Death by Dissertation

by Dean James

  “You’re positive the third person was a woman and that the fourth person was a man?” I asked gently and was relieved to see the firmness with which the professor nodded.

  “Was the second man you heard the same as the first man?”

  “Oh, most definitely not,” Dr. Farrar assured me. “The first man had a higher voice. The second man had a voice that was a good bit deeper, much more rumbling.”

  Rob, because of the time factor, was obviously the first man in Whitelock’s office that afternoon. He had a pleasant tenor voice, but Dan Erickson’s voice was deeper, as was Bruce Tindall’s. Which one, Dan or Bruce, had been the second man to argue with Whitelock that afternoon? Or was it someone else entirely? I thought the first woman had been Bella, because of the time; she had told me and Rob that she had an appointment with Whitelock at three. She could have returned a little later and bashed him on the head, though.

  “Could you identify any one of the four voices?” I asked with some hope but not much expectation.

  Dr. Farrar shook her head regretfully. “The police asked me the same thing, but I had to tell them no also.”

  I was happy to hear that the police knew about all this, if only for the fact that they might keep an eye out for the professor’s welfare. The fourth person she had heard enter Whitelock’s office was probably the murderer. Unless, of course, a fifth person had sneaked in afterwards, once Dr. Farrar had left her office, which was entirely likely. Either way, the dotty professor’s life just might be in danger if the murderer had any idea that he—or she—had been overheard.

  I wondered how to warn her. “Did you see anyone when you left your office?” She shook her head. “The police asked me that, too, because they were afraid I might be in some possible danger, but I told them I didn’t see anything or anyone. I can’t imagine that anyone would have any reason to harm me,” she said airily. “All I wanted at that point was some hot tea and some intelligent conversation, but I had to settle for tea alone.”

  I responded with a puzzled frown, for I sincerely hoped the professor hadn’t been talking about having a conversation with the teapot. Seeing my expression, Dr. Farrar explained, “Anthony Logan and I usually have tea together in the afternoons, before he leaves campus around five. But since he wasn’t there, I had tea on my own.”

  So she didn’t have a talking teapot after all.

  “And when you got back to your office, did you hear anything more from next door?” I asked.

  “Not a sound,” she said.

  Then she looked wistfully at her typewriter again, and I took the hint and got to my feet. I remembered one more thing, however, that I wanted to know. “Would you mind telling me,” I asked diffidently as I loomed over her desk, “about the night of your lecture?” Seeing the professor’s look of inquiry, I hastened to amplify the question. “I mean, did you return to the library afterwards? And did you see or hear anything?”

  Dr. Farrar considered this. “Actually, I did come to my office for a few minutes. I had forgotten some papers I meant to take home with me, and I came up here to collect them.”

  “Did you see anyone else on the fifth floor?” I prompted.

  The professor frowned in concentration. “As a matter of fact, I saw Julian’s office light on, though, of course, I didn’t make any effort to talk to him. And I believe there might have been someone in the graduate student lounge, as well. I thought I heard voices as I waited for the elevator."

  “Did you happen to notice what time it was?” I inquired softly.

  Dr. Farrar shook her head. “No. I believe it was sometime after ten when I finally left the lecture hall. There were quite a few questions afterwards, you know, and it took me some time to get away.” She shrugged. “Perhaps it was around ten-thirty when I was in the library. I was here for about fifteen minutes. That would put my departure at around quarter till eleven. Does any of this help?” she asked kindly.

  “Yes, I believe it does,” I responded. I was thankful that Dr. Farrar was so anxious to return to her work that it never occurred to her to ask just why I wanted to know all these things. I expressed my thanks for the time she had given me.

  I hadn’t even reached the door before I heard the tapping of the typewriter keys. I glanced back to see the professor absorbed once more in her research, before I pulled the door nearly closed.

  I needed someplace quiet, like my apartment or my carrel, before I could fully digest what Dr. Farrar had told me. But that would have to wait. I’d had several ideas during my restless night, and now was the time to put them into action.

