“Yes, of course.”
“Professor Hill will take Electrical Design and Professor Griffin in Liberal Arts will take Industrial Problems.”
So it was settled. Oglethorpe was gone, and already the flow of life was filling his space. How nature abhorred a vacuum.
A light knock sounded at the door, and a youthful voice spoke reverently. “Dr. Graves?”
Graves unlocked the door and Assistant Professor Tom Hill poked in his curly head. In his mid twenties, he still exuded the fun-loving demeanor of a student, though he did try to dampen his tone to fit the situation. “I beg pardon, sir, but the students are asking about Oglethorpe.”
“Tell them I will speak to them soon. Have them gather in the small auditorium—no, make that Denny Hall once the exhibits are removed—and get word around the entire campus. I’ll address all the colleges at once. Telephone the School of Law downtown. They can hop the streetcar.”
“Yes, sir.” Hill glanced at Bradshaw and pulled a face only a man still in his twenties would pull. “You found him? Tough luck.” He looked to Dr. Graves. “Is it true McKinley’s trip was canceled?”
“What?” Bradshaw was taken aback.
“Yes,” Graves confirmed, “it was in the P. I. last night. Mrs. McKinley is ill. The President won’t be coming to Seattle.”
Bradshaw hadn’t been given last night’s edition while in that stinking jail cell, and this morning’s paper sat unread at home on his kitchen table. He was relieved by the news. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but he noted his reaction as something to examine later. Instinctive reactions, he’d painfully learned, should never be dismissed.
Tom made another face, this one of disappointment. “Tomorrow’s engineering classes canceled, sir?”
“Yes.”
Tom retreated and closed the door.
Graves took a deep breath. “Could the police be right? Could Oglethorpe’s death have been intentional? He wasn’t well-liked, but I don’t believe he had actual enemies. Unless one of his failing students—but I can’t see it. They come to you, don’t they, Bradshaw, if they find themselves too awfully muddled?”
Graves already knew the answer. Bradshaw thought of the dozen students over the past year he’d tutored. It was impossible to believe any of them had plotted some sort of revenge, especially seeing that they’d all managed to pass their exams with decent scores.
“Do the police believe it was someone connected with the university?”
“It would have to be somebody knowledgeable about electricity.”
“Aah, yes. True. That at least narrows the field.”
And, he thought, someone who wouldn’t realize that a coroner can often tell if a death has been staged, a body moved. He suddenly remembered Artimus Lowe, the student with the youthful gait he’d seen while he stood at the window yesterday afternoon waiting for Daulton to finish his exam. Last term, Lowe, a law student, had haunted the engineering laboratories for weeks, attempting to gain a rudimentary understanding of electrical hazards for a senior thesis entitled “Industrial Forensics.” Bradshaw, despite his dislike of the arrogant Lowe, was intrigued by the topic. In this great age of industry, with machines continually finding their way into the everyday lives of everyday citizens, accidents were growing in number and the courts were increasingly in need of expert testimony and investigators able to understand the complex mechanisms.
Lowe was familiar with forensic medicine, and thanks to Bradshaw, he was familiar with the various dangers of electric current.
“You’ve thought of someone?” Graves asked.
“I—no, not likely.” Lowe would have known moving the body wouldn’t mask the truth.
“Whom do the police suspect? Did they say?”
Bradshaw felt his face grow hot and he knew it reddened for Graves’ brow shot up inquisitively. “That would be me, sir.”
“You?” To Bradshaw’s relief, Graves laughed. “Why? Oh, because you discovered the body.”
“Yes, and because the police learned that Oglethorpe and I weren’t the best of friends.”
“Mmm, yes.” The laughter retreated from his eyes. “Even so, that’s not much motive for murder.”
“It was enough for the police. I spent last night in jail.”
Graves’ expression went blank. “Oh. But they let you go this morning.”
“Here I am,” he said, attempting to ease Graves’ discomfiture with a lighthearted tone. He failed.
An uncomfortable silence hung between them. Graves broke it with a noncommittal, “Well then,” before looking away, fixing his gaze in the direction of the Faraday cage.
“Do the police have any other suspects?”
“They didn’t say. But I’m sure it hasn’t escaped their attention that McKinley was to view the Electric Machine next week.”
For the space of several heartbeats, Graves stared at Bradshaw. Staggered was the word that came to mind. Graves understood the enormity of the implication.
“Surely that has nothing to do with this.”
“I’m an engineer, Dr. Graves. I never dismiss facts with assumptions.”
Chapter Seven
“Have you ever testified at an inquest, Professor Bradshaw?”
He should not have paused, he knew, even though he was dreaming, even though he was aware he was dreaming. Yet the question came so unexpectedly, so out of his control, it stunned him.
The pause became a gaping silence. The Prosecuting Attorney, Harcourt, was the same attorney who’d questioned Bradshaw in Boston eight years ago at Rachel’s inquest. He hadn’t changed, not a lock of thin red hair, not a single piece of clothing. He wore that same hideous green tie, the color of steamed cabbage.
“Have you ever testified at an inquest, Professor Bradshaw?”
It was impossible to lie. “Yes.”
