Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) Read online

  “Neither rain nor snow —”

  Larry nodded, removing his raincoat. “Rain, anyway. Ah feel like ah’m home in the Louisiana bayou.”

  “So, what brings you here tonight?”

  Ignoring her, Larry plunked down on a rickety chair. “Just wanted to go over the schedule for this week,” he said, pulling out a tattered notebook. “Knew you’d be working.”

  “God, I’m turning into a radio wonk,” she moaned.

  “Join the club.” He checked his notes. “Set for tomorrow?”

  “Pretty much. You heard the intro piece. Next we’ll interview our expert on suicide. Then we go to the phones.”

  “Who’d you get for the expert?”

  Sammy hesitated. “He was highly recommended by Student Health.”

  Larry waited expectantly.

  “Reed Wyndham’s had lots of experience working with students on mental health issues.”

  The program director raised his eyebrows. “That the Reed you’re datin’?”

  “Uh, not at this moment,” Sammy answered semitruthfully. “He’s serving as a counselor for troubled students at Student Health, and he’s a top fourth-year medical student.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m sure he’s very qualified,” Larry chuckled, adding, “And, of course, you’ll be there to hold his hand.”

  Sammy answered tersely. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

  “Good. What about the professor?”

  “Conrad? What do you mean?”

  “You going to talk about his death?”

  “We’ll have to. But I haven’t been able to track down his people yet. I was thinking I’d hit the dean’s office tomorrow, maybe interview some of his colleagues or students if I have time. The funeral’s Tuesday. I thought I’d get more then.”

  “So you want to save Tuesday for Conrad.”

  “Or Wednesday, so I can get a chance to talk to —”

  “Nope. Can’t. Remember? Wednesday we’re doing a remote for the Nitshi party outside the institute.”

  Sammy groaned. “Oh, right. Nitshi Day.” How could she have forgotten? The station’s plans to report live on the midday ceremonies and subsequent celebrations had been set weeks ago.

  Larry continued from his notes. “You’ll cover the speeches at noon by the chancellor and Nitshi President Ishida. Our booth will be across from the grandstand, with your hookup there. Gary will cover the parade at one and Roger will report from the carnival.”

  Sammy didn’t hear the rest of Larry’s recitation. Her thoughts had turned back to her cryptic conversation with the Youth Crusader. It was obvious that Reverend Taft had plans to disrupt the activities. Perhaps she should say something about it to Larry. But Larry had already leaned on her for jumping to conclusions where Taft was concerned. No, better not to say anything yet. Whatever the Reverend had in mind, at least she’d be there to find out.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MONDAY

  When Sammy sauntered into the registrar’s office at five to nine, only one student stood in line ahead of her. She recognized Chuck Lambert, president of Gamma Tau, EU’s “animal house.” A Beverly Hills brat from his Guess sweats to his Gucci loafers, rumor had it that the blond surfer would have flunked out long ago if his father had not endowed a chair at the university.

  “You know you can’t drop a class after the third week,” the middle-aged woman at the desk was explaining. Tall, thin, all hard angles, she was one of the many locals employed by EU.

  “Practicum in Art. It’s just a three-credit class,” Chuck argued. “My pre-law classes are real tough.” He pointed to the pile of textbooks in his overstuffed backpack. “I don’t have time to play with toothpicks and tissue paper.”

  “Take an incomplete.”

  “You have my transcript. I’m maxed out.”

  “Should have thought of that before.” No sympathy was offered from the other side of the desk.

  Chuck flashed his best counterfeit smile. “Come on, Mrs. Teicher. What harm can it do?”

  “Sorry. I don’t make the rules, I just enforce them.”

  “I can see we’re getting nowhere.” Lambert zipped up his backpack and angrily slung it over his shoulder. “I guess my father’ll just have to have a talk with the chancellor.”

  Mrs. Teicher refused to be intimidated. “Be my guest.” When he’d gone, she shook her head. “Always an angle, that one. If you ask me, you kids all get too much coddling.”

  “College can be pretty stressful,” Sammy offered, “especially around midterms.”

  “Whatever.” Her voice tightened suspiciously. “You want to drop a class, too?”

