Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) Read online

“And the first?”

  He threw her a glare. “The first is to get the proof.”

  “Pappajohn called you again?” More a statement than a question.

  Larry nodded. “Apparently you’ve made some unsubstantiated allegations against Reverend Taft. Again .”

  “Unsubstantiated?” Sammy sputtered. “I saw Taft instigate that riot. And that’s a fact!” she added with emphasis.

  “Evidently none of the other witnesses agree with your version.”

  “ ‘Witnesses?’ ” She snorted, “More like doppelgängers for the Reverend.”

  “Sergeant Pappajohn says —”

  Sammy rolled her eyes. “That old codger would say anything to keep his sinecure.”

  Larry exhaled. “Look, Sammy, we almost lost our license last year when you blamed Taft for that anti-abortion violence. Ah don’t want to have to face another lawsuit for slander.”

  “A journalist can’t take the easy road.”

  “No one would ever accuse you of that,” Larry agreed. “Certainly not our attorneys. Or don’t you remember the fancy legal foot-work that barely extricated this station from a budget-busting court battle?”

  “I don’t think we should’ve backed down,” protested Sammy. “Not then and not now.”

  “Sammy, we’re journalists, not missionaries.” He held up his hand. “We’re not going to change the world here. So unless you’ve got some hard proof, Reverend Taft is a dead issue. Understand?”

  Grudgingly, Sammy nodded. But I won’t give up , she thought. As soon as she developed today’s snapshots, she’d track down a few of those reluctant “witnesses” and confront them.

  “Now, as far as the case of the Perfidious Professor and the Corrupt College —”

  “I’ll have the proof. I’m almost there. I think we’ve got enough to go on from my sources.”

  “Well, ah don’t. A psycho professor that shot himself three years ago and another one that’s killing himself by —” he brought a cup-shaped hand to his mouth, “don’t qualify for me. You come back with something concrete, and we’ll talk about it. Besides, we’ve got something else more urgent for Monday’s show.”

  Sammy looked up from her papers with concern. “What?”

  “A student suicide.”

  “My God, who?”

  “Sergio Pinez, a freshman.”

  “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “Music major from New York.” Larry checked his notes. “Flute player. Apparently couldn’t hack the pressure — first time away from home. Jumped off the bell tower this afternoon. Splat! Pronounced at 2:42 p.m. Take it you were still playing cops and robbers with Sergeant Pappajohn at the station.”

  Sammy looked stricken.

  Larry continued matter-of-factly, “So we kill everything else for Monday and do the whole show on the kid. Family, friends, teachers. Ah think you should also get one of those health workers to come on and do a little counseling about suicide. Might stop any copycat jumpers from getting ideas.”

  Stabbed by a cruel, fleeting memory, Sammy grew pale. Stop her.

  “Uh, sure. I’ll get on it right away,” she stammered, trying to push away memories of long ago, the jumble of images she desperately wanted to forget. That, and the silence.

  In her memory, the silence had frightened her more than the black casket that rested, its lid shut tight, in the middle of the dimly lit funeral hall.

  She was alone.

  Slowly she crept toward it, her heart hammering against her chest, willing the coffin to burst open with a cry from within. She wanted to save her, to bring her back to life. She was almost seven. She should have been able to —

  My fault.

  All she could hear were their whispers just beyond the room.

  Such a pity So much to live for.

  Poor child.

  Selfish, if you ask me.

  A single tear descended to her chin. Warm memories of comforting arms around her as she’d once buried her face against smooth skin smelling of Shalimar and felt at peace. And at home. Kneeling beside the closed casket, she laid her head upon the cold box and cried.

  My fault.

  Sammy put her hands over her ears now, willing the voices to stop. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry about what?”

  “Oh, uh, nothing.” Sammy shook her head, refusing to share her nightmare.

  Larry looked at her oddly. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Wiping away the tear, she replied, “Yeah. Fine. Just fine.”

  • • •

  You have reached 617-555-9748. I’m not able to come to the phone right now. That means I’m either on call or sound asleep. However, if you leave a message at the beep, I promise to get back to you one of these days.” Beep!

