A Death Most Cold Read online

  And you were not among her favourites, Mr. PhD. Where were you Monday night?

  Before Sidney could launch another question, they were interrupted by Ted ambling down the corridor with an armful of exam booklets.

  “Myron!” he boomed. “You’ve been holding out on me!”

  “How’s that?”

  “You didn’t tell me that Oliver was fired!”

  “I didn’t know when I talked to you last.”

  “You’re on the board—”

  “Not that particular evening. I stayed home. You and Benson came by later, remember?”

  “Oh…right. It was Monday night… Okay, you’re forgiven. It’s hot news now making the rounds.”

  “I can believe that,” Myron said.

  “Does anyone know why he was fired?” asked Sidney, keeping his conspiratorial tone intact.

  “Did she need a reason?” quipped Ted, rubbing his nose.

  “Good point!” Sidney let out one of his fake comradely laughs. “You think he did her in?”

  “That theory is already circulating,” said Ted.

  Myron shook his head. “That’s outrageous!”

  “Can’t stop people’s sordid imaginations or wagging tongues,” Ted proclaimed, shifting his bundle of exam booklets from one arm to the other.

  “Got quite a load there,” Sidney remarked, eyeing Ted’s burden. “A bit early for a midterm, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah…they’ll hate me for this — the mother of surprise tests.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” Sidney mocked, shaking a finger at him. “Socking it to students can have a detrimental effect on your teaching career come student evaluation time. Be nice and nurture them — until at least after the evaluations.”

  “Is that what you do?” Ted’s tone had a touch of sarcasm, which seemed to be lost on Sidney.

  “Absolutely!” he replied. “It also helps one to retain students to the end of the term. And I,” he emphasized, “like an audience when I lecture. Speaking of which—” he glanced at his watch, “I’d better be off. Talk to you later, Myron.”

  “I hope not,” Myron muttered under his breath as he and Ted watched him march down the hall.

  “Sometimes, I think he’s unreal… And I like an audience when I lecture,” Ted mimicked distastefully.

  “Phoney as a three-dollar bill, but you caught his better side. I think he was trying to be collegial.”

  “You mean nice?”

  “That too.”

  “He’s trying too hard then.”

  “Yeah, well… Sidney probably feels a bit alienated these days with his academic credentials in question.”

  “Oh, you mean his Mickey Mouse degree. It’s all over the college. Wonder what made him do it?”

  “Ego, plain and simple, I suspect. He couldn’t stand the thought of others in the department having their doctorates, so he had to have one at whatever the cost — and I mean that literally.”

  “Hmm…” Ted scratched his chin. “You think he did any work to earn it, aside from shelling out a chunk of dough?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he did. Those pseudo universities usually require some kind of work, and I think I know what Sidney did. A while ago, he handed me a paper he had written, requesting my comments and suggestions.”

  “On what?”

  “The political elite of Great Plains.”

  “Is there one?” Ted laughed.

  “Of course, every community has its shakers and movers in the political arena. Actually, it wasn’t a half-bad piece, delineating who’s who locally, their party affiliations and machinations on the municipal and provincial level. I assumed that after he sanitized suitably, he’d want to get it published. With a few revisions, he could be in one of a number of academic journals. Now I believe he had a better use for it. I bet he submitted it for his doctorate.”

  “Are you saying Sidney actually earned his degree on the level?”

  “Hardly. The paper was only about sixty typed pages — perhaps a solid honours BA essay, but nowhere an acceptable Master’s thesis, let alone a PhD. No, he didn’t earn it; he just tried to short-circuit the system by finding an institution that would accept it.”

  “Looking for an easy route to status then.”

  “Something like that. Since no legitimate graduate school would accept such a minimal effort — or least would require much more — he went to a degree mill, hoping that we would accept his degree at face value. In his mind, he probably believes that he really deserves it.”

  “He miscalculated badly then,” said Ted, shaking his head, “not only is he out a bundle, but he may have put his position on the line.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it will go that far—”

  “Just some talk I heard.”

  “Wishful thinking on the part of some of his detractors, I think,” said Myron. “At any rate, he’s got other things on his mind I think.”

  “Or up his sleeve,” amended Ted uncharitably.

  “Or up his sleeve,” Myron agreed. Given his experience with Sidney, he had no doubt of that. “But Ted, you should take note of what Sidney said about your midterms.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Myron replied with a smirk, “it’s sage advice!”

  ***

  En route to his mailbox, Myron rounded the corner and almost collided with Freta. “Ah, there you are,” she said. “I was looking for you. This place is like a rat’s maze — curves and corridors. Having a devil of a time finding people’s offices.”

  “It does take time to orientate oneself, if you don’t know the building.”

  “I’ll say…got time for a quick coffee? Want to run something by you.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do — about an hour before my class. I’ll just get my mail. Why don’t we go to the cafeteria? I’ll buy.”

  “Best offer I’ve had all day.”