“Tell us, please, the circumstances of that inquest.”
Bradshaw could no longer see. He struggled to open his eyes.
“Tell us.”
“My wife died.”
“When did she die?”
“Eight years ago.”
“And how did your wife die?”
Bradshaw turned his blind face in the direction of the judge on the bench. “He can’t ask me about this. My wife’s death has nothing to do with Professor Oglethorpe.”
The judge’s voice boomed like a command from God. “Answer the question.”
She committed suicide. He merely thought the words, he didn’t say them, but he heard the spectators in the courtroom gasp. Bradshaw fought violently now to wake up, to open his eyes. He needed to run home to his son, to somehow keep those words from echoing home to his son.
“By what method?”
Poison. Again, it had only been a thought. Again, a gasp told him they’d heard.
“And you say after your wife was poisoned, there was an inquest into her death? Why? If your wife’s death was a suicide, then why was it investigated?”
He spoke this time, his words slurred. He was drunk with sleep. “The jury verdict was that of suicide.”
“But why was the inquest called in the first place? Wasn’t it because Mrs. Beatrice Bostwick, close friend and confidante of your late wife, feared foul play? Didn’t she postulate that you had been involved in the poisoning and that you had carefully staged the event to make it appear to be suicide?”
No. No. It wasn’t true. Mrs. Bostwick was very disturbed by his wife’s death. She had been there when it happened. She later apologized for having made the accusation.
“You were angry at your wife on the day of her death?”
Yes. I was angry with her. Yes.
“You were angry at Professor Oglethorpe on the day of his death.”
No. Yes.
“Yo
u were so angry with Professor Oglethorpe, you killed him. And you staged the event to look like suicide. You staged the event. You killed Oglethorpe.”
No. No.
“You killed your wife.”
“No!” Bradshaw’s eyes finally opened, and he found himself staring at the ceiling, a strangled “no” in his throat.
Soft pre-dawn light filled his bedroom with a warm glow. Birds chirped happily. He stripped off his sweat-soaked pajamas and dried his cold damp skin with a cotton undershirt. He wrapped himself in his wool lounging robe and padded barefoot down the hall to his son’s room.
The boy slept deeply in a tangle of bedclothes, his bare toes dangling off the bed. His blond hair stuck up in stiff spikes—he hadn’t rinsed out the soap well enough. A look of complete peace sheltered the boy’s face. He dreamed happy dreams. He didn’t know about his mother. Bradshaw’s own horrible dream had not slipped down the hall to snare his son, and the all-too-real nightmare of Bradshaw’s arrest wasn’t troubling the boy.
Quietly, he closed the door.
Chapter Eight
The fear that he’d publicly revealed the truth of his wife’s death remained with Bradshaw all morning. It was there as he bathed and shaved and dressed. It was there as he ate his breakfast of oatmeal and sourdough bread. He was unable to meet Mrs. Prouty’s eye as she lumbered about the kitchen, prattling about mundane things, the dampness of the weather, the cheekiness of the iceman, who’d made some comment last week about her ample bosom. She’d not yet forgiven him.
The feeling—a horrible, crushing sort of anguish—remained as he entered the heavy air of the windowless receiving parlor of Butterworth’s Funeral Home. A policeman directed him through the crowd of spectators to the front row of folding chairs.
President Graves greeted Bradshaw with cool politeness. Tom Hill patted the empty seat beside him with boyish enthusiasm. “Here’s your place, Bradshaw.”
The strength gave out in Bradshaw’s legs. He sank onto the chair.
Tom eagerly looked around. “I didn’t expect such a big crowd for old Oglethorpe. Must be a couple hundred people here. Have you ever been to an inquest?”
Blood pounded in Bradshaw’s ears as he stared blankly at Tom’s eager freckled face.
“Egads.” Tom lowered his voice. The crowd had suddenly hushed. “Here comes Oglethorpe.”
Bradshaw forced himself to move, to turn his head, to breathe.
An examining table covered with a heavy white sheet mounded in the shape of a body emerged through a side door. The metal wheels squeak-squeaked until the uniformed bailiff parked the table before the makeshift judge’s stand and a large portable blackboard.
The hushed voices dropped to whispers, then silence. Only Mrs. Oglethorpe’s hiccupping sobs remained to greet Coroner Cline, Judge Philips, and the six gentlemen of the jury as they filed into the room and took their respective positions.
Coroner Cline was a short, stocky, middle-aged man with wiry hair. Though clean-shaven, his eyebrows were a grayish-black jungle beneath a grayish-black mop. He had intense black close-set eyes, and a disagreeable habit of breathing through his mouth, no doubt a consequence of working with disagreeably smelling corpses.
“Thank you all for coming.” Coroner Cline’s deep voice reached the back of the room and into the hall beyond. “I have called this inquest in order to discover what happened yesterday afternoon that may have caused the death of this man here.” He pointed to the sheet-draped examining table. “For those of you who have never attended a coroner’s inquest, I’d like to explain that this is not a criminal trial. We are here to gather facts so that this jury of six upstanding men,” he made a sweeping gesture that took in the somber-faced jury, “can intelligently reach a verdict. We will establish three things today. The identity of the deceased, the circumstances surrounding his death, and the likely cause of his death. To do this, I will give the results of the autopsy that was performed yesterday afternoon. But first, several witnesses will be called to answer questions.” He dropped his voice and turned to face Marion Oglethorpe. “If at any time this becomes too much for you, you may adjourn to the next room and Butterworth’s staff will see to your needs.”