  “Well, you missed your chance, Wyndham. I was just thinking about coming by to keep you warm. But if you’re already asleep, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Before hanging up, Sammy added, “By the way, I left my purse at Professor Conrad’s house and I’ve got to go over there and pick it up before I come over. But I’ll be there. So, save me a bagel, will you? Beep!”

  “Bingo,” Barton Conrad said softly. “I’ve found you.”

  He continued staring at his computer monitor for a long time, perversely pleased by what he’d just uncovered. On the screen in black and white was the verification he’d been seeking. No doubt now that he had to tell someone.

  He checked his Timex: just past eleven p.m. Not that late. Heart pounding, he lifted the receiver and dialed each number by heart. Both calls took under five minutes, but once he completed them, he felt exhausted by the effort. He shuffled over to the sofa, threw some books and papers on the floor, and lay down. Seconds later, he sank into a deep, alcohol enhanced slumber.

  “I’m afraid we may have some problems.”

  “I don’t want to hear them. Just take care of it.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  “And I mean permanently this time. Understand?”

  “Sure, boss.” the caller replied, though the connection had already been severed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SATURDAY

  Sammy awoke at six thirty the next morning, bounced out of bed, and threw open her window. One of the privileges of being a junior or senior at Ellsford was no longer living in the dorms. No more roommates to answer to, community bathrooms to fight over, blaring rap to complain about. Her studio apartment was one of a cluster of prefabricated faux brick dwellings reserved for upperclassmen located on the western side of campus. It was just a six-hundred-square-foot box on the third floor, but the spectacular view of the Ellsford estate made up for the cramped quarters and the utilitarian decor.

  From her window, she could view the majestic Gothic university buildings dotting the rolling meadows, the ultramodern Nitshi Institute atop the hills to the north, and the stately Victorian homes where many of the faculty lived along South Campus. At its easternmost edge, EU ended where the city of St. Charlesbury, Vermont began. It was a typical New England small town whose eight thousand inhabitants tolerated Ellsford students in the same cool, dubious manner they suffered “the summah people” — those wealthy East Coast vacationers who summered there. Just like the tourists, the university population supplied substantial revenue to local coffers.

  A bright morning sky reflected an impossible blue with a clarity Sammy had never known or even imagined in the polluted skies above the New York of her childhood. She inhaled deeply of fresh Vermont air.

  Wonderful.

  The sun had just come up, long shadows retreating from streets and walkways, over the trees and rooftops like the outgoing tide. The fact that the temperature was near freezing and that she wore nothing more than her minilength Ellsford U. nightshirt didn’t faze Sammy. She loved this time of day — crisp and new, filled with possibilities. An early riser since childhood, she never understood people who stayed huddled in bed until all hours. Such a waste of opportunities, as Grandma Rose used to sa
y.

  Breakfast with Reed was usually one of those morning treats. This morning, however, she had to make a stop first. She planned to follow up with Conrad. Perhaps if she confronted the professor before breakfast, he’d be too hungover to resist her questions. And, she had to retrieve her purse. She needed her tape recorder for the interviews on the suicide kid she’d be doing this afternoon.

  Fearing an unwelcome reception, she prepared a thermos of fresh coffee as a peace offering and gesture of goodwill. Then, slipping on faded blue jeans, a green turtleneck sweater, and a pair of black leather Doc Martens, she grabbed her peacoat and headed out the door.

  The campus was eerily quiet as she made her way across the quad, the only sound the crackle of tawny autumn leaves beneath her energetic stride. Reaching the law school, she stopped to admire its ivy-colored ribbed vaulting and pointed arches. It was said that Thomas Ellsford, Jr., founded the university just so his son would not have to travel to Boston to study law. Whether apocryphal or not, the law complex was probably the most beautiful spot at EU, nestled in the bosom of a soft meadow spangled with dandelions in the warmer months. It was a favorite place for students, including Sammy herself, to sit and read. Just behind the law library stood the chancellor’s home where today Reginald, a fifth generation Ellsford, resided.

