He said, before going around to the back of the house to put away his bicycle, “I understand your reaction, Mrs. Prouty, but I will hear no more ill spoken of the dead.”
“Blimey, Professor, Henry Pratt ain’t dead, he’s gone to Alaska again in search of gold.” She turned with a huff and closed the front door with a good deal more force than was necessary.
“Henry? Oh, oh. I see,” he said to no one. It took his mind a moment to fully switch over from Wesley Oglethorpe to Henry Pratt, his longtime friend who boarded upstairs in the spare room. So, Henry had gone. Again. He’d known it was coming. Though unsuccessful in his first adventure in ’98, gold fever had been growing in Henry for months. Boatloads of overnight millionaires no longer docked weekly in Seattle, but enough of them trickled in to keep the hope alive.
His bicycle stored, Bradshaw came in through the kitchen, then down the hall, and put his satchel beside his desk in the parlor. He thumbed through the mail, which Mrs. Prouty always left for him on the mantel, and found a letter for Henry addressed in a familiar hand. The letter-writer was Missouri Fremont, Henry’s young niece who lived near Pittsburgh. For the briefest of moments, Bradshaw smiled, recalling the engaging stories Missouri had related over the years in that careful, flowing script.
It would be a week at least before he could forward the letter to Alaska. He propped the letter on the mantel as a reminder to send it on when he received word from Henry where he could be reached. Three years ago, that had been the general post office in the Klondike. Big syndicates now owned the most valuable claims in that region, and Henry would be wiser to try his luck in Nome, but he had some harebrained idea that a minuscule stream he’d filed a claim on was simply waiting for him to return to bestow its bountiful riches.
Bradshaw stared at the letter, but his mind was back at the university. He felt cold, and the house was suddenly too quiet. He called out to Mrs. Prouty, “Where’s Justin?”
Her voice came in ever-increasing volume as she made her way down the hall. “Taking a bath. He must have jumped into every mud puddle on his way home from school.” She was now standing before him, wiping her hands on her starched apron. “Now, what is it, Professor? You’re white as sheet.”
White as a sheet. White as a ghost. How many expressions were there for describing the pallor of a man who’d just delivered news of death?
“There’s been a tragedy at the university. Professor Oglethorpe has been killed.”
“No! Murdered, you mean? Who done it? A student or one of the staff?”
“No, not murdered.” Good night, what a morbid mind she had, jumping to such a conclusion. “It was an accident with the Machine, Mrs. Prouty.” Or was it? He was as bad as Mrs. Prouty, jumping to conclusions. He wanted it to have been an accident, but wanting did not make it so.
He climbed the stairs and found his son in the midst of a bubble bath war. Toy modern warships battled three-masted schooners. Pirates attacked navy sailors. Water sloshed triumphantly over the round edges of the enameled iron and was captured silently by thick white towels Mrs. Prouty had the foresight to spread across the wood floor. The boy, his fair hair still dry and messy, his pale skin gleaming with water and spotted with bubbles, declared a temporary truce when his father arrived.
“She made me take a bath even before dinner and now I’ll have to get dressed in real clothes again and then have to get undressed and into pajamas!”
Bradshaw propped himself on the commode and hid a smile. The boy would run around filthy and naked, if he had his way. The chore of dressing was hated second only to bathing, although once in the tub, it was difficult getting him out.
“Did you know Henry went to Alaska?”
The boy sullenly sank the warship with a splash.
“He’ll bring home exciting stories.”
“So.” The schooner followed the warship to the bottom of the tub, no doubt held submerged by the boy’s toes. He could be as miserly in speech as his father, but that single word spoke volumes.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” Bradshaw’s tone brooked no argument.
“He didn’t even say good-bye.”
“Oh, I see. And I agree. It was rude of him not to say good-bye. He was probably afraid I would try to talk him out of going.”
“Would you have?”
“Yes. But he’s gone now, and the best we can do is wish him safety and success.”