  “No, I work for the campus radio station,” Sammy explained. “We’re doing today’s show on suicide. I guess you know about Sergio Pinez.”

  The woman’s expression softened. “Now there was a nice young man. A real pity.”

  “You knew Sergio?”

  “Scholarship students are required to work ten hours a week on campus. Sergio put his time in here. He was so polite, always followed the rules,” Mrs. Teicher said. “He invited me and my husband to one of his concerts last month. A real talent.”

  “So I’ve heard. Listen, Mrs. Teicher, I’ve talked to some of Sergio’s teachers in the music school, but I wanted to get a few comments from others on campus. Could I get a copy of his class schedule?”

  The tall woman thought a moment, then responded. “I don’t see what harm it would do.” She typed a few lines on her desk computer, keyed in the printer, and a few minutes later handed Sammy a printout.

  Perusing the list of classes, Sammy noted that except for Psych, Sergio’s courses were all in the music school: Advanced Composition, Ear Training, Musicianship, Orchestra, Pop Music USA. Twenty-one credits. The kid carried a heavy load.

  “Thanks,” she said, checking her watch: nine fifteen. Psych 101 was due to start at ten. She had little hope that the professor would remember Sergio. It was an intro course with over two hundred students. Cakewalk class for general education requirements. As she left the office, she planned her strategy. She’d skip the prof and try to find the teaching assistant who just might recall the shy freshman, then ditch the lecture and swing around to Dean Jeffries’s office. After that she had to head over to the radio station. Still a lot to prepare before her show at one.

  The line barely moved. It coiled around the foyer of the Student Health clinic like a snake, its tail lengthening every few minutes.

  “I’m gonna miss my midterm,” one student complained.

  “Tell the nurse. Maybe they’ll let you go first,” suggested Lucy Peters, who stood just ahead of the girl, waiting her turn.

  “Naw, that’s okay.” The girl leaned over and lowered her voice. “I’m not ready for the Physics test anyway. I’ll just get an excuse from the doctor. Another week to study, maybe I can pull a D.”

  Lucy nodded. She wasn’t exactly prepared for her exams today either. Too much partying this weekend. She smiled, thinking of her hours with Chris. The time had passed too quickly. She’d never been so happy. She wanted to spend every minute with him — to be with him forever. Forever, she mused. Christopher Oken. Mrs. Christopher Oken. Lucy Oken.

  “Lucy Peters!” Nurse Matthews strode into the foyer and read her name from a clipboard.

  Lucy raised her hand.

  “Come on in here,” the buxom nurse summoned. “Dr. Palmer will see you now.”

  Lucy stepped out of line, temporarily destroying the uniform contour of the snake.

  “Aren’t you lucky?” the girl behind her remarked.

  “I, uh.” Lucy was surprised and slightly embarrassed by the obvious special treatment.

  “Miss Peters called ahead for an appointment,” the nurse intervened. “If the rest of you kids would do that instead of just dropping in, we wouldn’t have such long waits.”

  Lucy scurried behind the nurse, trying to ignore the groans and grumbles. She followed her into an alcove off the foyer where Dr. Palmer ro
utinely saw his patients.

  “What are we here for today, dear?” the nurse asked, smiling for the first time.

  Lucy smiled back. There was warmth and sympathy in the woman’s hazel eyes. “My rash. I called Saturday.”

  “Oh yes.” Nurse Matthews remembered the call.

  “It’s probably nothing.” Lucy felt sheepish. “It’s really not that big. Dr. Palmer said to come in.”

  “Better safe than sorry.” The nurse gave Lucy’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. Opening a door to one of the patient rooms, she pointed to a gown lying on the examination table. “One size fits nobody,” she chuckled. “Undress from the waist up, then have a seat. Doctor will be with you in a minute.”

  Sammy dashed into the dean’s suite of offices a few minutes after ten. Talking to Sergio’s teaching assistant, unfortunately, hadn’t been particularly productive.

  Panting, she pushed open the oak doors and took a moment to catch her breath. Nice digs , she thought as she examined the lushly appointed anteroom. The thick maroon carpet and wood paneling represented a stark contrast to the institutional decor of most Ellsford classrooms.

