I focused on the papers before me and promised myself to read through more files tomorrow in the office.
Edwin Cartwell’s self-evaluation was full of self-congratulations about his teaching, his strong suit. He wrote a number of defensive paragraphs about his last book and prophesied a home run with his next effort. Edwin’s book was another historical effort and, although I did not yet have access to his manuscript, I doubted it would include the plagiarized text from Alistair Shaw.
Henry’s evaluation of Edwin was still in draft form for Nell to type up and was generally flattering. Henry, you devious bastard. Edwin would get a good raise this year even as you stole his wife.
George Weinstein’s self-evaluation was similar but longer. He may have been an editor in his past, but as an academic, the man could not write a short sentence. There was no mention of a book. Interesting. Odd. If George were writing a book, surely he would have included a reference to it.
I wasn’t having any more luck tracking down my plagiarist than Joe was tracking down a tall male murder suspect. Too many people, too little evidence.
Chapter 21
And then, as if we were all living in a movie, there was another unusual death.
On the second page of The New York Times was a story about Alistair Shaw. He’d been found dead in his living room in North Carolina. In spite of the professor’s age, the local police suspected Shaw had not died of natural causes. The speculation was that he died of a possible drug overdose.
As Joe was quick to point out, if it hadn’t been for my conversation and correspondence, neither of us would have connected the unusual death of a ninety-year-old professor in the southeast with the unusual death of a dean in the mountain west.
But we did, staring at each other across my table, silently putting the two events together. Shaw’s death had taken place while all the universities were on break and our faculty members were free to travel anywhere. Was there a connection between the plagiarism, Shaw’s overdose, and Henry’s fall down the stairs?
“This makes matters more complicated,” Joe said, and left for police headquarters to contact a source in North Carolina. I headed to my office at school.
“Happy holidays,” I said to Nell as I walked to my office. As usual she was there before I was. I was glad to see her serious face again. It was lonely in the school without another person.
“I don’t know how happy it’s going to be,” said Nell, looking glum. “Edwin Cartwell is in his office and wants to see you.”
I pondered going down the hall to Edwin’s office, but then decided it would be nice to summon him to mine.
“Hi, Edwin,” I said when he arrived, without looking up from my desk.
Edwin sat in one of the chairs facing my desk. “Has Coleman withdrawn his grievance?”
“I hope so. But I haven’t seen Larry since before Christmas.”
“It’s important he do so,” said Edwin. “We can’t afford the possibility of a new scandal or to have the school considered for receivership.”
“Delighted you have developed some concern for the welfare of the school,” I said. This time I did look straight at him.
“That’s not fair, Meredith. I have always put the interests of the school first.”
“How’s your new book coming, Edwin?” I asked, hoping to befuddle him. It worked. He looked bewildered.
“It’s fine,” he mumbled.
“Any chance I could take a look at it?”
“Well, I suppose...it’s not finished. I just have a few chapters so far.”
“Great,” I said, rising from my desk. “I’ll walk you back to your office.”
Edwin continued to look confused as we headed down the hall. “I’m trying to finish up Henry’s annual evaluations and you made reference to your new book in your self-evaluation. It would help me to see what you’ve done so far.”
“Well, if it would help,” he said. He unlocked his office door and went to the bookcase behind his computer desk and pulled down a cardboard manuscript box. He opened the box and handed it to me.
“May I borrow this for a few hours, Edwin?”
“Well, I was going to do some work on it today. That’s why I’m here.” He studied me carefully. Suspicion glinted in his eyes.
“Oh, I thought you came in to find out if Coleman was still filing a grievance,” I said. “But, if you could let me read through the introduction and some of the chapters, I’ll bring them back later today.”
It was evident Edwin was perplexed by my request, but he was also aware that I was now in charge of his evaluation and merit raise. He pulled about twenty pages out of the box and handed it to me.
“I haven’t written an introduction yet, and I’m not sure this will be the first chapter, but read this if you like.”
I took the pages. Practicing cheerfulness, I said, “Thanks, Edwin. I’ll get this back to you as soon as I can, so you can work on it today.”
Edwin’s book was about nineteenth century journalists. His method of storytelling was windy and he wrote much of it in the passive voice.
In contrast, Alistair Shaw’s writing was active and vivid. It seemed unlikely that Edwin would have had any reason to paste Shaw’s discussion of new media into his book. The topic was wrong, the style was much too different and so was the font.
Edwin Cartwell was not the plagiarist.
Joe’s source on the police force in Chapel Hill, North Carolina came up empty handed. There was nothing in Shaw’s home or the forensic evidence that pointed to one of our faculty having been anywhere near the place.
Turns out Shaw had been suffering with terminal cancer and had, indeed, died of an overdose of potassium. The Chapel Hill police said it was a confirmed suicide albeit a painful death for a nice old man.
“I’ve instructed our guys to send the police in Chapel Hill all the relevant fingerprints we picked up here at the school plus photos of the faculty. And, I’m sorry...I know you wanted to keep a lid on this, but I did have to tell the chief about the plagiarism and the notes between Henry and Shaw.”
