by Frankie Bow
Iker looked up at Emma, then at me, and then returned to his meal.
“I cannot speculate on this matter of the murder. I have no knowledge of it.”
“Oh, come on Iker.” Emma waved a celery stalk in my direction. “That never stops Molly.”
“It is not our job to chase a wild goose about this tragedy. Molly, to pursue this is…it is against the wishes of Marshall Dixon. And too, to stick our necks into a murder, it may be dangerous.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Emma narrowed her eyes at Iker. Iker continued to eat, avoiding her glare.
“My brother is a murder suspect, Iker. Molly and me were hoping you could help us figure out how to clear him. Are you saying you don’t wanna get involved?”
Iker’s round cheeks flushed. He set down his fork and knife and fixed his gaze on the remaining portion of lamb and asparagus.
“Marshall Dixon told us we must cease to investigate,” he said quietly. “She did not wish us to look further.”
“Dixon didn’t say she was actively against our looking into it,” I said, with more certainty than I felt. “She just seemed to think there wasn’t enough time. Iker, this isn’t just an accounting problem anymore.”
Seeing his hurt expression I quickly reached over to pat his plump hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say ‘just’ an accounting problem. What I’m trying to say is, the stakes are higher now. Someone died. And Emma’s brother is in the middle of it.”
“Then this is for the policemen,” Iker said. “It is their job, not ours. I think we should gracefully bow off. Yes. We should leave this alone. I am very decided on this. Marshall Dixon told me she was satisfied with the draft report. Even though…” Iker’s brow crinkled. He was wavering. “The report of the finances, it is still very incomplete.”
“You’re right, Iker,” I said gently. “It is incomplete. I’m not sure we did the best job we could. Are you?”
“She has a point, Iker.”
Iker continued to eat quietly, not taking the bait.
Emma blew out a weary sigh.
“So Molly, what do you have? Gimme some possibilities.”
“Let’s see. Kent’s involved in some financial shenanigans, Jonah reports him, Kent is bumped off. Obviously not coincidence. What if Kent had a co-conspirator who killed him to keep him quiet? That would put Jonah in the clear, wouldn’t it? Jonah wouldn’t blow the whistle if he were involved himself.”
“Jonah wouldn’t,” Emma said, “but a clever person might.”
“Ah, to deflect suspicion. Good point. Okay, but if you’re going to get back at someone by reporting them to administration, why murder them, too? It seems like overkill, pardon the expression.”
“Because maybe Kent could’ve said, ‘Oh, you’re gonna report me? I’m gonna report you right back.’ And then Jonah had to kill him to keep him quiet.”
“Emma, you’re making a really persuasive case for Jonah’s guilt.”
“I been thinking about it from the prosecutor’s point of view,” Emma said. “I mean, you and me know Jonah personally. But if you just look at the cold facts, it looks bad for Jonah.”
We both looked at Iker. Iker continued to eat quietly, eyes lowered to his plate.
“So what do we do now?” Emma asked.
“Iker is right,” I said carefully. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get mixed up in a murder investigation and get in the way of the police. But perhaps if we were to finish up our financial investigation, the one Iker and I were supposed to be working on, we might find something helpful in the course of our inquiry. Iker, what do you think? Shouldn’t we finish the report that we started?”
Iker opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. Two competing versions of the Right and Proper Thing were battling in his mind.
“Are you okay with continuing the investigation into purchases on campus?” I asked Emma.
“Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason.”
Iker had mentioned some irregularities in the Biology Department. Of course, it didn’t necessarily mean Emma was involved. Biology is a big department.
“I’m sick of sitting around being spied on,” Emma said. “Someone needs to give this thing a kick in the ’okole an’ get it moving in the right direction.”
Finally Iker said, “Yes. You are right. We must not do a halfway job.”
I felt like jumping up and high-fiving Emma on the spot, but I didn’t want to startle Iker into reconsidering.
“Good,” I said. “Now. Something’s been bothering me. When Marshall Dixon got that report from Jonah, his account pointed right to Kent and the Music Department, but when she turned the investigation over to you, Iker, she didn’t show you the original report. And she didn’t even mention the music department. It was like she wanted you to waste your time chasing this thing across the entire College of Arts and Sciences.”
“Dr. Dixon was not necessarily concealing something,” Iker said. “Perhaps she did not wish to prejudice us. She wished for us to find our own results.”
“Dixon was sure hiding something,” Emma said.
“Emma, why do you say this?”
“Where are we on getting copies of the purchase orders?” I interrupted. I didn’t want the conversation to go to that furtive kiss that Emma and I had witnessed. Maybe I wanted to protect Iker’s innocence. Or Dixon’s honor. Or my lunch. “Iker, you didn’t cancel the document requests already, did you?”
“Yes,” Iker said. “I did as Marshall Dixon asked, and cancelled the request for copies of the purchase orders.”
Emma and I both groaned.
“I know that our business office is very busy,” Iker continued, “so I marked the cancellation request as the lowest priority.”
“That was thoughtful of you,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment.
“The result is this. By that time the cancellation is processed, the original request will be already completed.”
