Killed by the Bell

            by Adam Poole

 

         Later in the day, throngs of people will crowd Upper Sproul Plaza handing out communism flyers. Right now, however, in the wee hours of this Saturday morning it is empty save myself, Mother, and a few briskly walking students, hands buried deep in their pockets to escape the cold they thought they had left behind in Idaho. I snuggle in my stroller as I finish a bottle of warm milk. We, that is Mother and I, stop when we pass the shack piled with Daily Californians, the university’s newspaper. On the cover is a picture of the campus’s famous Campanile, known more formally as Sather Tower, huddling under the giant words “Beloved Carillonist Crushed by Bell: Foul Play Suspected.”

         Mother begins to read the story aloud, “On Thursday, February 30, Sather Tower’s Carillonist of twenty-two years, David Ello, was found crushed under a 10,500 pound bell that authorities say was forcibly dislodged…” She stops; we don’t have to read the story. We were there.

         Two days ago, Mother and I had been out on our daily morning walk through campus when it happened. The carillonist had just finished his 7:50 concert and the bells began to chime out the hour. Mother counted the bells on her fingers, insisting of course that she was doing it so I could learn to count. When she got to the number nine, she began to panic because she thought she was late for work. It turned out that the ninth chime was in fact the bell landing on the poor carillon player.

         I was particularly distressed; I admit to having a fondness for the carillon. It is a bizarre instrument to say the least; a panel of levers high in the tower that ring chromatically toned bells. The melodies are often simple and uncharacteristically juvenile for my normal tastes, but I find them soothing in the early hours. 

         We continue past the newspaper stand and the Campanile comes into view. The hands point to 8:00, though it is only quarter ‘till. The falling bell damaged the clockwork and it has not yet been repaired. We turn to go to the small courtyard at the base of the tower. Mother walks backwards and pulls my stroller up the stairs. At the top and around the corner we see the doors covered in yellow police tape. We settle at one of the benches like usual, Mother lets me out, and I wander about while she reads one of her beloved trashy mystery novels. Today, however, my wandering is purposeful; I wait until Mother is absorbed in her book and I scramble over to the yellow tape. There is only one entrance to the tower, a double door which now sports a ‘closed’ sign. Normally, the Campanile is open to the paying public via an elevator.

         If someone had in fact intended to crush the carillonist, he would have had to get up there between seven and eight. Had the culprit sabotaged the bell before then, it might have fallen at some earlier hourly chime when the carillonist wasn’t there. Who would have enough knowledge of bells to successfully sabotage one without killing himself as well? Furthermore, who would want to?

         “What are you up to kid?” The man’s voice behind me interrupts my contemplation. I turn to see he is smoking a cigar and wearing a tightly closed double breasted trench coat with a bowler perched on his head. He’s grinning at me with half of his mouth. “Quite a scene, isn’t it? Not a place for a good kid like yourself.” He then reaches down and tries to pick me up. I, of course, scream and cry and kick him. Mother abandons her book and comes to my rescue.

         “It’s alright, he’s mine,” she says to the man in a not-so-polite tone.

         “I meant no offense, just thought he ought to stay away from dangerous places, that’s all. This is a crime scene, you know.” With that the man puffs smoke in her face and walks away, leaving me shocked and muddled, but coherent enough to mark which way he goes: Evans Hall.

         “Humph, what a character! Never mind him, Caleb, we ought to be off anyway. Daddy and Michael are taking a break from their research to meet us for breakfast. I swear, if I didn’t make him, he’d never leave his experiments.” Michael is Father’s friend, a fellow professor of physics. The two have been holed up in their laboratory for the past three days.

         Once inside the hideously mundane LeConte Hall, we troll the hallways in search of Father and Michael.

         “Now where did he say his new room was?” Mother mutters. “Ah, this is it!” she exclaims, pushing open a door. It squeaks loudly.

         “Arggg! I thought I locked that damn door. Whoever that is, I’d like you to know that you ruined this experiment.”