Justin showed his disdain for this suggestion by sinking another ship. Bradshaw knew better than to try to force a change in attitude. The boy felt what he felt, but he listened to reason even if he didn’t immediately embrace it. By the time Henry’s first letter came, Justin would be eager to read it.
Bradshaw wished he could mimic his son’s resilience. The heaviness of his chest was a constant physical reminder of today’s events. He must be careful how he explained Oglethorpe’s death. Too lightly, and the boy would treat the tragedy like some great adventure story; too heavily, and the boy would be frightened for his father’s safety.
The sound of the doorbell diverted Bradshaw’s attention and momentarily spared him the labor of finding the right words. He heard Mrs. Prouty at the door. A moment later, she shouted for him to come down.
He stood and stretched. “Behind the ears and between the toes,” he commanded, leaving his son to the bubbles.
Bradshaw descended to the hall. Mrs. Prouty had returned to the kitchen, but she’d left the front door open. Two policemen stood on his porch. His heart gave a little leap—of what emotion, he couldn’t say. Fear? Curiosity? Interest? Perhaps all three. He crossed to the threshold to greet Patrolman Mercer and another much smaller officer who identified himself as Sergeant Hoyle.
The small sergeant said, “You’re wanted for questioning, Professor Bradshaw.”
“Yes, certainly.” He stood back to let them in. Curiosity and interest, most definitely.
“Not here. At headquarters.”
“Shall I bring my notes?”
The policemen blinked blankly.
“Notes of the Machine? I took detailed notes of the lab and the Machine in case they were needed.” He looked hopefully at Patrolman Mercer, who’d watched him taking those notes.
Patrolman Mercer said, with an exaggerated sarcasm Bradshaw found completely unwarranted, “Yes. Bring yer notes. By all means, bring yer notes.”
Confused by their attitude, Bradshaw retrieved his engineering notebook from his parlor desk and returned to the open front door. Patrolman Mercer snatched the notebook from him, and Sergeant Hoyle unhooked a gleaming pair of handcuffs from his belt.
“Extend your wrists, Professor.”
Bradshaw was too startled for words.
“I said extend your wrists.”
“But—”
Hoyle placed a palm upon the hilt of his holstered revolver. “Don’t make me say it a third time, Professor.”
Bradshaw stared for a moment at the revolver. On his front porch. Threatening him.
Preposterous.
Impossible to ignore.
And so Professor Benjamin Bradshaw extended his wrists. He knew it was a moment he would never forget, even as sunlight winked off the steel and his mind went frightfully blank. The gusting wind brought him back to awareness, to the rattling of the back door with the change in air pressure. To Mrs. Prouty gasping as she emerged from the kitchen.
He heard a small intake of breath. He looked over his shoulder. Justin stood dripping bubbles, clutching a bath towel, at the top of the stairs.
Bradshaw’s heart froze.
“Daddy?”
But before he could reply to his son, before he could assure him there was nothing to fear, Patrolman Mercer, whom Bradshaw now hated beyond reason, said, “Come now, Professor,” and tugged on the cuffs, digging the metal into his wrists, ripping hi
m from the threshold of his home.
Chapter Four
Professor Bradshaw was ushered into a tiny windowless office, given a chair, and told to sit. He sat.
The room had more in common with an over-sized closet than an office. A cheap wall-mounted electric fixture with a bare incandescent bulb filled the room with an unforgiving light. The detective wore a cheap brown suit of mixed cheviot and sat behind the desk that had been squeezed into the space. He did not extend his hand. Despite his lack of welcome, he had a friendly face, with smiling hazel eyes that were thick-lashed and thick-browed. His ears were large, sticking out from a close-cropped head. Freckles dotted his long, lean, angular face. His age was difficult to determine, nearing forty, perhaps, or a weathered thirty. He wore a cavalry style hat, a Roosevelt, with a high crown and flat brim. It looked like something a cowboy would wear, and Bradshaw wondered why the detective kept it on while indoors. He had the face of a stage actor—no, an Irish priest expecting a confession. Bradshaw certainly felt an unnatural compulsion to speak.