Emma lit up. “Really?”
I thought she was going to hug him.
“Yes. The original request was highest priority. I did not wish to follow with still another high priority request when it was not needed.”
“Iker,” I exclaimed, “You’re a genius!”
A group of students at a nearby table stopped their conversation and looked over at us.
“So,” I continued quietly, “we should be—I mean you should be—getting copies of the purchase orders before your cancellation goes through. Is there anything else we can do while we’re waiting?”
“We should probably look around Jonah and Kent’s office,” Emma said.
“Are we allowed to go in there? Jonah’s not officially an employee now that his classes were cancelled.”
“But I bet he never got around to returning the key.”
Emma pulled out her phone and dialed.
“Eh, Dummy,” she said. “You still get the key to your office on campus?”
She waited, drumming her fingers.
“Thought so. Okay. You gonna be home in later on? Yah. See ya then.”
She disconnected. “We’ll go back to my house right after our meeting.”
“Sounds perfect,” I said.
Iker looked worried, but didn’t object.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Emma and I were passing the old Humanities building when Pat Flanagan fell into step behind us.
“Pat, where did you come from?” I wondered if that sounded too hostile. “I mean, what a nice surprise to see you.” Now that sounded overly friendly. Why do I even bother talking to people? I should just clam up and let everyone assume I’m enigmatic and wise.
“My comp class just got out.” He inclined his head toward the dilapidated Humanities building.
“They are not having a class in that building.” Emma exclaimed. “Are they for real? Didn’t they have to move everyone out to fix the damage?”
“It’s even worse than the old Health b
uilding,” I agreed. “At least the Health building didn’t almost crack in half during the earthquake.”
The two-story Humanities building had not been renovated since the 1950s. Rust had recolored most of the formerly-green metal roof. Arched, mullioned windows with mold-speckled white jambs stood out against solid gray siding. Much of the glass had been replaced by plywood, and the front entrance was boarded up.
Pat shrugged. “They told us it was structurally sound and not to worry about it.”
“It’s too bad,” I said. “It could be beautiful if they renovated it. I’ll take this any day over those brutalist 1970s concrete cellblocks.”
“No way is that structurally sound,” Emma said. “That thing’s full of termites. It needs to be tented yesterday.”
“After today’s class, getting crushed in a building collapse would be a relief.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Care to share?”
“These kids somehow got the idea that they’re perfect writers,” Pat said. “I can’t tell them anything. Why do they think they placed into Bonehead Writing to begin with?”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to call it ‘bonehead’ writing,” I said.
“Sorry, remedial.”
“Developmental,” Emma said. “We’re not allowed to say remedial.”
“I don’t think we can say ‘developmental’ anymore either,” I said. “I think it’s ‘tutorial’ now.”
“Eh, speaking of teaching headaches,” Emma said. “Molly, what’s going on with your crazy student?”
“You can’t say ‘developmental’,” Pat said, “but you can say ‘crazy’?”
“No, we are not supposed to say ‘crazy.’ Emma. Anyway, no, Bret hasn’t been back to class. I’m relieved for myself and my other students, but a little worried about him.”
“What was this about?” Pat asked.
“Molly got this ticking time bomb who sits in the back row, and he pulled out a shark tooth club in class. We gotta fill you in on that whole mishegas. Over drinks sometime.”
“Here we are.” Pat held the classroom door open for Emma and me. “Did you say mishegas?”
“She got her PhD at Cornell,” I said.
Linda was busy down in the front of the classroom, setting up the projector. Betty Jackson was sitting near the back. Betty waved us over and we made our way up to join her. She stood and embraced Pat.
“So the Humanities building made it through another day?” she asked.
Before Pat could answer, Linda cleared her throat to start the meeting and we took our seats. Emma raised her hand.
“Don’t we have to wait for Bob Wilson?”
“Bob has decided to apply for the position. So he’s stepped down from this search committee.”
“Wish I’d thought of that,” Emma muttered.
“Today we’ll be meeting the first of our candidates in person,” Linda said. “While we’re waiting for him to arrive, I’d like to review our procedural guidelines.”
Linda distributed several trees’ worth of printouts, and then reiterated our HR procedures. The room was dim, and the temperature and humidity were both well into the 80s. It’s hard for me to stay awake after lunch in any case, and with the ambient conditions approximating a womb, I didn’t stand a chance.
“...see our student evals?”
Emma’s loud voice knocked me out of dreamland.
“What? What about student evals?” I blinked and looked around. Fortunately the candidate hadn’t arrived yet, so at least I hadn’t been asleep long, nor had I dozed off in front of a stranger.
“Several of us in the Psychology Department have significant concerns about our current evaluation methods,” Betty Jackson said. “The instrument we are using is neither valid nor reliable. The way it’s administered is inconsistent. We have two excellent psychometricians in our department, but their efforts have never—”
“Then you’ll be happy to know we’re phasing out our student evaluations of teaching,” Linda interrupted.
“We are?” Emma said.
“We are?” Betty echoed.
“We’re going to transition to using the online review sites instead.”