         “Michael, I think it’s Judy.” Father emerges from behind a row of computers and stacks of coils. He’s wearing large earphones around his neck and a white lab coat over the same clothes he had on when he left home on Wednesday.

         “Forgive Michael, we’ve been at this for days and it’s rather taxing.”

         “We’re getting very close to splitting an atom, but sound waves interfere with the process,” Michael says, appearing from behind the same stack of coils and putting on a sweater. He is shorter with black hair and a hint of Asian background in his face. Both men’s clothes are disheveled after three days of no sleep.

         “But I’ve had enough of it for now, let’s have breakfast,” Michael says.

 

         We get bagels at a nearby cafe (and milk thanks to Michael who noticed my empty bottle), then head back to our usual brunch spot at the foot of the Campanile. On the way back Michael and I indulge in racing through the courtyards. Beneath the looming bell tower, Mother, Father, and Michael take seats on the bench facing the library (and incidentally, neither LeConte Hall nor the Campanile). More people are out and about now that it’s getting later. A few others are seated on benches in the courtyard. The time on the clock, however, has not changed.

         “This place isn’t quite as…peaceful after the tragedy up there,” says Father.

         Mother turns to him, “And you know what else is disturbing? On our way here a man tried to pick up Caleb while I was reading.” It was fairly traumatizing, I might add.

         “Yeah? Did you know him?” asks Michael.

         “Didn’t recognize him. He was smoking a cigar.”

         “Wow, that’s weird, who smokes cigars anymore?”

         “I’ll tell you who,” says Michael, “Professor Wittlibeades. Works over in Evans Halls. He was the one I went to ask about that integral,” he adds to Father.

         “That’s right, you said he was an expert in engineering-related calculus.” It is at this point that I finish my milk, and I dearly want another. However, Mother is engaged in the conversation, so to get her attention I throw the bottle on the ground. It bounces and rolls under the bench.

         “Honey, what was that for?” Mother says to me, bending to pick up the bottle. She can be so stupid sometimes. While she gropes beneath the bench, Michael, who is sitting on the far end, smiles over her at Father. I look at him too. Behind his stubble-covered face towers the Campanile.

         “Ma’am, it’s on the other side,” says a young woman sitting on the bench opposite us. Mother reaches under the other side of the bench and picks up my bottle, unfortunately still empty of milk.

         “Thank you,” she says to the woman.

         “No problem. Hey, I couldn’t help overhearing you guys talk about Professor Wittlibeades. You’re right about his cigar fetish, I have one of his classes and his whole room stinks of it. We have to open the windows to get rid of the smell. But then of course he gets angry when the Campanile goes off and drowns him out.” She laughs to herself.

         “It’s almost been nicer now that it’s broken. We don’t have to suffer the smell because we can open the windows without the chimes bothering the professor.” She looks up at the clocktower. Its hands still point to eight o’clock “Of course now I never know what time it is. Do any of you have the time?”

         Father looks at his watch, “Yes, it’s nearly ten now.”

         “Oh dear! I ought to be off then,” the student says. “I’ve got a dentist appointment.” She childishly waves goodbye to me and walks away briskly.

         “Now Caleb dear,” Mother says to me, “you know better than that girl. Ten o’clock is not the time for a dentist appointment.” I think I know where this is going, but I try not to believe it. I’ve always thought more highly of my parents.

         “That’s right,” Father chimes in, “everyone knows the best time for a dentist appointment is two thirty!” Michael looks at him questioningly.

         “As in tooth-hurty…” Father explains.

         “Hey, that reminds me of one I heard the other day!” says Michael enthusiastically. I can’t believe they’re telling puns. I was under the impression that these men were physics professors with beyond normal intellects. “Guess what the German professor ate for breakfast.” Michael looks expectantly at Mother and Father. “Come on, guess.”

         “Um…sausages,” says Father.