  The college’s cafeteria was a model of space and brightness thanks to the row of skylights overlooking the rotunda. Most people, of course, assumed that it was planned that way; however, in this particular instance it was a case of architectural error. Somehow, the blueprint had about 600 square metres more than was allowable by the government for the size of the institution. But since neither the college nor government officials in Edmonton noticed this “overage” until construction began, and since nobody wanted to be accused of incompetence, the college’s extra-large cafeteria remained as per blueprints. The administration did promise, however, not to apply for additional operational monies.

  Freta sat down and sighed, “I’ve got about five interviews left, and so far I’ve come up with zilch.”

  “You can’t be doing all the interviews of the college personnel by yourself? There must be over 250 people — not to mention the students.

  “Well, it’s selected interviews, and fortunately I’m not. Rob, Corporal Rob Rainy, is helping out. We divided a selected list. I do the faculty, and he does the staff.”

  “What about the students?”

  “Forget about the students. We don’t have the manpower. Besides, what’s the connection? Dworking didn’t give a course. Why would a student know or want to harm the president — hypothetically speaking?”

  Myron shrugged. “It could have always been a deranged kid who flunked his exam or who was pissed off at his girlfriend and decided to take it out on the head cheese of the place. Stranger things have happened.”

  “True, but that’s like saying it could have been some psycho passing through on his or her way to BC,” Freta countered. “To tell you the truth, I can’t prove that a crime has been committed. Dworking froze to death, but that’s all we know for sure. The only reason we are treating this as anything more than a natural death or unfortunate accident is because — well…it doesn’t feel quite right — to me, anyway. I mean why did she freeze to death? She didn’t have a stroke or was otherwise medically incapacitated as far as can be determined, and people just don’t get into their cars, do up their seatbelts, and
sit there in forty below weather until they stop functioning. And from all accounts, Dworking wasn’t the suicidal type. Was she?”

  “Nope — definitely not!” Myron concurred. “And I agree, it doesn’t feel right to me or make any sense.”

  “There’s one other suspicious aspect as well — and I trust that this will not go beyond this table; we haven’t released any details regarding her death…” Freta gave Myron a conspiratorial look.

  “My lips are sealed,” Myron assured her, wondering why she was suddenly confiding in him.

  “According to the pathologist’s preliminary observation, and it’s really early, the body is still literally in a sitting position. There was a definite contusion at the base of her skull. Not enough to kill her but perhaps sufficient enough to render her unconscious.”

  “You mean someone may have whacked her from behind and left her in the car?”

  “That’s a theory Rob and I have been throwing around. I don’t see how else she would have sustained it after she had strapped herself into the car. But you never know. She may have somehow bumped herself earlier and passed out in the car.”

  “That’s one explanation,” Myron said, taking a sip of his coffee.

  “But a bit far-fetched and hard to accept — in the realm of your aggrieved student/psycho theory. What I do know is that a lot of people had good reasons for not liking her, but as yet none of them seems eager to confess to killing her.”

  “So where do you go from here?”

  Freta shrugged. “I’ll finish my interviews. Compare notes with Rob. See what shakes out, if anything, and file a report. That may well be the end of it. If we do find something more conclusive, Major Crime detectives from K Division will be called in. I’m holding off for the moment.”

  “So you’re definitely suspicious?”

  Freta eyed him with a hint of annoyance, which Myron took to mean, Of course I’m suspicious, but I can’t officially say that — so quit asking.

  “Until I can get a more definitive cause of death and/or forensic evidence, the jury is out.” Freta pursed her lips in distaste. “A bit of a tough call.”

  “Maybe the perfect crime,” Myron suggested.

  “Oh, I doubt that, but the Mounties don’t always get their man…or woman.” She hesitated, thinking for a moment. “The president may well have got done in, but unless something shakes out quickly, I may not be able to sufficiently establish a crime, let alone identify and arrest the culprit.”

  “Well…it’s still early and you may get a break in the case of some kind?” Myron said hopefully, conjuring up the usual cop show scenarios he’d seen on TV.

  Freta seemed to have made up her mind about something. “You’re right! There’s usually a breakthrough eventually — and you might be able to provide it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m the first to admit that I’m out of my element here. I don’t know the individuals involved, the inner workings of this place, and who was doing what to whom or with who like you do.”

  “So?”

  “So you can help find out?”

  “How?” Myron was now both intrigued and chagrined. What was this Mountie asking?

  “Ask around and give me some real dope, pardon the expression. I need to know more. And people talk to you.”

  “Admittedly, I know about some aspects but to tell the truth, it’s no different than any other institutional environment; it has its share of friction over principles, conflicts of personalities, and issues and just plain animosities, real or imagined, ranging from petty jealousies to profound disagreements—”

  “Yes, and you’re attuned to them. I’m not,” Freta said emphatically. “You can separate the wheat from the chaff or whatever the phrase is.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Myron was becoming interested, if not excited by this unexpected confidential conversation with an appealing law enforcement officer, despite his protestations. “That I help in your investigation?”

  “Yes, unofficially — that’s my general drift. You’re an insider. Perhaps you may be able to stumble onto something. Be my informed eyes and ears for the duration. After I have concluded my interviews, I’d like to kick around what I’ve learned with you, see what I’ve missed; what you can add. It may all end up a big zero, but at least I wouldn’t feel like a blind cop probing in the dark.”