  I headed to the department office, where I intended to consult some reference tools that were kept there. The American Historical Association periodically published a listing of dissertation topics submitted by graduate students, as a way of protecting their rights in a given topic, and I hoped to find Philip Dunbar’s listed. If I could find a title, and even a brief description, which was all the register usually contained, that would be sufficient to give me a start in determining if Margaret was attempting to use Dunbar’s work as her own.

  Azalea was out of the office when I entered, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Despite the fact that I had told her off a few days earlier, I wasn’t eager to confront her again. Offering a quick good-morning to Thelma, I moved to the bookshelves in the corner to begin my search, praying that the department policy was to keep back issues readily available.

  I soon found what I sought. Dunbar had been dead about three or four years, and he had probably begun work on his dissertation a couple of years before that, so I began my search with the issues dated 1985.

  The first year yielded nothing, so I moved on to 1986, and there it was. Thank goodness he had been the methodical sort who registered his topic. Not everyone did.

  The entry under the name Philip Q. Dunbar was brief, consisting of a title and one sentence that described the dissertation’s contents: “Alfred the Great: A Reinterpretation of the Myth and the Man." Well, that was certainly a provocative title. The description read, “This dissertation offers a reassessment of the life and accomplishments of Alfred the Great, with significant attention given to Asser’s Life of Alfred."

  I returned the thin booklet to its place on the shelf and considered what I had learned. The description gave me only the most general idea as to the subject of Dunbar’s dissertation, but it promised to be controversial. Anyone attempting to reassess the life of Alfred the Great would be taking on generations—no, make that centuries—of Alfredian scholarship. Margaret, or anyone else for that matter, could write on the same subject and offer a different interpretation of the evidence, or even the same interpretation, and no one would be the wiser. If Dunbar had mentioned some matter of interpretation, some startling new theory about Alfred’s life and times, I might have something concrete to go on, but as it was, I had merely a general topic as my guideline.

  Everything seemed too tenuous whenever I tried to push a piece of evidence toward a conclusion. “If, if, if,” I muttered. If only I could figure out some way to find out more about Dunbar’s dissertation. Surely there had to be a way to dig up something.

  Hearing my name called in a low and urgent voice, I came out of my fog of deep thought and walked over to Thelma, who had been trying to attract my attention. Her eyes were round with excitement.

  “What is it?” I asked curiously, for I could see how eager she was to talk.

  After an apprehensive glance at Azalea’s empty desk, Thelma crooked her finger, and, obliging, I bent over.

  “Guess who got into trouble for slapping a graduate student?” she whispered gleefully.

  “Really?” My tone was suitably amazed. I had hoped that it would happen, but I hadn’t expected it. Most of the time, graduate students were on the low end of the scale, no matter what, and I hadn’t thought anyone would reprimand Aza¬lea for what she had done to Rob.

  Thelma’s cheeks split even further as she grinned. “Old Pooter tore Azalea up one side an
d down the other when he found out. We could hear him in here, he was yelling so loud.”

  The chairman’s office was directly across the hall from the main office, and Dr. Puterbaugh did have a carrying sort of voice at the calmest of times.

  “Well, well,” I said, pleased that Azalea had gotten some of what she deserved. Thelma laughed. “Yeah. Miss High-and-Mighty isn’t so perfect after all.”

  A voice from behind startled us. “You little bitch! You’d better mind your own business!”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Thelma and I had been so intent on sharing her news, we hadn’t heard the two women come up behind us. Thelma paled when she saw Azalea standing beside her desk. Selena hovered, frowning, right behind Azalea.

  “What do you mean by spreading tales like that?” Azalea demanded harshly.

  Thelma’s thin face flushed dark red as she stammered a reply, “N-n-nothing, Azalea. I was just talking to Andy.”