I told him about my meeting with Edwin and gave him a copy of the twenty pages I had made while they were in my possession. “I guess he’s not your plagiarist.”
“I hope you’re right about that. And, Red,” his face was very serious and his hands were on my shoulders, “I am grateful for your help with the academic information on this case, but remember I don’t want you putting yourself in jeopardy. Anything that pertains to actual evidence in the Henry Brooks case or the Shaw case, you leave to me, all right?”
“Copy that, Detective.”
“I’m dead serious about this,” he said. “I love your help when you’re with me. But I worry about what you might do on your own.”
“Joe, I’m not doing anything dangerous. I’m examining manuscripts for plagiarism. That’s a legitimate activity for an academic. If no one had died, you wouldn’t even be involved.”
He leaned in and kissed me, a little harder than usual. “I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.”
The following night, Joe came to my house late, but this time with news about Simon. “We found out where Simon was the day Henry died. And I’m afraid our nasty Dr. Gorshak has an airtight alibi.”
I pulled up a kitchen chair and waited.
“It seems,” he began, “Simon was in Buffalo, New York that weekend.”
“Buffalo? Was he seeing Doris?”
“Sort of. I’ve been trying to track her down or find her brother, but no luck, until this afternoon. I got a call from a buddy on the Syracuse police force who’d read a general email I sent out, looking for people named Gorshak or Jacoby, which was Doris Gorshak’s maiden name. Seems a David Jacoby had been the victim of a hit and run in Syracuse in December. My friend tracked him down to a Syracuse hospital, but didn’t intervi
ew him until yesterday.”
“Jesus. And I thought academics moved slowly.”
“Give ’em a break, babe. Syracuse is a big city. Their cops have too many cases and one inquiry from an old buddy in Nevada does not exactly rise to the top of the list.”
“So how does Jacoby in Syracuse put Simon in Buffalo?”
“Because, before he was hit by a car, David Jacoby had been in Buffalo and saw Simon Gorshak at a memorial.”
“On a Sunday? Whose memorial?”
“Doris Gorshak’s. She died. Her brother held a small memorial at his home in Buffalo and her cousin David attended and spoke to Simon. He is absolutely certain about the date and that gives Simon his alibi.”
“Wow. You took your time getting to the point.”
“I’m training you to be a good detective,” said Joe with a smile. “One thread at a time.”
My Joe. What a beautiful pain in the ass. He looked particularly attractive in the sweater I gave him for Christmas.
“So, Mr. Master Detective, how did poor Doris die?”
“The cousin was vague, but I gather she was in rehab and had been in bad shape for a long time.”
“And her dumped ex-husband went all the way to freezing cold Buffalo, New York in mid-winter to mourn her?”
“We’ve never found any record of a divorce here or in New York.” Joe looked solemn. “Maybe he still loved her.”
Maybe he did. But the Simon I had encountered in the hallway didn’t seem the loving type.
“So, you think I should stop thinking Simon killed Henry and that I might be next.”
Joe got up and came over and put his arms around me and his head next to mine. “Probably,” he said into my ear. “But we still have to find the tall man who was seen entering the building that Sunday. So be careful of tall men. Okay?”
“Except for you. Right?”
His tongue caressed the edge of my ear and his hands moved down my back, slowly and suggestively. With this kind of foreplay, how was I supposed to concentrate on a murder case? Or a case of plagiarism?
“I need a few minutes to make a phone call,” I said, pushing him toward the kitchen.
“A few minutes are all you get.”
I pulled away from his seductiveness. I needed to call Phyllis at home. The final edit of Phyllis Baker’s book had already gone to her publisher and was due out in three months. Phyllis was an expert on electronic journalism design and I knew I would have to check it out. I called her.
“I’m flattered you want to read my book.” Her warm voice still carried a slight trace of her Nigerian birthplace. “I wouldn’t have figured you for a fan of this stuff. You sure you don’t want to wait for a published copy rather than reading an electronic version on your computer?”
I felt a twinge of guilt for even suspecting her of plagiarism but I had to be thorough. And I had to lie to a good friend. “I wish I could wait, Phyl, but I need to look at it to complete Henry’s annual evaluation.”
“Hmm. Henry saw the first draft last year. Not that much has changed.” Phyllis’ voice was a little flatter.
“Yes, I know, but his notes are incomplete. Do you mind sending it?”
“Happy to oblige, Red. I guess it will be nice to know what you think of it anyway.”
I felt guilty. Phyllis was my good friend on the faculty—as supportive as Max and, in some ways, closer. Phyllis knew more of my secrets. We didn’t see much of each other socially, but, before I became dean, not a day went by that we didn’t exchange some observations about what was going on. She had been a stalwart ally since I became dean and I knew I could count on her.