  “Why take me in particular into your confidence?”

  She smiled. “As I said, I’m making very little progress here, and you have the most solid alibi, which almost covers the time period of Dworking’s death. Besides, you’re also the one person that everyone I’ve talk to seems to like…”

  That would certainly be news to Nadia.

  “…or least, nobody’s saying nasty things about you. So let’s say I’m playing a hunch,” Freta concluded.

  “Well,” he said, “that’s flattering. Let me think about it. I never fancied myself as a sleuth.”

  “Sleuths are for whodunits. I just want your impressions, opinions, and any relevant information that you come across in the next few days. You’d be surprised how much the police rely on the public to solve cases. Don’t take too long thinking about it.”

  “Will you be home tonight?” It was an impulsive question brought on by an impulsive thought. He was rather enjoying his encounters with this woman.

  “I will,” she replied, “after six.”

  “I’ll come by, and we’ll discuss this further. I’ll give you my answer. You’re in the apartment just below me, right?”

  “Apartment 304. Come by around six thirty… You like pizza?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  “Good. We’ll order one. I know the best place in town.”

  “Great,” Myron said with some relish; he wasn’t going to eat alone in front of the boob tube for a change.

  Freta glanced at her watch. “Uh-oh, got to go. I have a meeting with Charles Leaper, dean of something or other…” She leafed through her notebook. “Where’s B301?”

  “Take the stairs to the next floor, turn right, straight ahead.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Freta got up to leave, a handsome young man in an RCMP uniform came by. She introduced him as Corporal Rob Rainy. Tom Cruise lives, thought Myron as he rose from his chair, shook hands, and exchanged banalities. He watched as the two made their way up the stairs, conferring and leafing through their notebooks.

  ***

  His late afternoon class done, Myron hurried to his office, anxious to pack up and go home for a change. He needed to spruce up a bit and wanted a long, relaxing pipe before stopping by Freta’s apartment. He was just about to shrug into his parka when Ted came bounding in waving a copy of The Voice, the student newspaper. “You’re going to love this,” he exclaimed.

  The front page featured a photo of President Dworking smiling (in happier times) with a brief caption announcing her sudden death. However, what Ted found particularly interesting was the mock advertisement below. It read:

  College has an opening for a full-time, temporary position. Must be intelligent, know how to use a Xerox machine, give dictation, be able to learn on the job, attend a number of evening meetings, and do some travelling (car provided). Salary negotiable. Apply to the Presidential Selection Committee, Board of Governors.

  “Well,” said Myron, taken back a little, “that was quick and quite clever.”

  The official notice only got posted that afternoon, and here the student rag had it in print, with some artistic license no less. “Don’t know what to tell you Ted — the students are on the ball.”

  “So give me the scoop. Who’s on the list? What’s the board’s criteria? How is the new president to be picked? Give me some details here…”

  “First of all, it’s acting president,” corrected Myron. “He or she will only hold the position on a temporary basis.” I hope, he added in his mind. “A full-blown presidential search involving the whole college community will be undertaken, probably
after the end of term.”

  “Okay…acting president… Is it a committee as a whole? Will you all sit around the table, bantering about applications and taking a vote — or are you drawing straws? Does anyone have the inside track? What do you know, Myron?”

  With his eager barrage of questions, Ted got to the heart of the issue more than he could possibly realize. Temporary or not, the selection process bothered Myron — not that he could change it or present a cogent alternative. But it didn’t sit well when he thought about it that night, pulling on his pipe and letting the rich, aromatic mixture infuse his senses. If his understanding of the process was right, essentially Blythe and Hoar (Mackay would be easily swayed and would acquiesce) would determine the institution’s new CEO and forward the name to the board for a ratification vote. Some would interpret that as simple rubber-stamping. He hoped that would not be the case played out next Wednesday night…

  “Sorry, Ted, I couldn’t tell you any more, even if I knew. It was a special meeting in camera.”

  “A hint, at least?”

  “Well…to tell the truth, I was partial to retaining the services of a psychic or astrologer. You know, someone who can see the future, solve problems, make us happy, and in the process remove the scourge of black magic, witchcraft, evil spells, and voodoo, with a 100% guarantee against bad board decisions. Alas, I was voted down… A Franklin stove will be brought into the boardroom before we start, and everyone in the college will have to wait for the white smoke from our conclave.”

  Chapter Seven

  When the famed explorer Alexander Mackenzie traced the Peace River to its source in the BC mountains, duly recording the wonders of the region (including his brief camp and meeting with the Beaver tribe, some sixty kilometres northeast of Great Plains), he had no idea that his name would someday be taken in vain. Mackenzie Towers was one of the city’s older landmarks. A five-storey, elongated brick-and-sandstone box, for the longest time it contained a novelty: it was the only erection in town with an elevator.

  Of course, that was a while ago; as Great Plains grew (almost 25,000), so did the Tower’s competitors. There arose other, more modern apartment buildings, but still, it had aged well, almost stately retaining, for the most part, its lofty status (relatively speaking) with a discerning, albeit older clientele.