  Farther along, she passed the music building, an unpleasant reminder of yesterday’s suicide and her task to interview a few of that poor kid’s classmates this afternoon. The bell tower from where he fell now scattered the sun’s rays like a yellow daisy on the quad below.

  Flowers on the grave.

  She shuddered at the memory and sped on. It was too beautiful a morning to think about death.

  Within twenty minutes she’d reached South Campus and the walkway that led to Conrad’s home. Just as yesterday, the shutters were drawn, the pale yellow house still. She hesitated for a moment, wondering even as she climbed the front steps whether she really ought to wake him. The front door was locked. Several knocks produced no response. About to retreat, she was surprised to see the side window slightly raised, the shutters open.

  Frowning, she bent down and whispered through the crack, “Professor. It’s Sammy. May I come in?”

  No answer. She tried calling more loudly. Still nothing.

  Now what? She considered leaving, but her purse was in there.

  Repeating his name, she slowly eased the window open and leaned in just enough to peek into the living room. The shutters were drawn, the table lamp turned off. It was difficult to distinguish beyond shapes and shadows, but she recognized Conrad still in his sweat suit, lying supine on the sofa, his head angled slightly to his left. One arm was folded against his chest, the other hung down, fingertips just brushing the floor. It seemed an uncomfortable position for sleep, but recalling how much he’d imbibed last night, Sammy guessed he was feeling no pain.

  Clearing her throat, she tentatively called out his name to avoid startling him awake.

  He didn’t move.

  She pushed the window open so that she could climb inside, placing the thermos of hot coffee down on the floor. “Professor Conrad!” she repeated more loudly. “Sorry to intrude, but —”

  The slackness of his jaw made Sammy edge closer. “I thought maybe —” She flipped on the hall light.

  Something was terribly wrong. Even in shadow, the professor’s skin appeared a shade too pale. And it looked like — like blood splattered on the patterned sofa.

  “Professor!”

  Sammy stumbled into the living room and touched his dangling left wrist. It was cold. Frantically, she pressed her fingers against his neck, feeling for a pulse. There was none. She moved his chin toward her and as she did, his jaw opened wide, exposing a ragged, round hole in the roof of his mouth. She gasped in horror. The back of his head had been blown off. Blood soaked into the cushion where his head lay.

  Sammy stepped away in revulsion, almost tripping over a gun lying on the floor. Next to it she saw a note, just a half sheet of computer paper with the typed message: No use. C .

  It can’t be happening. Not again! she thought.

  “Wake-up, dammit! Wake up, please!”

  But he didn’t rise up. Sammy was trembling all over.

  My fault!

  In an instant the years rolled back and she recalled the image of her mother lying on the daybed. Not quite seven, Sammy had come home from school one day to discover her, still warm, but long past life. On the end table she’d found an empty bottle of pills and a note, scribbled in her mother’s neat hand, Sorry. I tried .

  Sammy never cried that day so long ago. Even at the funeral hall as she knelt beside her mother’s coffin. Her father had not come. He’d already moved to Los Angeles, and was living with his new fiancée. Bubbe Rose would become both grandma and mother now — seeding Sammy’s tongue with Yiddish idioms, her soul with Jewish guilt.

  Over the years, Sammy strove to appear unflappable, self-assured, tough. Keeping all her emotions bottled up, the paragon of self-control.

  But, yesterday, news of a student’s suicide had created a tiny chink in her reservoir of unresolved feelings. Today, finding Conrad’s lifeless body had broken the dam. The child within her wept as she could never remember weeping.

  When she was done, she wiped the tears from her cheek, picked up the cordless phone from the end table by the couch, and calmly dialed the campus police.

  Luther Abbott was exhausted. The throbbing in his hand had kept him awake all night. He’d been told to elevate it, but how was he supposed to accomplish that and still sleep?

  “Blasted chimp!” He unwrapped the loose gauze dressing and examined his wrist.