Once, at a cocktail party we were enduring together, she told me she and her husband had a special needs child. Would a good woman with a sick child have had reason to steal? If she got caught, would she kill? My mind rejected the questions.
Chapter 22
Simon came to my office the day after the New Year’s weekend.
“Your cop came to see me this morning—interrupted my breakfast.” Simon spoke with his usual sneer.
“Did he?” I pretended to be involved with paperwork on my desk.
Simon moved from the doorway to the front of my desk and tapped his bony fingers on my paperwork. His closeness was alarming. “I told you not to meddle in my affairs.”
“I haven’t,” I said without looking up.
“Well, call off your dog then. I don’t need your cop calling my wife’s relatives and messing around with my family business.”
That got me to look up at him. He was still too close to me. I wanted to say “sorry for your loss.” But with Joe’s warnings in mind, I said, “Simon, he’s not my cop and Detective Morgan is—along with a lot of other police—investigating the possible murder of our dean. He has to check out everyone who had access to this building. And that includes you.”
“I warned you, Meredith. I warned you that I would cause serious trouble for you if you didn’t stay out of my business.” There was a look in his eyes that made me want to call Joe right away. I reached for the phone. Simon left before Joe answered.
I waited a minute to be sure Simon was gone. “Joe, Simon was just here and quite threatening. Is there any chance he might have hired someone to kill Henry and then gone to Buffalo to set up an alibi?”
There was a long silence.
“It’s possible,” said Joe. “But his financial records don’t suggest he had enough money to hire a killer.”
“But, Joe, remember he was arguing with someone on the phone the other day when I went to his office. He mentioned sending a check.”
“One doesn’t usually pay hired killers by check,” said Joe. “And the records we now have on Simon suggest he spent every dime, including all his retirement fund on Doris. He still owes the Buffalo people.”
“Which is why he refuses to retire. But he still terrifies me.”
“Me, too. Just stay away from him and hope we can get better forensic evidence to nail this case down.”
Faculty retreats are held by departments of colleges and universities all over the country. Usually scheduled to occur during winter break before school reopens, the purpose of the retreat is to give the faculty a full day to plan next steps in the growth and future of the department or college. Retreats are good times to air complex issues like our dispute about the curriculum.
Our January retreat was due to begin at 9:00 a.m. and last until 5:00 p.m. I had rented the large private room at Gormley’s.
Wilson’s almost smiling face met me at the door at 8:45. “Coffee’s ready,” he said. “Want a shot in it before the others get here?”
“Thanks, pal. I think I’ll try to stay sober at least until noon,” I said, heading into the private room. “What did you decide on for lunch?”
“Salad, fried chicken, oatmeal cookies,” he said, following me into the room. “I considered roast beef but decided red meat would be inappropriate for this gang.”
“Wilson, you know too much about academics for a restaurateur.”
“I’ve had years to observe the species.” He turned to leave the room, then added, “I’m bringing in fruit, yogurt, and bran muffins for breakfast. At least the faculty colons will be relatively healthy even if their reasoning is clogged.”
“That man has an evil streak,” said Nell, who was busy putting copies of the agenda in front of each place at the U-shaped table.
“Why do you think I keep coming here?”
I examined the screen and hoped Phyllis and Larry would arrive a few minutes early to set up their presentation on new media courses ideas for our curriculum.
George Weinstein was the first to arrive. He was dressed in a heavy parka and a fur hat.
“Good holiday, George?” I asked, meeting him at the coat rack. I noticed he had a deep tan.
“Go
od to get away from all this,” he said.
“George, may I ask a favor?”
“As long as it doesn’t involve anything about Larry Coleman,” he said, removing his parka. “Or about putting our school into receivership.”
“It’s not about Larry. I’d like to see a copy of your book.”
He turned to look at me. “Why, Meredith? What’s piqued your interest in old newsroom issues?”
He loomed over me. George tends to stand too close to people, especially those who are shorter than he is. It was 8:45 in the morning but, from the smell of his breath, I was sure George had been drinking.
“Well, George.” I steadied myself for the fiction that had seemed to work on Edwin. “I am in the midst of finishing up Henry’s evaluations and trying to learn as much as I can about each faculty member’s productivity. That means looking at any books written last year.”
George frowned. “Well, not much point looking at mine. I withdrew it from publication last fall. Cretins at the publishers wanted too many changes.”
I tried again. “Nonetheless, George, it represents a large part of your creative output last year, and I should take a look at it. You can just email it to me.”
“I deleted it from my hard drive. It took up too much memory. But I have a printed version. If you really need to see it, I’ll bring it in tomorrow.” He gave a conspicuous sigh of annoyance and sank into a chair at the table.
With books from George and Phyllis, I would have only Max Worthington’s left to consider. I knew Max was writing about television network websites and online coverage of breaking news. Close to Shaw’s topic, but I hated to think Max would steal anything. Max may have been a fool about Celeste, but he was too good a writer and much too proud to plagiarize.
Had I missed anyone? Was there another member of the faculty working on a manuscript?
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