  Jeffries’s secretary looked up casually when Sammy approached. The nameplate on her desk read: Mrs. Cook.

  “Hello. I’m Sammy Greene.”

  Mrs. Cook slid the Ben Franklin half-frames farther down her aquiline nose and gave Sammy a perfunctory smile. “Yes?” An antique clock on the wall chimed the half hour.

  Sammy pressed on, “I need to speak with Dean Jeffries.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Well, no, but —”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to your student advisor. Dean Jeffries isn’t able to meet with students directly.”

  “Sorry,” Sammy corrected, “it’s not a student issue. I’m here as a reporter for campus radio. I wanted to talk to him about Professor Conrad.”

  Mrs. Cook remained unmoved. “The dean’s comment has already been released to the press.” She handed a typewritten memo to Sammy. “Here’s a copy. It’s the only statement he plans to make.”

  Sammy skimmed it quickly. The usual public relations white was — “great teacher, great scientist, great loss.” She looked back at Jeffries’s gatekeeper. “This says nothing about Ellsford’s sacrifice of teachers for dollars. Professor Conrad was a victim of —”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Greene,” Mrs. Cook’s tone was icy, “Dean Jeffries is unavailable. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.” The secretary turned back to her computer terminal, dismissing Sammy with a curt nod.

  Sammy remained at the desk. The great oak doors to her left creaked open and Dean Jeffries ambled out, followed by a tall, fifty-something Asian man with a warm smile.

  “Everything’s taken care of, we’ll be all set by Wednesday at noon,” the dean said, stepping aside to make room for his guest.

  “I have no doubt,” the man replied, in softly accented English. “We’re grateful for your cooperation.”

  The dean leaned over to his secretary with nary a glance at Sammy. “Margaret, could you call for Mr. Ishida’s car, please?”

  Nodding, Mrs. Cook picked up the phone.

  As the dean turned back to Ishida, Sammy decided to make her move. She leaned over to the secretary and spoke loudly, “So when we broadcast that special interests are influencing academic decisions at Ellsford, you won’t have any official comment, is that right?”

  As she expected, the dean quickly reappeared at her shoulder.

  “Sammy Greene,” Mrs. Cook told her boss.

  “I’ll see you in just a moment, Ms. Greene.” He pointed to the adjacent chamber. “Wait inside. I’ll be right with you.”

  While Sammy strolled into his office, the dean crossed over to a frowning Ishida and explained sotto voce, “The beer industry’s been a sponsor of our Homecoming Day. We may have to reevaluate the health implications for our students. Anyway, I’ll look forward to seeing you Wednesday.”

  Ishida nodded and shook the dean’s hand, as a uniformed chauffeur appeared at the door. “I, too, Hamilton. I, too.”

  The moment Ishida left, Jeffries marched over to his office door with a forced smile.

  “Tenure Committee at eleven,” the secretary reminded, shutting the door behind her.

  Jeffries inner sanctum was spacious, wood paneled, and decorated in an understated fashion: Oriental rug over distressed parquet, antique brass lamp on an oversized oak desk. The large black leather armchair facing the desk bore a decal of the Ellsford University logo on its back. Behind the desk, a beveled leaded-glass window filtered a variegated view of the EU campus. The rain had just stopped, leaving droplets clinging to leaves like iridescent jewels.

  On the far wall, a row of Perma-Plaqued diplomas and awards documented Jeffries’s ascent through the academic hierarchy: B.S., summa cum laude from Stanford, Ph.D. in Biology from Harvard. Next to these were photos with colleagues and friends including several with past U.S. presidents and world leaders, and just below, a row of bookshelves filled with leather-bound copies of Shakespeare and Chaucer.

  Sammy took in the room at a glance, then regarded the dean for a moment. Jeffries was a man to whom the passing years had been more than generous. Though the date of his college graduation clearly put him in his sixth decade, he had the unwrinkled face of someone closer to forty. A small man, he wore his still-dark hair in a conservative style that matched the traditional cut of his dark suit — the only pretension, a gold chain and Phi Beta Kappa key. But for all his academic credentials, Jeffries was known primarily as a superb fund-raiser, bringing in enough money over the years to ensure his tenure as Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences.

