DEATH BY
Dissertation
KELLY BRAKENHOFF
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Next in the Cassandra Sato Mystery Series
Also by Kelly Brakenhoff
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Dead Week: Chapter One
Death by Dissertation
A Cassandra Sato Mystery
Copyright 2019 by Kelly Brakenhoff
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in an article or book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events and locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Melissa Williams Design
University building ©2019 MSSA; Rat ©2019 tcheres; Plumeria images ©2019 boykung and PhilipW; DNA molecules ©2019 watchara; all images by Shutterstock
Interior Formatting by Melissa Williams Design
Author Photo by Susan Noel
Editing by Sione Aeschliman
Published by Emerald Prairie Press
kellybrakenhoff.com
To Mom and Dad and Teri
It’s been a long wait
Chapter One
Cassandra Sato cradled her palms around her warm Morton College travel mug, hoping the coffee inside would calm the churning in her stomach. Half anticipation, half impatience at wasting her time, uncertainty was the last thing she needed her boss to see at the start of their probationary coaching meeting. She fixed a serene expression on her face, pretending to admire the view from his picture window, while reviewing her mental list of the issues he might raise. As the youngest person to earn a doctorate in education from the University of Hawai’i at age 28, she had years of practice appearing more mature and confident than she felt. Still, feeling confident in the tropical sunshine of Manoa was much easier than squirming on an antique wooden armchair in Carson, Nebraska—population 8,300—in an office that best resembled a British men’s club.
After two months as Student Affairs administrator, the honeymoon period was wearing off. Ten more probation meetings to go until her contract became permanent. She blew out a sigh. No big deal. She’d only relocated thousands of miles for this job.
The office door swung open and her boss eased in, a large ceramic platter in his arms. Cassandra stood respectfully. “Good afternoon, Dr. Nielson.” She made to help him with the dish, but he waved her off, placing it on his desk.
A moist, yeasty smell of freshly-baked bread tinged with something sour drew her eyes to the pile of baked golden-brown dough rounds. Nielson raised his bushy gray eyebrows and nodded, his eager expression one she would call pride. “My wife home-baked some bierocks. Please, help yourself.”
Nebraskans enjoyed sharing homemade food and excess produce just like her co-workers back home, although sampling new dishes at work was often dicey. The snacks resembled manapua, but she doubted his wife made them from scratch.
Although he graciously offered her a napkin, his toothy smile hinted at a dare. “Do Hawaiians eat bierocks, too?”
She swallowed the automatic I’m-not-Hawaiian reply that popped into her head. It was too complicated to correct him—again. Native Hawaiian meant a Polynesian descendant, not simply any Hawai’i state resident. Anyone familiar with the islands would never confuse the two. Grinding her back teeth together, she pasted a smile onto her face. “Thank you, Dr. Nielson, I’ll try one.”
She chose a small piece and bit into the soft, warm crust. Looking away, she tasted hamburger, Swiss cheese, salt, pepper and . . . and . . . Was he seriously trying to gross her out about food? Her regular diet included dried seaweed, octopus and taro root. She’d grown up believing Spam was its own food group.
Lightly tanned crow’s feet framed his twinkling blue eyes. “Becky’s secret ingredient is to mix in a little sauerkraut with the cabbage.”
Cassandra’s main experience with cabbage was fermented in kimchi, and this was quite different. Not disgusting, but probably an acquired taste. She politely said, “Your wife is an excellent cook, sir.”
Hanging his suit jacket on a wooden coat rack, he opened the top button on his blue shirt and tugged his tie an inch looser while seating himself behind the desk. He referred to their meeting agenda. “Are you up to speed on Morton’s upcoming capital campaign?”
The armchair creaked as she adjusted her wool pencil skirt and reached for her Moleskine journal on the edge of his desk. “I received the donor analysis and architectural renderings you emailed.” She flipped to a blank page and headed it “Probation meeting” with the date.
Reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, he laid a finger on his desk calendar and sighed. “Unfortunately, our Chinese contacts rescheduled my team’s cultural exchange trip to conflict with Homecoming next week. I need you to pinch hit for me at the finance committee meeting on Tuesday. One key player is Board President Dr. Schneider. You’ll replace me in the Homecoming Parade with Schneider, the grand marshal. Do your homework and get to know him.”
Nodding, she noted the meeting, retrieved her travel mug from the floor, and sipped fragrant Kona coffee. Homecoming parades were not her forte, but she welcomed the extra duties. His absence would be an opportunity to practice her management skills at the highest level.
His voice became stern. “In addition, you need to leave the office more. Get out on campus and talk to the constituents. I should invite you to the next dinner reception I host at my house. There are key people you need to talk to and find out their agenda. I need to know you are on my team working to advance Morton College into the future.” He wrote a reminder on his agenda about the dinner invitation.
