We passed a tall tower whose aged copper and steel glinted in the sun. Gears on the side started to grind, and steam shot out of it before a deep gong sound echoed around the campus.
We kept walking as students flooded the area, but after a few minutes and quite a few strange looks at the detective’s blue cape, we made it to the science building. We climbed the front steps and entered an expansive entry foyer covered with polished brass and maple wood. Elaborate mechanical contraptions and ornate scientific instruments lined the walls inside glass cases.
“Hello,” Detective Atwood said to an elderly lady at the front desk with expressive brown eyes with crow’s feet, “We’re looking for Professor Knight’s office.”
She stiffened and her gaze jumped to his blue cape and the detective badge on his chest. “Is this about Art?”
“Yes,” he said.
“We just heard an hour ago.” Her hand fluttered between her heart and her mouth as if it was a moth that couldn’t decide where to settle.
“My condolences.” Detective Atwood took off his hat and pressed it to his chest for a moment.
I did the same out of respect. It was unfortunate the killer had struck over the weekend. Otherwise, the professor’s death might’ve been discovered much sooner.
The woman sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, then waved us down the hall. “Go up the stairs to the third floor, then it’s the second door on the right. He shares—shared the office, so it should be unlocked. If you’ve hit the planetarium, you’ve gone too far.” She wiped at her eyes again.
“Thank you,” Detective Atwood said before returning his hat to his head.
We passed a lecture hall where a man used a steam-powered projector displaying a complex diagram before reaching an elevator. We stepped inside and rode the two floors in silence except for the gentle hiss of steam and a soft ticking sound.
Detective Atwood knocked on the second door on the right before pushing it open. There was so much going on in the office—a collection of different sized globes hanging from the ceiling, a table covered in glass vials with colorful liquids, glowing blue balls, a hollow clock with different symbols on its face—that I almost missed the man bustling around the brightly lit space.
“Can I help you?” He straightened papers into a slightly less messy pile, then peered up, revealing a pair of spectacles on a chain quite similar to the victim’s. He had a high forehead, and a long silver beard that matched the locks hanging down his back.
“We’re here to talk about Arthur Knight,” Detective Atwood said. “Are you the one who identified the body?”
The man’s face crumpled, and he tugged at his long hair, which was tied with a metal wire. “Yes.”
A collection of brass tubes of varying heights that looked somewhat like the back of an organ whistled loudly, and the man rushed over and pressed a few buttons, leaving us in silence.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Detective Atwood walked to the empty desk and glanced at some papers but touched nothing, though he scribbled a few things in a notebook he pulled from his pocket.
The man’s hands shook as he fiddled with a vial on his desk. “Many of us were worried when he missed this morning’s lecture. It isn’t like him not to show up for work. So I went to his house to look for him,” he continued, still straightening glass vials even as his voice trembled slightly. “When I still couldn’t locate him, I called the Iron Watch. They said a man matching his description had been found, and I was asked to come down.”
“And you just went right back to work?” I blurted out.
“I didn’t know what else to do.” The man shrugged helplessly, and his eyes betrayed his torment.
I looked down as heat flooded my cheeks. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. I knew what it was like to lose someone and how helpful a distraction could be.
“And your name is?” Detective Atwood asked while I leaned against the wall near the globes hanging from the ceiling and watched his questioning unfold while trying to get a read on the man.
“Jay McNeil.”
McNeil. I repeated the name, imagining him dropping to his knees in sadness.
“Did you share this office with Professor Knight?” Detective Atwood asked.
“Yes,” McNeil said softly. His high cheekbones and bright eyes revealed a keen intellect and an even keener sense of grief. He glanced to an empty desk on the other side of the room.
“Were you and Knight working on anything in particular?” Detective Atwood asked it casually, but McNeil’s hand jerked, knocking a vial to the ground. The glass shattered and the edge of the rug started to smoke and curl.
McNeil swore and pulled a knife from his pocket. He sawed at the carpet until he cut off the contaminated chunk, then he placed it in a sealed container.
“Sorry. That chemical is toxic,” he muttered.
“So, about that research...” Detective Atwood prodded.
McNeil looked up, almost guiltily. “Yes, we were researching something.”
“Something that could have gotten him killed?”
McNeil swallowed and straightened. “Possibly.”
“What was it?” Detective Atwood’s stern tone matched the hard lines on his face.
McNeil fidgeted with the glass container holding the still-smoking carpet edge.
“This information could help us find the murderer.” Detective Atwood crossed his arms over his broad chest, but McNeil said nothing.
I had attended enough political events to recognize McNeil’s discomfort. Maybe he just needed someone to put him at ease and press the right buttons to get the gears turning—someone like an interested female.
“I hate the thought of a killer on the loose in the city.” I forced a shiver, though the words were true enough. If I could get McNeil to worry for me, it’d be easier to ask questions when his defenses were lowered.
Detective Atwood shot me a questioning look but didn’t interfere.
“I’d feel so much better knowing we had a lead with the case.” I let my gaze drift to Knight’s desk. “I don’t want anyone else getting hurt because of this.”
“Me neither,” McNeil murmured.
I closed the distance between us and rested a hand on his arm over the rough tweed of his jacket. “You know something that might help, don’t you?” I glanced around the room and widened my eyes, trying to appear impressed. “It’s clear you two must have been working on something incredible.”
“Something that could change our entire society.” Professor McNeil puffed out his chest. “We were researching new aether technology and ways to harness its energy.”
“But we already use aether technology.” I tilted my head to the side, going for a confused yet curious look. Considering I’d never studied aether technology, it didn’t take much acting.
“Not like this. Right now, we’re only using a fraction of what aether is truly capable of. As opposed to our finite natural resources, with the right technology, we could generate an indefinite amount of aether energy. We’re so close to stabilizing it.” He went off for a few minutes, spouting words like “Hexaphene charges,” “Splicing,” and “Refraction Emissions.” Finally, he seemed to catch the glazed look in my eye, and he said, “What I’m saying is, if we unlocked the rest of its potential, we could power entire cities, fuel hospitals and—”
“And create a very dangerous weapon,” Detective Atwood said.
“Well, maybe.” Once more, McNeil started organizing his desk. Or rather, he moved things around, though there didn’t appear to be a system. “But Art and I have been very careful with our research. We aren’t—weren’t—going to tell anyone about it until we presented at the next scientific council.”
Detective Atwood sighed. “Someone else already knows.”
“What do you mean?” McNeil asked.
“We have reason to believe that some of Professor Knight’s research was stolen when he was killed.”
He froze, eyes wide. “That’s... That’s impossible. No one besides us knows what we’re working on.”
“I deal with the impossible every day.” Detective Atwood’s gaze cut to me.
I looked down to hide my blush.
“Well, even if they did get the information, they probably didn’t get all of it.” He picked up a small glass ball with a mechanical figurine in the center and turned it over again and again in his hands. “Art and I were careful to make sure we never carried too much on us at once, and we keep the rest of the information hidden in a secure location when we aren’t here.”
Detective Atwood frowned. “You might be their next target. I’m going to assign you an officer as an escort until we get this wrapped up.”
McNeil swallowed and bobbed his head. He dabbed at his weathered face with a handkerchief in his pocket and put the ball back on his desk.