  Thelma’s bravado had disappeared quickly in the face of Azalea’s anger. Azalea may have gotten a dressing down by the boss, but she was still in charge of the office, and she could make Thelma’s life miserable. That was probably nothing new from Thelma’s point of view.

  I wanted to laugh, not at Thelma’s obvious discomfiture, with which I sympathized, but at Azalea’s haughty attitude. The woman wanted to deny the truth of what her assistant had told me, but she knew she couldn’t. Even with Selena standing beside her, she didn’t dare push the issue too far.

  “You’d better quit gossiping and get your mind on your work!” Azalea ordered huffily. She marched over to her desk on the other side of the room and picked up a stack of files, then stalked toward the door, where she paused. She didn’t bother to say anything to me. Strangely enough, she seemed a little afraid of me.

  I didn’t mind that one bit. As I smiled to myself, she flounced out of the room, Selena close on her heels.

  I turned back to Thelma, amused to hear the imprecations coming fluently, and quietly, from her innocent-looking face.

  Azalea’s departure gave me an idea. I leaned conspiratorially over Thelma’s desk, as she ran out of names to call her supervisor. “Thelma,” I said quietly, “I need your help, but Azalea would have a fit if she knew.” I felt guilty about manipulating her, but I knew this was the only way to get what I needed.

  Thelma tossed her head. “I don’t care what that bucktoothed bitch thinks! What can I do?”

  I looked around the office. I didn’t want anyone sneaking up behind us again. “I need to see a student file. Not a current one,” I assured her, as her eyes grew round. “I need to look at the file of a student who died about four years ago.”

  If I could look in Dunbar’s file, I might find something more substantive about his dissertation or papers he had presented at conferences, or anything he published. Something to give me a line to pursue.

  Her face cleared. “That’s okay, then,” she replied. “I’ll do it, but I can’t right now. I’ll have to wait until Azalea goes to lunch. Lindy’s out sick today, so Azalea’ll have to leave me in the office while she’s gone to eat. Somebody has to be here to answer the phones.” Thelma grinned wickedly. “That means she’s gotta leave me her keys, too, and I can get into the file room without any hassle.” She looked at her watch. “Come back in about half an hour.”

  “Thanks!” I couldn’t believe my luck. I scribbled Philip Dunbar’s name on a piece of paper, which Thelma tucked underneath her desk blotter. Deciding not to tempt fate and all her shining teeth, I left the office after receiving a wink from the now-cheerful woman.

  I checked my watch; it was nearly eleven-forty-five. Ruth McClain was probably in her office now, and there were a couple of questions I wanted to ask her.

  The door of Ruth’s office was slightly ajar, so I pushed it open with one hand while I knocked with the other.

  “Come in,” she called distractedly. Her dark head was bent over some pages of manuscript. She looked up from her reading and smiled in greeting, as I sat in the chair beside her desk. With a sigh, she put down the papers, then rubbed her eyes. “This is just what I need,” she laughed tiredly. “With Julian gone, I have to serve as dissertation director for a field which is not my direct specialty. And not on just one dissertation, or two, but three!”

  My nose almost started quivering. Surely Ruth meant Margaret, Selena, and Dan, who were in their final semester. This was better luck than I had a right to expect, having Ruth bring up the subject of Whitelock’s students on her own. But before I could ask anything about Margaret’s dissertation, the author herself appeared in the doorway of Ruth’s office.

  “Hello,” Margaret said. “I hope I’m not interrupting.” She stood diffidently just inside the door.

  “Not at all,” I responded, though, in fact, she’d given me a start. “I’m not here for any special reason.”

  “Good,” she replied pleasantly. “We’re coming down to the wire with my dissertation, and Ruth has been an enormous help.” She turned to the professor.

  “I can’t imagine what Selena and I would have done without your assistance. You’re certainly more approachable than Julian ever was.”

