grandfather, Martin Kilkenny, had worked for so many years building large model ships.
Beyond West Engineering, Nolan clambered up the worn granite steps of the Randall Physics Laboratory.
Turning left out of the stairwell, Nolan headed for the office of Kelsey Newton, Associate Professor of Physics.
‘Knock, knock,’ he said through the partially open doorway.
Kelsey turned away from her computer and smiled. ‘What took you so long? You called almost an hour ago.’
‘Same old, same old. Just as I was walking out of my office, I got sandbagged by a couple of calls. I picked up some bagels on the way, and an espresso.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Kelsey gratefully accepted the tall, Styrofoam cup.
‘How’s the search for Wolff?’
Kelsey swallowed a tentative sip of the strong brew. ‘I asked a couple of the older professors but struck out. Seems Wolff was gone before any of them arrived for postgraduate work. I also checked the library network. I found quite a few books authored by people named Wolff, on subjects ranging from philosophy to chemistry. I even found a couple of mystery novels, but nothing by a Johann Wolff. There’s also no mention of Wolff in the physics journals dating back well before the war.’
‘How about departmental records?’ Nolan asked as he took a bite of a sesame-seed bagel.
‘I was just getting to that. I have no idea how far back the on-line stuff goes.’
Kelsey swiveled her chair back to face her computer. She navigated through the Physics Department Web site, bypassed the public-relations material, and keyed in her ID number and password to log on to the department’s restricted server.
‘We want Faculty, Wolff, Johann,’ she said as she typed in the parameters for her search.
The mouse pointer on her screen changed from an arrow into a cluster of three spinning gears. Thirty seconds later a new screen of information began to load.
‘Johann Wolff, assistant professor of physics,’ Kelsey read aloud, ‘1946 to 1948. Received his doctorate from the Institute for Physics at the Kaiser Wilhelm Gessellschaft in Berlin, 1944. No picture available.’
‘He was studying physics in Berlin during the war?’ Nolan asked incredulously.
‘Apparently so. His doctoral work was in quantum mechanics. He got in on the ground floor.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In 1944 the field of quantum physics was about twenty years old. Wolff was studying the cutting-edge science of his day.’
‘Anything else?’
Kelsey scanned the screen for linking sites but found nothing. ‘This is it on-line, so it looks like we’re taking a walk over to the archives.’
Kelsey shut down her computer and followed Nolan out of her office. They exited through the west side of Randall onto the Diag, cut through Angell Hall and crossed State Street to the LS amp;A Building.
They entered the building and descended a side stairway to the basement. After scanning the floor directory, they quickly located the room where faculty, staff, and student records were stored.
‘Oh,’ said the woman behind the reception counter as they opened the smooth wooden door. She held her hand to her chest reflexively. ‘You surprised me. I don’t get many visitors during the summer. How can I help you?’
Kelsey quickly glanced at the woman’s plastic ID badge.
‘Good morning, Mrs Greene,’ Kelsey said politely before introducing Nolan and herself. ‘We’re looking for some information about an instructor who taught physics here in the late 1940s.’
‘That’s going back quite a bit, but I’ll see what I can do. What’s the name?’
‘Johann Wolff,’ Nolan replied.
‘The department’s on-line records show that he was here from ’forty-six through ’forty-eight,’ Kelsey added.
‘Can I see your staff IDs?’ Mrs Greene asked.
‘Here,’ Kelsey replied, pulling it out of her purse.
Nolan unclipped his badge from the collar of his shirt and laid it on the counter. It was similar to the standard faculty picture ID but bore the imprint of MARC as well.
‘Always have to check,’ Mrs Greene said as she handed the badges back. ‘Faculty records, even old ones, are still considered restricted information.’
She keyed the information in to her computer, scribbled down a number on a piece of paper, and disappeared into the stacks of file drawers and shelving units that filled the basement level. Ten minutes later she returned.
‘Oh my, it took a little digging to find this one,’ she said as she placed a thin file folder on the counter.
The folder’s tab contained a bar code strip and the name WOLFF, J. Kelsey turned the folder and opened the cover. Inside she found an ancient university-employee-information sheet listing Wolff’s date of birth, citizenship, and other vital data.
‘Well, he definitely doesn’t live there anymore,’ Mrs Greene offered.
‘What?’ Nolan said, then he skipped down to the home address. ‘Oh, you’re right.’
‘Where is that?’ Kelsey asked, trying to get her bearings.
‘It was just off campus,’ Mrs Greene replied, ‘near the business school. It’s a parking lot now.’
The remaining pages contained course information, a few letters from the program chairman, and a black- and-white faculty photograph. The last sheet was an official letter terminating Wolff’s appointment to the university. The notice was dated January 1949.
‘That’s odd. The chairman was singing Wolff’s praises right up to this,’ Kelsey said, still studying the notice. ‘Why did they fire him?’
‘May I see that?’ Mrs Greene asked.
Kelsey handed over Wolff’s termination notice.
‘They didn’t fire him. If they had, this letter would have said so, and given the reasons why. Then, as now, dismissal of a faculty member is a serious matter. This letter is just a piece of paperwork terminating the university’s relationship with Wolff – a fancy way of saying he no longer works here.’
‘But where did he go?’ Nolan asked, knowing the answer wasn’t in the file.
‘Who knows?’ Mrs Greene replied. ‘This is all we have on your Professor Wolff. Sorry I can’t be of more help.’
‘Actually, you can do one more thing for us. Can we get a copy of this file?’
‘Sure, but I’ll have to charge you for it.’
‘Fine,’ Nolan replied. ‘Put it on my departmental account.’
16
Dexter, Michigan
‘I was beginning to wonder if you two would ever get here,’ Martin Kilkenny bellowed in a thick Irish brogue from the swinging bench on the broad covered porch of his farm-house. ‘I’ll bet it was that no-account grandson of mine making you both miss the fine supper my wife cooked tonight.’
‘Nolan and I were up at the hospital visiting Ted Sandstrom, Martin,’ Kelsey replied just before kissing him on the cheek.
‘A likely excuse.’
‘Would either of you like some pie?’ Audrey Kilkenny, Nolan’s grandmother, chimed through the kitchen window. ‘It’s raspberry.’
‘You bet,’ Kelsey replied.
