The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

my spine. So what if the dean was at least six inches taller than my five feet three inches? I was about twenty years younger.
    But this wasn’t a physical contest, and Dr. Underwood’s folded arms and serious expression wielded a lot of psychological power. I stuffed my phone and my puzzle cube into my briefcase as if I’d been reading comic books instead of doing my homework.
    After what seemed too long a time, the dean unfolded her arms and indicated the path I should follow. “Come in, Dr. Knowles.” The invitation fell somewhere between those of an oral surgeon and a serial killer.
    “Good afternoon, Dr. Underwood,” I said, through dry lips. No “Hey, dean” from me. I took my place across from the dean at the wide, dark oak desk that dominated the office. How bad can it be ? What? Was I too noisy in class?
    “You’ve been very noisy,” the dean said. I could barely suppress a smile. But Dr. Underwood’s tone was somber. “I have complaints that your gatherings in Benjamin Franklin Hall are getting out of hand.”
    I raised my eyebrows. This was what the urgent summons was about? “I’m sorry? You’ve had complaints?”
    The dean nodded and let out a heavy sigh, perhaps in memory of an earlier time when only sweet young girls and sedate faculty populated the seventeen-acre campus. “Apparently you had an exceptionally loud and disruptive party in the faculty lounge of your building last Friday afternoon.”
    I wanted to point out that it wasn’t my building, though I had a great fondness for it. Benjamin Franklin Hall and its lounge were shared by the departments of mathematics, physics, biology, and chemistry, in ascending order, up through the four floors. Some said the top floor was specifically designed for chemistry—in the event of an explosion, the roof might blow off, but at least the other departments would survive.
    The complaint had to have come from Keith Appleton, the least social and the biggest snob in the building, if not on campus, if not in the state of Massachusetts.
    “Friday was Tesla’s birthday,” I said, with great restraint.
    “Whose birthday?”
    “The physics department chose the theme for July. They selected Nicola Tesla. He was born on July 10. Well, at midnight on July 9, so it could go either way.”
    “Tesla?” the dean asked.
    I nodded. “I’m sure you’ve heard of his work in electricity.” I pointed to the lovely Victorian-style lamp on the dean’s desk, as if it were an example of Tesla’s great genius. I thought what a nice jigsaw puzzle the lampshade would make.
    I’d deliberately spoken as if I assumed science and mathematics literacy on the part of anyone who deemed herself liberally educated. Or anyone who was a dean at a liberal arts college.
    “He was there? At your party?”
    I grunted—inaudibly, I hoped—though Dr. Underwood’s severe lack of appreciation for math and science was familiar to me. “No, he, uh, died about seventy years ago.” I fantasized Dean Underwood’s name on my class roster and marked it with a failing grade.
    “Of course he did.” Dean Underwood’s pointy nose seemed to take off on its own, now with flaring nostrils, now curling upward toward her frown lines.
    I wasn’t proud of this little tactic—putting someone in her place by trying to sound smarter. The truth was that, given the right teacher, anyone could learn mathematics. One of my greatest missions in life was to help students over hurdles that kept them thinking that there was a certain “science brain” or that only a select few had a “knack for math.”
    I bristled as I recalled a report from Bruce’s niece, Melanie, that her fourth-grade teacher had promised, “If you behave yourselves this morning, boys and girls, we won’t have to do math this afternoon.”
    Grrr. I could have gone on forever on this topic, even with no audience, but the dean was back on track, having straightened out her face.
    “The complaint mentioned, in particular, bolts of lightning and fireworks.”
    An image of Tesla came to me. Today we would have called him an outside-the-box thinker . One day he’d be experimenting with electromagnetism as a route to time travel, and the next he’d ply himself with enough current to discharge sparks that would make the crackling at our little Franklin party seem hardly worth the trouble.
    I called up last Friday in my mind. Almost a week ago. We didn’t have fireworks exactly, but we did create a healthy display