Sarah’s talents.
“As I daresay you know, there is inherent prejudice in this profession against women. Most women Ph.D.s go on to teach at the high school level. The best of them—and make no mistake, Sarah was among the best—have a shot at a position at one of the women’s colleges. Perhaps Bryn Mawr, or Smith. If she had managed to solve this”—he tapped the board with his fingers—“she would have made history within mathematics. Even our most prestigious universities may have considered her.”
“Did others in the department know the nature of her work?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I suspect most people knew her general focus, but she was a private person. She would have been loath, I’m sure, to share her successes or her failures. Perhaps Artie can speak better to that, however.”
We all looked to Artie Shaw, who had hung back until this point. He flushed when he perceived he was the focus of our attention.
“I’m not sure how much people knew about her specific research. The general opinion was that she was brilliant, certain to write an exceptional dissertation.” Artie shifted uncomfortably. “And that didn’t sit well with a lot of them. They didn’t want to believe she could do it. They didn’t like being upstaged. And they especially didn’t like the possibility—however remote—that she just might land a position that more properly belonged to them. In their view, of course,” he added.
“And why was that?” Isabella asked. She had been bristling for the past few moments in light of the men’s general disregard of her presence.
“Well, because they’d have families to support, but she presumably would not,” Artie admitted.
His tone conciliatory, Richard Bonham explained further. “It’s one of our greatest ideological barriers to admitting women to graduate education, and from the time she entered the program, Sarah knew she would have to face up to it. Since most women Ph.D.s find the responsibilities of academic life and family to be mutually exclusive, they tend to pick only one—usually the latter.” He was stopped by a coughing fit—a rough, hacking cough that revived my suspicions he had recently been very ill. Then he added, “Though I wouldn’t have expected that choice from Sarah. She was unusually ambitious.”
“Did any of her fellow students seem particularly envious ofher talents? Or particularly irritated by her inclusion in the program?” I asked.
Richard and Caleb exchanged a quick look.
Finally Caleb spoke. “I am hesitating, because I am aware my answer will cast undue suspicion on a handful of students who don’t deserve the scrutiny. I can certainly give you their names, but you must bear in mind that, however much these young men may have complained about Sarah Wingate, there is not one of them I believe capable of her murder.”
He carefully wrote down four names and handed them to me; I scanned them quickly: John Nelson, Louis De Vry, Sam Baker, and Alonzo Moore Jr. known as “Lonny.” Caleb’s reluctance to mention these individuals was obvious, but I discounted it. If it were not for the more obvious signs pointing toward Michael Fromley, then this list would offer much in the way of real suspects.
Experience had taught me, time and again, never to believe the protestations of friends and family who declared an accused man “could never do such a thing.” “I know my son,” a father of a murder suspect had once said to me. He had been adamant, sincerely convinced of his son’s innocence. But what the father did not understand—no, not even after his son was convicted and sentenced to die—was that we only see those around us from one perspective. His son was one person at home, still another with friends, and still another when brawling at the corner bar. “I know my son
at home
,” is what the father meant, though he did not realize it. It was impossible for him to know more.
“Richard,” I continued. “Your daughter
“As I daresay you know, there is inherent prejudice in this profession against women. Most women Ph.D.s go on to teach at the high school level. The best of them—and make no mistake, Sarah was among the best—have a shot at a position at one of the women’s colleges. Perhaps Bryn Mawr, or Smith. If she had managed to solve this”—he tapped the board with his fingers—“she would have made history within mathematics. Even our most prestigious universities may have considered her.”
“Did others in the department know the nature of her work?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I suspect most people knew her general focus, but she was a private person. She would have been loath, I’m sure, to share her successes or her failures. Perhaps Artie can speak better to that, however.”
We all looked to Artie Shaw, who had hung back until this point. He flushed when he perceived he was the focus of our attention.
“I’m not sure how much people knew about her specific research. The general opinion was that she was brilliant, certain to write an exceptional dissertation.” Artie shifted uncomfortably. “And that didn’t sit well with a lot of them. They didn’t want to believe she could do it. They didn’t like being upstaged. And they especially didn’t like the possibility—however remote—that she just might land a position that more properly belonged to them. In their view, of course,” he added.
“And why was that?” Isabella asked. She had been bristling for the past few moments in light of the men’s general disregard of her presence.
“Well, because they’d have families to support, but she presumably would not,” Artie admitted.
His tone conciliatory, Richard Bonham explained further. “It’s one of our greatest ideological barriers to admitting women to graduate education, and from the time she entered the program, Sarah knew she would have to face up to it. Since most women Ph.D.s find the responsibilities of academic life and family to be mutually exclusive, they tend to pick only one—usually the latter.” He was stopped by a coughing fit—a rough, hacking cough that revived my suspicions he had recently been very ill. Then he added, “Though I wouldn’t have expected that choice from Sarah. She was unusually ambitious.”
“Did any of her fellow students seem particularly envious ofher talents? Or particularly irritated by her inclusion in the program?” I asked.
Richard and Caleb exchanged a quick look.
Finally Caleb spoke. “I am hesitating, because I am aware my answer will cast undue suspicion on a handful of students who don’t deserve the scrutiny. I can certainly give you their names, but you must bear in mind that, however much these young men may have complained about Sarah Wingate, there is not one of them I believe capable of her murder.”
He carefully wrote down four names and handed them to me; I scanned them quickly: John Nelson, Louis De Vry, Sam Baker, and Alonzo Moore Jr. known as “Lonny.” Caleb’s reluctance to mention these individuals was obvious, but I discounted it. If it were not for the more obvious signs pointing toward Michael Fromley, then this list would offer much in the way of real suspects.
Experience had taught me, time and again, never to believe the protestations of friends and family who declared an accused man “could never do such a thing.” “I know my son,” a father of a murder suspect had once said to me. He had been adamant, sincerely convinced of his son’s innocence. But what the father did not understand—no, not even after his son was convicted and sentenced to die—was that we only see those around us from one perspective. His son was one person at home, still another with friends, and still another when brawling at the corner bar. “I know my son
at home
,” is what the father meant, though he did not realize it. It was impossible for him to know more.
“Richard,” I continued. “Your daughter
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