairman reads and is stunned by the paper, the world will never be the same. Soon his name would be enshrined alongside the greatest physicists in history. A tear trickled down his cheek. Never again would his work be the subject of ridicule by his peers, or worse, by his own student.

* * *

Detective Mayweather popped up from his leather manager’s chair and shoved his computer keyboard aside. The digital clock on the desk in his study read 2:15 a.m.

How could Desmond be such a Boy Scout?
No criminal record, no infractions of the law, not so much as an unpaid parking ticket. The man was too good to be true. A bit of a phony, yes, but that was still not a prosecutable crime.

Near the end of the hallway a shaft of light protruded from his son’s bedroom. He didn’t notice any movement in the room. Then he heard the toilet flush, followed by the squeak of the faucet. A moment later the bathroom door closed, and the patter of young feet in the hall followed.

He hoped the precocious eight-year-old would simply return to bed, but the footsteps persisted. The boy stopped beside him and placed his head on his father’s elbow.

“It’s pretty late,” Mayweather said.

“I can’t get back to sleep, Dad.”

He would allow his son to stay up as long as he wished. At times he was too lenient with the boy. He knew that. Discipline had never been his forte, and after what they’d been through, he chose to grant his son even more latitude.

Timothy nuzzled the crook of his father’s elbow, then turned his attention to the screen. “That a bad guy?”

Mayweather laughed involuntarily. “I wish I knew.”

“He doesn’t look like a bad guy.”

“You can’t always tell by appearance.”

“If he is, will you kill him?”

“No. No, I’ll try my best to catch him and bring him to justice. You know that’s what I do.”

“I hope you kill him. Before he gets a chance to kill you.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

Timothy yawned, and his eyelids drooped.

“Want to go back to bed?”

“I’m not tired.”

The boy yawned a second time and leaned his full weight against his father.

“I’ll carry you.”

When no protest came, Mayweather rose from the chair and scooped him up into his arms. By the time they arrived beside the
Lightning McQueen
race-car-shaped bed, Timothy was gently snoring.

Mayweather deposited him on top of the cotton blanket, tucked him in with the comforter, then returned to his desk. He downed the final drop of decaf from his mug and set it beside the stapler.

He directed his attention back to the computer monitor. There had to be a damn good reason why Burnett had not only remained in town, but invested so much time researching Desmond. His teacher seemed quite ordinary. He’d been a professor of physics since he joined SUNY New Rochelle shortly after it opened ten years ago. He’d published a number of papers, one of which Mayweather had just read but didn’t pretend to understand. He’d been granted tenure at the university, and he’d been fortunate to marry into money. There was just nothing to warrant opening an official investigation into him. Unless Burnett had a proverbial ace up his sleeve, he’d be arrested as soon as he was found.