“You are Detective O’Brien?”
“Yes. I’m O’Brien.” He sat back, hands entwined behind his neck, and smiled.
The smile did nothing to reassure Bradshaw. It was not that sort of smile.
“There’s been a mistake.” He lifted his wrists so that the metal cuffs jangled. His stomach twisted sickly again.
“There’s been no mistake.”
It would take time, that was all, thought Bradshaw. They needed factual detail of what had happened today at the university.
“I’ve brought my notes.” Bradshaw opened his folder on the desktop. He sat forward and twisted sideways to better show the detective. It was not this detective’s fault, he told himself, as the image of Justin clutching that bath towel flashed before him. This Detective O’Brien hadn’t intended to traumatize a boy of eight.
For several minutes, Bradshaw pointed out the various features of the Electric Machine and the university’s engineering lab, the handcuffs jangling with each page turn. Normally a quiet man, not given to casual discourse, he now fairly gushed with particulars of this deadly matter. This wasn’t trite, manipulative, or wasteful conversation like most social interchange. It was conversation as useful and straightforward as an electric circuit. If all speech were such as this, Professor Bradshaw thought, his reputation wouldn’t be taciturn but downright gabby.
Slowly, however, Bradshaw became aware that O’Brien’s keen gaze was focused not on the notes, but on Bradshaw himself, and he appeared not to be listening.
“You must have taken your own notes of the scene, of course,” said Bradshaw, “but I wanted to make sense of the tragedy, so I recorded all I felt might be significant. And I was able to record things exactly as they were when I arrived. This,” he said, pointing at his precise drawing, trying to get O’Brien to pay attention, “is how the laboratory looked when I entered. I recorded even insignificant details, in case they might later lead us to a better understanding of the accident. Do you know anything about electricity, Detective?”
Detective O’Brien cocked his head sideways, still examining Bradshaw. He said, in a very deep and friendly voice, “Why didn’t Professor Oglethorpe like you, Bradshaw? You appear a likeable enough fellow.”
“Excuse me?”
“Not a single student or teacher I spoke with this afternoon failed to mention the animosity between the two of you.”
Confused as to what this had to do with Professor Oglethorpe’s death, Bradshaw shook his head. “It wasn’t animosity, more like aversion. He’s a physicist as well as engineer, a researcher and theorist. He believes—believed—all professors should be of the same nature.”
“And you’re not a professor of such nature?”
“I’m a practical man. My interest is in the mechanics and practical uses of electricity.”
“I’ve read that Thomas Edison is such a man.”
“Yes, he is.” There was no warmth in Bradshaw’s voice. He still hadn’t forgiven Edison for devising the Kinetoscope. Had it really only been this morning that he’d witnessed that horrid moving picture?
The detective asked, “Did Oglethorpe admire Edison?”
“No. Oglethorpe acknowledged the cleverness of Edison’s inventions, but overall, he considers—considered—Edison a lucky dabbler and talented salesman. And he thought Edison foolish for backing direct-current. Oglethorpe was a Tesla enthusiast. A Tesla rival would be more accurate. His research was in the same field of the wireless transmission of energy.”
“Tesla? Is he the man who invented that contraption you had hooked up to that cage in your lab? The one Patrolman Mercer claimed produced lightning?”
“The oscillating coil, yes. That’s Tesla’s invention. But it’s the university’s lab, the engineering department’s lab, not mine. And the Electric Machine was a student project overseen by the entire staff of electrical engineering, not just me.”
“You’re a very clever man, aren’t you?”
Bradshaw didn’t know how to reply to such a statement said in such an accusatory tone. A horse whinnied, the sound coming from beneath Bradshaw’s feet. Apparently, this claustrophobic office was situated above the stables. Police headquarters, located within the City Hall building, had been recently extended as a result of Seattle’s explosive population growth and corresponding crime rate.