Constituents? What was wrong with calling them students? Disciplining undergrads and mentoring thesis candidates comprised a good chunk of Cassandra’s daily schedule. Turning a few pages in her journal, she said, “I attended the faculty welcome orientation and luncheon several weeks after I star
ted work in August.” His dinner invitation fell in line with the carefully choreographed steps she’d taken since she was twenty years old to get this far. Finally, she was breaking into the old boys’ club, meeting decision makers and gaining valuable leadership experience towards her goal of becoming a university president.
“Yes, that’s a start, but you need to do more to dispel the stereotype that you’re a shy, quiet Oriental.” His sudden smile promised a great idea. “Hey, while I’m thinking about it . . . maybe you can give me language tips for how to greet the welcoming group when I arrive in China next week.”
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she said, “Dr. Nielson, I’ve never been to China either. I don’t speak any Chinese.” It wasn’t the first time she’d tried to set him straight on her ethnicity and background, but correcting her boss required delicacy. He had a reputation for ping-ponging between creative problem solver and theatrically moody despot with no patience for weakness or indecisiveness. “I was born and raised in Waipahu, Hawai’i where my family has lived for generations—110 years. They originally came from Japan, and most people nowadays call people who look like me Asian.” Her grandmother would jump out of her sickbed and slap his ruddy face if she heard him mistake Cassandra for a Chinese girl.
The crease between his brows furrowed for a few seconds, then he shrugged it off. She wanted to believe he meant well, but his ignorance set her on edge sometimes. He thumbed through a folder, handing her the homecoming event flyer. “This is a bad time for me to leave town. You’ll need to coordinate with the other administrators to cover events.”
Relieved he was on track with the meeting’s purpose again, she skimmed the schedule: game night, a carnival, the parade, and Saturday’s football game. A sidebar advertised lunch and tours for visiting alumni.
Nielson cleared his throat and puffed out his chest. “Obviously, the staff will take care of logistics, but I expect you to come out of the office and handle your share of hospitality duties.”
Welcoming guests with “aloha spirit” was much more Cassandra’s comfort zone than parades. She pulled up her phone’s calendar app. “Shall I ask Julie to put my name down for the events that remain unfilled?”
He said, “I’m concerned, Dr. Sato, about student and public perceptions when you represent this office. My personal support can’t completely overcome negative episodes like the photo of you and that preacher woman . . .” Shaking his gray-haired head, his lips pursed together in disapproval.
A warning quiver tiptoed down her spine. Last week Dr. Nielson had called her into his office, scolding her like a teenager out past curfew over one photo taken out of context. His bringing it up again was a bad omen. “I hired you because of your impressive credentials and journal articles. The search committee’s support of your hiring was divided because of your limited administrative experience. I convinced them we needed to bring some diversity to our campus here in the middle of white America.”
Well, he was right about that part. More than 83% of Morton College’s students were Caucasian. “I expected you to handle committee assignments, teach leadership classes, and deal with student affairs cases as well as supervise the team of directors who report to you.”
Pulling out a copy of the photo that had gotten her new job off to a shaky start, he laid it on the desk between them. Leaning forward and lowering his voice, he counseled, “Use more discretion about your public appearances. We need this woman to move on. We don’t want you or Morton seen as a laughingstock.”
That bierock now sat more like a rock in her stomach than a cozy welcome. Cassandra was no expert on social media, but the photo seemed harmless overall. Ok, probably she shouldn’t have stopped to chat with such a memorable figure in the open, but calling her a laughingstock went too far. She’d written off the inappropriate anonymous emails she’d received as cranks, but Nielson’s disapproval was more serious.
Perfectly timed, a brisk knock sounded on the door. His assistant, Julie, stepped halfway into the office. “Dr. Nielson, uh . . . excuse me. Campus s-security is on the phone. A body was found at the Edgerton Science building. A d-dead body. What do you want me to t-tell them?”
Cassandra’s head jerked around to look into Julie’s somber, pale face. Returning her gaze to Dr. Nielson, they stared at each other in momentary disbelief. He said, “We are on our way over.”
Chapter Two
They covered the short distance through the green park blanketing the campus quad to the Edgerton Science Center in silence in under five minutes. Cassandra barely noticed the landscaped trees and shrubs that had begun changing colors into soft oranges and reds, instead bracing her uneasy stomach for the coming trial. Two campus security cars were pulled off the drive and an officer wearing a Morton Security baseball cap stood with Campus Security Director Andy Summers blocking the outside staircase. More baby-faced than his job title implied, Summers’ calm presence was a welcome sight. Nearby in a small huddle of students, a guy wearing a ripped hoodie held up his phone and snapped a photo of the scene.