Marion Oglethorpe lifted her chin stoically behind her black veil and gave one final hiccup.
Coroner Cline cleared his throat. “Professor Bradshaw, will you please come forward?”
As in his dream, Bradshaw sat stunned. He hadn’t expected to be first. Prodding elbows from both Tom and Dr. Graves jolted him into action. He swore over a Bible to tell the truth then took the witness chair.
A sea of curious faced studied him. Detective O’Brien wore his perpetual smile. Patrolman Mercer scowled. The jurors were six men Bradshaw didn’t know. Their ages ranged from perhaps thirty to sixty. Their expressions sober. Each wore a perfectly trimmed small dark mustache, curved and oiled and lifted at the ends in precise points.
Coroner Cline approached. For the time it took Bradshaw’s heart to skip a beat, the Coroner studied him from beneath those wild brows. If Cline asked if he’d attended an inquest before, he thought he might be sick.
“Tell us your name, address, and occupation.”
“I’m Professor Benjamin Bradshaw. I live at 1204 Gallagher, Seattle. I’m a professor of electrical engineering at the University of Washington.” With those simple words spoken, Bradshaw’s heart resumed beating, and his stomach ceased threatening upheaval. His home and profession were worlds away from that other inquest.
“Tell us, please, the events of yesterday afternoon. Begin at, let’s say, one o’clock.”
“One o’clock?” That was several hours before Oglethorpe died. He thought back. “At one I was in my office, at the university—”
“And where is your office?”
“On the third floor.”
“For those unfamiliar with the university grounds, please tell us what building you are referring to.”
“The Administration Building. It’s the main building on campus and houses all the classrooms, faculty and staff offices. The library is in the attic and the laboratories are in the basement.”
“Were you alone in your office?”
“Yes, I was preparing an answer-key for an exam on the theory of electromagnets I would be giving in an hour-and-a-half’s time to my sophomore students.”
“What is an answer-key, Professor?”
“A step-by-step explanation of how to solve examination questions. It takes some time to prepare because I use a mimeograph to provide duplicates for the students.”
Cline lifted his tufted brows. “And after you made this exam-key?”
“At a quarter past two, I left my office and went down to the second floor classroom where I administered the examination.”
“What is the title of this class?”
“Dynamo Electric Machinery and the Magnetic Circuit. There are four students enrolled, and all but one had completed his test and left the classroom when I first noticed the building lights falter.”
“What are the names of the students who had left?”
“Jerry Carter, Melvin Sims, and Nat O’Neal.”
“And the student who remained?”
“Oscar Daulton.”
“And what time was it when the lights faltered?”
Bradshaw thought of the blustery afternoon. “Three-thirty.”
“You’re sure of the time?”
“Quite sure. The Varsity Bell had just tolled the half-hour.”
“The lights had been working properly until half-past three? They didn’t falter any other time that day?”
“I—well, I’m not sure. When I was in my office working, the room dimmed for a moment. I looked out the window and saw the weather was changing. At the time, I thought a moving cloud had caused the light fluctuati
on.”
“And now?”
“It could have been the electric wall lamp that dimmed. I can’t say for sure. I was concentrating on my work and didn’t give it much thought beyond noticing the clouds. And I didn’t check the time.”
“And at 3:30, what did you think when the lights remained dim? Does this happen often?”
“I believed at first it might be the wind, a limb on a line, or there might be some problem with the university’s power plant. But the lights had never faltered before, that I recall, except when we had the Electric Machine running.”
“The Electric Machine is the student project in the engineering lab in the basement of the Administration building?”
“Yes.”
“What happened next?”
“I went down to the lab to see if Oglethorpe had the Electric Machine going.” He explained his discovery of Oglethorpe inside the Faraday cage with the Machine still running at full capacity.
“When you say Professor Oglethorpe, you are speaking of the deceased here.” Cline pointed toward the examining table.
“Yes. Well, I assume yes. It was Oglethorpe in the lab. I haven’t seen who’s under that sheet.”
A few laughs rippled through the spectators. Bradshaw hadn’t meant to be funny. He glanced apologetically Mrs. Oglethorpe, but her head was down.
Cline strolled to the examination table and twitched back the sheet. Bradshaw rose halfway out of his seat to get a clear view. He recognized Oglethorpe’s long face and sharp nose. He’d been embalmed. His pallor was an unearthly white. Small stitches along the hairline revealed the recent autopsy. In death, Oglethorpe looked innocuous, even kind.
“Yes, that’s Professor Oglethorpe.”
Cline replaced the sheet.
“Professor, would you mind drawing for us please, the Electric Machine you speak of.” Cline handed Bradshaw a thick piece of white chalk and indicated the portable blackboard. “And then explain how it works. In simple terms, please.”
A Spark of Death Page 5