Detective O’Brien’s method of questioning was as incongruous as the building. “You’ve got a number of patents for electrical gadgets. Have they made you much money?”
Bradshaw stiffened. This turn in questioning hardly seemed conducive to the removal of the handcuffs. “I’ve invented a few gadgets, as you call them, and hold patents on improvements for certain electric motors. The income they provide make it possible for me to concentrate on teaching. Most of what comes in I save for my son’s future.” And it was his son’s future that was most at stake here. Anger bubbled once more into Bradshaw’s blood. He clenched his jaw in an attempt to control it.
O’Brien asked, “Why is it I’ve never heard of you before today?”
“Pardon me?” The words emerged hard and clipped.
“I’ve heard of Edison and Tesla. I’ve even heard of Professor W. T. Oglethorpe, the great university professor who solved, what was it, something or other about magnetism? But I’ve never heard of you, Professor Bradshaw, despite your patents.”
“As I said, my patents are minor. The newspapers are more interested in the next great invention or theory.”
“So you resented Oglethorpe for his more brilliant mind?”
Bradshaw nearly choked. “He understood theory better than I, yes. And if he’d used that understanding to enlighten his students and aid his fellow teachers, I might have admired him. But he didn’t, and so I didn’t. He used his talent as a magician uses tricks, to show off to his audience and keep them from understanding how his tricks are performed. If I resented anything, it was his high-and-mighty ineffective teaching method.”
“You tutored many of Oglethorpe’s students against his explicit request, I’m told.”
“The man believed helping a student understand the material was some form of cheating.”
“Did you help the students cheat?”
“I help the students understand the material so that they can pass their exams. It’s called teaching, Detective. It’s what I’m paid to do.”
Bradshaw gripped his knees with his restricted palms and tried to regain his composure.
“I assumed that these,” he said and again lifted his bound wrists, “were a mistake precipitated by my being first on the scene, but I fail to understand why you are mounting a personal attack.”
“You don’t deny you disliked Oglethorpe?”
What did his dislike of Oglethorpe have to do with his death? The detective was venturing into
the sort of leading conversation Bradshaw so hated and that often kept him silent. He wanted no more of it. “Detective, wasn’t I brought here to assist you in understanding Oglethorpe’s death?”
The detective’s eyes gleamed. “Yes.”
“And despite my evidence, you believe I killed him.”
O’Brien said nothing.
It was the first time in his life that Bradshaw truly understood that ignorance could be lethal. It was so ridiculous, if it weren’t for the seriousness of the situation he would have laughed. They, O’Brien, Mercer, all of them, simply didn’t understand the physical laws of electricity. Most people didn’t. Knowing the names of prominent scientists like Edison and Tesla, which appeared almost daily in the newspapers, didn’t make a man comprehend the complications of electric current. The deadliness of a single spark.
“If you would take a look at my notes. This diagram,” he turned a drawing toward the detective, “shows precisely Oglethorpe’s position. His index finger, here, is extended outside the Faraday cage. Not much, just a fraction of an inch, but that’s all it takes to move from safety to danger. He foolishly, or carelessly, or for some reason I can’t yet fathom, reached beyond the cage. The amount of current he was exposed to is not usually fatal at such high frequency, but the human body is not predictable when it comes to reacting to electricity. When the pathway of the discharge…” Bradshaw let his explanation hang in the air, unfinished.
Detective O’Brien was not looking at the diagram. His smile had taken on a new quality, that of a cat tired of playing with its prey and ready to put it out of its misery.
“Begin at the beginning, Bradshaw. Tell me when you decided to kill him, how you arranged it, and when you did it.”
“I didn’t do anything. You don’t seem to understand. Professor Oglethorpe was killed by a tragic accident.”
“You will be convicted. The only question is whether you get life or hanging. Your cooperation might make the difference.”
“Would you stop accusing me!” The small airless room was suffocating him. “I didn’t kill Oglethorpe.”
A Spark of Death Page 3