The Broken Window

incorrect set of assumptions. Exactly! Now, let’s make some calls—get some people together and go see the White Sox on Saturday. I need a ballpark hot dog and we sure as hell won’t be able to buy one at Comiskey Park in October.
    Lincoln had enjoyed the intellectual sparring, often driving all the way to Hyde Park to sit in on his uncle’s seminars or informal discussion groups at the university; in fact, he had gone more frequently than Arthur, who was usually busy with other activities.
    If his uncle were still alive, he’d undoubtedly stroll into Rhyme’s room now without a glance at his motionless body, point at the gas chromatograph and blurt, “Why are you still running that piece of crap?” Then settling down across from the evidence whiteboards, he’d start questioning Rhyme about his handling of the 522 case.
    Yes, but is it logical for this individual to behave in this manner? State your givens once more for me.
    He thought back to the night he’d recalled earlier: the Christmas Eve of his senior year in high school, athis uncle’s house in Evanston. Present were Henry and Paula and their children, Robert, Arthur and Marie; Teddy and Anne with Lincoln; some aunts and uncles, other cousins. A neighbor or two.
    Lincoln and Arthur had spent much of the evening playing pool downstairs and talking about plans for the next fall and college. Lincoln’s heart was set on M.I.T. Arthur, too, planned to go there. They were both confident of admission and that night were debating rooming together in a dorm or finding an off-campus apartment (male camaraderie versus a babe lair).
    The family then assembled at the massive table in his uncle’s dining room, Lake Michigan churning nearby, the wind hissing through bare, gray branches in the backyard. Henry presided over the table the way he presided over his class, in charge and aware, a faint smile below quick eyes taking in all the conversations around him. He’d tell jokes and anecdotes and ask about his guests’ lives. He was interested, curious—and sometimes manipulative. “So, Marie, now that we’re all here, tell us about that fellowship at Georgetown. I think we agreed it’d be excellent for you. And Jerry can come visit on weekends in that fancy new car of his. By the way, when’s the deadline for the application? Coming up, I seem to recall.”
    And his wispy-haired daughter avoided his eyes and said what with Christmas and final exams, she hadn’t quite finished the paperwork. But she would. Definitely.
    Henry’s mission, of course, was to get his daughter to commit in front of witnesses, no matter that she’d be separated from her fiancé for another six months.
    Rhyme had always believed that his uncle would have made an excellent trial lawyer or politician.
    After the remnants of the turkey and mincemeat pie were cleared away and the Grand Marnier, coffee and tea had appeared, Henry ushered everyone into the living room, dominated by a massive tree, busy fireplace flames and a stern painting of Lincoln’s grandfather—a triple doctorate and a professor at Harvard.
    It was time for the competition.
    Henry would throw out a science question and the first to answer it would win a point. The top three players would receive prizes picked by Henry and meticulously wrapped by Paula.
    Tensions were palpable—they always were when Henry was in charge—and people competed seriously. Lincoln’s father could be counted on to nail more than a few chemistry questions. If the topic involved numbers his mother, a part-time math teacher, answered some before Henry had even finished asking. The front runners throughout the contest, though, were the cousins—Robert, Marie, Lincoln and Arthur—and Marie’s fiancé.
    Toward the end, nearly 8 P.M. , the contestants were literally on the edge of their chairs. The rankings changed with every question. Palms were sweaty. With only minutes remaining on timekeeper Paula’s clock, Lincoln answered three questions in a row and nosed ahead for the first-place win. Marie was second, Arthur third.
    Amid the clapping, Lincoln took a theatrical bow and accepted the top prize from his uncle. He still remembered his surprise as he unwrapped the darkgreen paper: a clear plastic box containing a one-inch cube of concrete. It wasn’t a joke prize, though. What Lincoln held was a piece of Stagg Field at the University of Chicago, where the first atomic chain reaction had occurred, under the direction of his