  There was a brief uneasy silence, for neither Ruth nor I had any idea how to follow this remark. Margaret stood there, smiling in friendly fashion, unaware that she had disconcerted us with her intended compliment. I envied the woman’s cool self-possession. Maybe if I dressed like a successful lawyer, I’d feel some of that calm. Somehow, though, I rather doubted it.

  “I’ve waited for this moment for such a long time,” Margaret continued. “My degree will finally become a reality, and that will make all the waiting—everything—worthwhile.”

  “I’m looking forward to that day myself,” I responded. “But I think some of my family members are even more impatient than I am. Sometimes I think this is more their degree than mine, they’re so eager to have me finish school.” At least my mother, my cousin Ernie, and my brother Cary, I amended silently. My father and my brother Joey didn’t seem to care anymore what I did.

  Both women smiled at the note of wry amusement in my voice.

  “I know the feeling,” Margaret said. “My father certainly never expected me to finish, however, since it’s taken longer than anticipated. And he wasn’t the most encouraging father in the world, in the first place.”

  Ruth spoke up, a slight note of disapproval in her voice. “Anthony has always seemed very proud of your work, Margaret. At least, in his conversations with me.” She looked coolly at Margaret, and I got the inkling that she didn’t hold much affection for her student. Certainly Ruth didn’t make remarks like this in the normal course of conversation.

  Then what Ruth said hit me. I goggled at Margaret. “Do you mean that Dr. Logan is your father?” Even to my own ears, my voice sounded insultingly incredulous, but Margaret was either completely insensitive to the tone, or she had terribly thick skin. She seemed so graceless when compared to her charming and genial father.

  She looked at me, as if trying to remember who I was. “Yes,” she laughed, a little impatiently, “it’s no great secret that he’s my father. He might have wanted to deny the fact on occasion, but he can’t. Of course, my working on my Ph.D. in this department has made things a little awkward for him, but I can promise you that no one took it easy on me because I’m Anthony Logan’s daughter.” That last part I could certainly believe, for many professors would delight in making things rough for the offspring of a fellow professor. I mumbled something in reply, and Margaret dipped her head apologetically in my direction. “I’m afraid we should be going,” she said to Ruth. “I have to be back to work downtown by one-fifteen.”

  Thwarted of asking my questions, but relieved to get out, I said goodbye, throwing a commiserating glance in Ruth’s direction. I left them on their way to lunch at the Faculty Club. I certainly didn’t envy Ruth an hour in Margaret’s company. From what little I’d seen of the woman, she had about as much natural charm
as a stuffed iguana.

  Just because Margaret was the daughter of one of the professors in the department, I didn’t see how that had any bearing on the case. What was more important was the fact that she had been around long enough to have been a peer of Dunbar’s. How to prove that the pair had had a close connection—close enough to get her hands on his dissertation—was another matter.

  Looking at my watch, I saw that I had about twenty minutes before time to meet Thelma. I went to the student center, purchased a Diet Coke and a dry ham sandwich, and wolfed them down as I walked back to the library.

  Thelma and Azalea were gone when I entered the office. I waited nonchalantly by Thelma’s desk, and before long, she came to the open door of the file room and nodded and winked in my direction. Two minutes later, she slid a file folder onto her desk. “Read it as quick as you can,” she hissed in a loud stage whisper. “Then get it back to me pronto.” She seemed pleased with her efforts, tor she smiled delightedly as she pushed the folder toward my shaking hands.

  I snatched up the folder and fled the office. I didn’t relish the idea of being caught reading a student file, so I went into the bathroom, chose a stall, and locked the door behind me.

  I got situated and delved into the contents of Dunbar’s folder. I scanned the personal information, finding nothing unusual. He had performed well in all of his classes, undergraduate as well as graduate. The only grade I saw anywhere on the two pages of college transcripts was “A. ”

  Dunbar’s application for graduate work had received high recommendations from every member of the history department’s graduate studies committee, and his record after his entrance into the program was a list of one success after another. No wonder Whitelock had been intimidated by his graduate student. Dunbar certainly made me feel a little on the inadequate side.