  “Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

  Jeffries waved at the armchair across from his desk. “Sit down, Ms. Greene. Your reputation has preceded you.”

  Sammy couldn’t resist a smile. “Sorry, but I had to talk to you about Professor Conrad. We’ve planned a memorial on today’s show.” She pressed the record button on her tape player.

  Jeffries’s eyes narrowed. “Professor Conrad was a gifted teacher and scientist,” he said quickly. “We’ll all miss him very much.”

  “Yes, I know.” Sammy tapped the press release. “But I’ve also heard that he wasn’t going to get tenure. The question then is why?”

  Jeffries cleared his throat. “Now wait. That’s not true. The Tenure Committee doesn’t make its final decisions ’til December. They’re still reviewing publications and student evaluations.” A genial smile. “We do take those into account, you know.”

  Sammy nodded politely. “What other criteria do they use to evaluate professors — money they bring in, perhaps? Grants?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss specifics. All I can say is that Connie was a superb teacher and researcher — even back in his Berkeley days.”

  “You knew him from before?”

  “Connie was a graduate student. I chaired his department at Berkeley.”

  “Genetics?”

  “Biology. Genetics was a division. Anyway, he was a tiger even then — bibliography a mile long. Hundreds of citations. And his work was good. Not the factory output that passes for research nowadays.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “The current penchant for writing five papers from one experiment to pad your publications when it’s really five different versions of the same work.”

  “So you brought Professor Conrad here to Ellsford after he graduated?”

  “ Not exactly. Connie went over to Stanford as a junior professor working under Yitashi Nakamura.”

  “The late Professor Nakamura?”

  “Yes. I brought Yitashi to Ellsford, and he recruited Connie a couple of years later.”

  “Why’d he leave Stanford?”

  “I offered him a laboratory he couldn’t refuse. Yitashi always —”

  “No, I meant Professor Conrad.”

  “Oh.” Jeffries checked his watch and added almost
offhandedly, “He didn’t get tenure.”

  Surprised, Sammy stumbled for her next question. She flipped through her notebook. “I talked to Professor Conrad the day before he died. He seemed to feel that Ellsford was focusing more on bringing in grants and churning out papers than teaching students —” She left the thought hanging.

  “That was his mantra at Stanford too. But I’m afraid the days of the ivory tower are long gone,” Jeffries said. “Your tuition doesn’t cover a tenth of the expenses of running this university. To provide teaching services for our students without raising fees, we need to find funding from other sources.” He chuckled, “As I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  Sammy forced a smile.

  “So, we’ve got to provide services to all our sponsors. They help support our facilities and laboratories, and we produce research. The result — everybody wins. Our fund of knowledge is advanced, and you get the benefit of the best scientists as teachers.”

  Sammy had heard this official explanation before. The dean didn’t make it sound any more convincing. She pursed her lips. “I guess you have to buy the company line to get tenure.”

  Jeffries was not amused. “I can’t speak for Stanford.”

  “And here?”

  The robotic tone returned. “We believe and support academic freedom. The committee evaluates many criteria.”

  “Who’s on the committee?”

  “The committee consists of six professors from the College of Arts and Sciences. It changes every year.”

  Sammy waited.

  Jeffries shook his head. “I can’t give out the names. After they make their recommendations, I review their comments and forward my opinion to the chancellor.”

  Sammy frowned, puzzled, “You mean you have the final say?”

  “I don’t often go against the committee, but I can.”

  “And with Professor Conrad?”

  Jeffries folded his hands over his blotter. “The question, my dear, is now academic.” Consulting his watch once again, he rose slowly. “I’m afraid our time is up, Ms. Greene. Let me show you out.”

  The firmness in his voice was persuasive. Sammy gathered her things and inched toward the door. As she opened it, she added an afterthought. “By the way, the last time I saw him, Professor Conrad asked me to give you a brown envelope, but I forgot to take it with me when I left. Did he get it to you?”