Emma placed her elbows on the desk, her hands clutching her face.
“We’re gonna decide peoples’ promotion and tenure cases based off a stupid website?”
“No, this is very scientific,” Linda said. “This method takes advantage of the wisdom of crowds. It’s called crowdsurfing.”
“Do you mean crowdsourcing?” I asked.
Pat raised his hand. “If this is the online review site I’m thinking of, what’s to stop any of us from going online and leaving good reviews for our friends, and bad ones for our enemies?”
“We are confident this is a very forward-thinking modality. This new generation is digitally native.” Her answer made so little sense to me I wondered whether Pat’s question had tripped a flaw in Linda’s programming. I imagined her repeating “Does not compute,” as smoke curled out of her ears.
“Our chancellor is one hundred and ten percent behind this innovation,” Linda continued. “And here’s our candidate now.”
Linda’s young sidekick from the faculty retreat had entered the classroom through the lower door in the company of a thin, sour-looking man.
“Doctor Kobelt, we have your presentation set up. Thank you, Javier. Please come back in forty five minutes to escort the candidate to the student forum.”
“They’re having a student forum in the summer?” Emma whispered to me. “They think students are gonna show up in the summer to listen to some candidate for associate vice-deanlet of handholding and nose wiping?”
“Don’t criticize,” I whispered back. “Or they’ll put you in charge of some committee to investigate it.”
“Good point.” Emma and I both put on our Paying Attention faces. I heard Pat clacking away on his laptop.
“What’s your Spidey Sense say about this one?” Emma whispered.
“He hasn’t said anything yet.”
“He looks like an insect,” Emma persisted.
“Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Dr. Gunnar Kobelt began his talk by describing some promising campus sustainability projects in which he’d been involved. He then digressed into general observations about universities and leadership and society, and I started to drift off again. I wished I’d brought a laptop to take notes, as Pat Flanagan was doing. At least the effort of typing might help me to stay awake.
Betty Jackson raised her hand.
“How would you describe your management style?” she asked.
“Ah, young lady. You have heard of the Myers Briggs personality types?”
“Yes I have.” Betty Jackson is a professor of social psychology.
“I have the INTJ personality type,” said Dr. Kobelt. “That is the rarest of the sixteen types. It means that I am very logical. This is extremely annoying to my wife, because it means I win every argument. You can imagine she does not like it.”
The candidate went on to describe his “open door” management style and his appreciation for diverse perspectives. This was presumably to distinguish himself from all those other job candidates out there who are trying to impress search committees with their autocratic management style and their hatred of diversity.
Pat Flanagan kept typing.
Emma raised her hand.
“How come you applied for this job?” she asked. “Why do you want to leave your current position and come to Mahina State?”
“I like to work with people who are smarter than I am. Unfortunately, in my current position I don’t get the opportunity very often.” He chuckled, although no one else did. “That’s a complement to you fine folks.”
The classroom door cracked open, and I could see Linda’s sidekick, Javier, peeking through. Up in the front row, Linda checked her wrist.
“Well, it looks like we’re already a little over time on Dr. Ko
belt’s talk, so that’s all the questions we have time for. We need to get to our next meeting.”
As we were packing up to leave, Emma said, “Hey Betty, you ever heard of the Myers Briggs? Geez, even I’ve heard of it. What a pompous jackass.”
“As long as he’s sharing the results of his personality tests,” Betty said, “I’d love to see how he scores on narcissism. Oh, Emma, how is Jonah? How are you?”
“Police car’s still parked outside my house,” Emma said. “I don’t know what they think they’re gonna see.”
“Yeah, Emma’s been doing a great job deflecting suspicion,” I said. “She told the police if she wanted to kill someone she’d slip antifreeze into their energy drink.”
“Emma, are you trying to get arrested?” Pat asked.
Betty laughed. “Well, you’re sure not acting like someone who has a guilty conscience. Listen kids, I have to go. My class starts in seven minutes.”
“What’re you teaching?” Emma asked.
“Stats.”
“Aw, shoot,” Emma sympathized.
“Yeah. Summer stats class is not a happy place. I have a lot of repeat customers.”
“Don’t you get in trouble when you fail students?” I asked.
“Sure, every time I record a D or an F, Linda comes by to harass me about it,” Betty said. “But I have tenure. So let the Student Retention Office huff and puff and try to blow my house down. I do my job, and I have a clear conscience.”
“That can’t be what the Foundation was hoping for when they gave us the grant,” I said. “Don’t they realize the Student Retention Office is just arm-twisting the faculty to pass everyone?”
“Yeah. I told Molly, she should report them to the Foundation.”
“Easy for you to say, Emma,” Pat said. “You know what happens to whistleblowers. Molly, if you do report the SRO, don’t do it from your own computer, and don’t log on to any of your accounts.”
“Pat’s right,” Betty called back as she and Pat exited the classroom. “Look out for yourself, Molly. It’s a lot harder to do the right thing when you’re unemployed.”
“Betty’s the one who should’ve gotten the teaching award,” I said to Emma, when Betty and Pat had gone.