  “Lucky that monkey didn’t injure any tendons or joints,” the doctor in Student Health had declared yesterday as he cleaned the wound. “I’d have to put you in the hospital on IV antibiotics. This way you can go home on oral medication.”

  Now Luther was taking pills four times a day, though the angry red color of the skin surrounding the bite suggested they might not be doing any good. He extracted a bottle of aspirin from the drawer beside his bed. A couple of these, he thought, should do the trick. He rubbed his flattop. Might even help the headache just forcing its way into his consciousness.

  He didn’t have time to be sick, darn it. Today he had to crack the books for Monday’s midterms. And tomorrow he’d attend Reverend Taft’s Sunday service. In the afternoon the Reverend’s group would be planning the next campus mission of the Youth Crusade. He had to be there. After his outstanding performance in the last demonstration, they’d made him a group leader.

  He chugged down his pink antibiotic along with two aspirins and a prayer. God will look out for his soldiers. I will not be sick, he vowed. And that’s that.

  But as he returned the aspirin bottle to the drawer, Luther Abbottt had no idea he was soon to be sicker than he’d ever been in his life.

  After alerting Campus Police, Sammy gently set the cordless phone back in its cradle and walked over to the front door, unlocking it as the dispatcher had requested. She returned to Conrad’s desk and sat down, turning for a moment to look at the body. From this distance, she could almost convince herself he was peacefully asleep. But the jarring image of the professor last night, anxious and upset, flashed into her mind.

  The Ellsford Teaching Award is the kiss of death.

  Ironic.

  She turned from the body and felt a twinge in her heart as she scanned the cluttered desktop. Folders, envelopes, scientific journals, and papers were scattered in disordered piles over every available surface. A small bin on one end masqueraded as an outbox where several stamped bills waited to be mailed.

  Sammy remembered the large brown envelope addressed to Dean Jeffries that had lain on top. Marked CONFIDENTIAL, it must have been important to Conrad. She searched through the pile of letters. It wasn’t there. Curious, she examined the open desk drawers, but found only more reports and journals, all dealing with molecular genetics.
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  She tugged at the lower left-hand drawer. It was locked. The center drawer was jammed with thumbtacks, paper clips, and rubber bands. Conrad had also accumulated a collection of pens, many sporting the advertising of hotels far away from St. Charlesbury’s row of homey bed and breakfasts. Fumbling her way through, her hand closed around a small glass object at the back of the compartment. Guiltily, she extracted what turned out to be a bottle with a #12 printed on the label. Inside were two white tablets. Quickly, she slipped the bottle into her pocket and resumed her search.

  Where was that envelope? Conrad couldn’t have mailed it last night. Not in his drunken state. One last pull at the locked drawer proved futile. She briefly considered prying it open, but the police would arrive soon. She didn’t want to be caught breaking and entering.

  Her roving eyes came to rest on the sleeping computer screen of Conrad’s Macintosh. Without thinking, she reached in back and turned it on, the pinging and whirring soon ending with the familiar heading of a file folder and its contents. What had Conrad been working on before he died? She sat, stunned at the answer. On the screen, under the folder heading “Games,” a ready-to-be-played version of “Hangman” opened.

  The jangle from the desk phone startled her and she jumped.

  A second ring.

  She stretched her hand toward the sound, then stopped.

  The stillness of the house magnified the shrill third ring. What should she do? Her hand hung motionless.

  Before she could respond to a fourth ring, Conrad’s answering machine intervened. A ghostly voice spoke from the box: “You’ve reached the machine. You know what to do, and I’ll get back to you.” The machine beeped.

  “Osborne here. Hey, guy, I’m worried about you. Let’s talk, okay?”

  Too late.

  For a long time, Sammy sat quietly as the machine clicked and whirred back into ready mode. Finally, noticing an orange button lighting the outlet chain at her feet, she closed the “Games” file, and kicked the button off with her toe, darkening the computer screen.

  Conrad’s silent guardian once again, Sammy thought as she leaned forward and buried her face in her hands.