         “Nein, a clock!” Michael exclaims, doubling over with laughter. My God, is that how they split an atom? By telling it jokes until it cracks? The adults continue to share puns, but I can’t bear it anymore. I focus my attention on the ever growing hustle and bustle of the campus. Families walk amongst the studious pupils who have ventured here on a Saturday, some with children, some with dogs, some with both. There are even a few professors - conspicuous because of their garb and stately gait. In fact, just leaving Evans Hall is Professor Wittlibeades himself. He is still wearing his coat and hat. I can’t see whether he’s smoking a cigar. Although at first it appears he may be walking the other way, he turns a corner and heads in our direction. I check my stroller belt; I won’t have that creep try to pick me up again. He’s getting closer and Mother hasn’t noticed yet. I begin to cry (purely in an effort to get her attention, of course).

         “Honey, what’s wrong?” she says to me.

         “Don’t look now,” Father says in a undertone, “but your friend Wittlibeades is back.”

         “Good,” she says, “I want to tell him a thing or two about touching my son.” We all brace for impact as the professor draws near. He aims straight for us.

         “Professor Wittlibeades, I assume?” Mother exclaims, standing up to face him, putting me safely behind her. He stops some five feet away.

         “Yes, ma’am. I am he.” His voice is commanding and we all shrink down.

         “I just wanted to tell you…” she pauses. If he weren’t so scary, I would kick her for being afraid. “I just wanted to tell you…that cigars are even worse than cigarettes for your lungs.” Come on, Mother! What happened to protecting your beloved son?

         “Thank you, ma’am, I shall take that into consideration. For now, however, I wish to speak with Professor Michael Mount–leBaîne.” He doesn’t look at Michael when he says this, he continues to stare harshly into Mother’s eyes.

         “Yes?” Michael says, standing.

         “I wanted to discuss the calculation you proposed to me on Wednesday.”

         “Now?”

         “Now would be particularly…appropriate.” Wittlibeades then draws from his coat a folded piece of paper covered both sides in math equations and a copy of the Daily Californian. He points to the front page article on the carillonist murder.

         “In this article, it says that the heaviest bell is 10,500 pounds. I couldn’t help but notice that one of your constants in this equation, very cleverly disguised as a molecular weight, was the same number. Coincidence, I suppose?” Wittlibeades grins.

         “I’m not sure I understand, that was a molecular weight; the weight of our test mass in nanograms,” responds Michael. I sit behind him and Mother, so I cannot see his face. “We don’t want to bore the others, do we? Let’s talk about this later.”

         “Wait Michael,” Father interjects,” I thought our test molecule was less than half that weight!” Professor Wittlibeades smiles menacingly at Michael.

         “That would be a rather large test mass, professor,” he says.

         “Your insinuations are absurd. I’m afraid I don’t have the time to discuss this, we are very close to splitting an atom and in truth I really must be getting back to the lab.”

         I seriously don’t like what’s going on here. Wittlibeades’s accusations are making more and more sense to me. Michael’s procedure required silence and thrice a day the carillonist would blare his melodies right across the road, not to mention the hourly chiming of the bells. Furthermore, it now appears that he had asked an engineering mathematician for help with an equation involving the heaviest bell in the campanile, the one that fell on the carillonist. So when Michael starts to back away, I stick out my foot. He trips and falls flat on his back. Pens and papers fly from his pockets, several landing in my lap. There, amid the derivatives, is a plan of the Campanile, including detailed locations of the bells. Everyone looks down at the paper.

         “Michael, how could you?” Father says incredulously.

         “How were we ever going to finish our experiment with that infernal racket? I had to, in the name of science.”

         No one objects when Professor Wittlibeades takes Michael’s arm and hauls him to his feet.

         “But our work, the atom!” Michael squeals as Professor Wittlibeades drags him off. “The atom, science, it is the future!”

         Father stands still, staring after his former friend and co-worker. I turn and look up at the Campanile. Its hands still point to 8:00. The future is going nowhere fast.