Dr. Nielson marched over to the stairs and addressed Summers. “What happened? Do these students need to be so close? Let’s get some people to back them up.” Raising his hands, Nielson faced the students and told Hoodie to put away his phone. “Let’s give the law enforcement some space, folks. Why don’t you back up to there?” He pointed to the Media building about 20 feet farther away, and the students reluctantly shuffled over. Cassandra made eye contact with Andy Summers and gave a slight nod, but said nothing. She knew they’d talk later and didn’t want to interfere with his work.
Cassandra had seen her share of students with mental health problems, bad grades or family illnesses and deaths; but she’d never dealt with anything like this. Her heart thumped a rapid beat while her mind tried to absorb the growing alarm and activity. Summers reported to Cassandra and Nielson, “Students were playing Frisbee golf and came upon this guy. They said they haven’t moved him. We got here about 10 minutes ago. The county sheriff’s office has sent someone out, but it could take 30 minutes before they arrive. Don’t touch anything.”
The three stood on a small concrete area at the bottom of Edgerton’s four-story staircase behind yellow crime scene tape. Cassandra’s eyes were riveted to the form sprawled over the top edge of the lowest flight of stairs, shoulders and head canted down. The young man wore jeans, Adidas sneakers, and a navy Morton Maples t-shirt. His left arm was partially under his upturned body, and his right hand rested on his hip. There was something familiar . . . but she couldn’t say what it was.
Nielson’s neck craned up. “Are we sure it’s too late?”
Summers adjusted the plastic ear piece wire that snaked over the collar of his thick navy uniform shirt and fit into his right ear. His lips formed a flat line, and he nodded.
Cassandra surveyed the scene, ignoring a lightheaded wooziness. No obvious blood from a knife or gunshot stained the steps. Studying his clothes, she noted the torn knees on his jeans. His left arm had cuts and scrapes and the right hand . . . Was it odd to rest like that on his hip? A deep gash marred the right side of his forehead, crusting dried blood on his temple and hair. Despite the purplish skin undertone, she recognized that bruised, bloody face. Her vision blurred. How would she tell his roommate, Lance, when she could hardly believe her own eyes?
A catch grew in her throat, but dissolved into impatience that his broken body had just laid there on the open steps for who-knows-how-long alone and undiscovered. Cassandra checked her watch: 3:20 on a Friday afternoon. He’d obviously fallen, but whether tripped, jumped or shoved, she wasn’t trained to recognize. She tamped down an impulse to cover him up, protect his now unnecessary dignity. Not used to feeling helpless, Cassandra leaned closer to Summers. “How far away was the fire station?”
Before he had time to answer, an ambulance pulled up, a couple of EMTs jumped out and retrieved their stretcher from the back of the unit. One paramedic climbed the stairs,
assessed the student, and spoke into his radio. Nielson broke off from Cassandra to confer in low tones with the remaining medic near the truck.
Summers told her, “We have a volunteer fire department and paramedics. The dispatcher alerts the guys on duty, who drop what they’re doing—even if they’re at the store with a cart full of groceries—and meet at the station on Main Street before heading to the call.” His matter-of-fact acceptance of the delay snapped her out of her emotional paralysis, and Cassandra made a mental note: avoid personal medical catastrophes for the near future.
Classes were dismissing for the afternoon; some students wandered over toward the commotion. Everyone turned as a dusty white county sheriff cruiser stopped at the curb and a large man wearing wraparound sunglasses got out. After updates and an introduction to Cassandra, Sheriff Hart instructed the Morton officer to keep onlookers completely away from the buildings.
The Frisbee players were called to the Edgerton side of the walkway and clustered around Sheriff Hart and Dr. Nielson. “Which one of you guys found him first?” he asked.
A lanky upperclassman wearing a tri-Chi sweatshirt slowly raised a hand. “I-I did.”
“What’s your name?”
“Evan Hall, sir.”
Hart raised the sunglasses onto his combed back, peppered gray hair and nodded once. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Evan’s explanation tumbled out loudly. “Um . . . none of us had afternoon classes, so we came out to play Frolf.” Gesturing near the staircase to a metal pole with an attached wire basket, he held up a small plastic disc. “We got to that pole for the 4th hole, and Dan’s team behind us threw a wild disc over our heads. It hit the side of Edgerton and landed behind the bush.” He walked a few steps and pointed towards the lilac shrub near the building. “I reached in, got Dan’s disc, and when I stood up I noticed that shape up there. It looked like a pile of clothes or garbage so I took a second look, and that’s when I realized . . .”
Death by Dissertation (A Cassandra Sato Mystery Book 1) Page 1
