The darkened porch of the house directly across from hers displayed hay bales near the door, corn stalks tied to the porch column, and pumpkins arranged on the steps in a Halloween scene. A straw wreath hung from the front door, and a homemade scarecrow dressed in a plaid shirt, overalls, and a Nebraska Cornhuskers cowboy hat reclined in the chair near the door. Nothing amiss there.
Cassandra returned inside the house, carefully locked both doors and turned off the extra lights. In her bedroom, she changed into boxer shorts and a baggy SpongeBob t-shirt, and crawled under the heavy blanket and quilt. She kept her bedside lamp on, picked up her iPad, and browsed the news headlines. Nothing new on Austin Price, thankfully. No alerts about widespread Halloween vandalism in her area.
If neighborhood kids thought they’d prank the newcomer, she had news for them. Growing up, Cassandra’s older brother often tried to scare or trick her and her sisters. They might fall for it, but Cassandra was immune. Not that her stomach didn’t clench in surprise, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d scared her. One teeny part of her considered calling the police, but that seemed like overkill for a random kids being kids thing. She would clean it up tomorrow and not worry about it. Reaching over to turn out the light, she realized that was easier said than done. She drew back her hand and left the light on. It was just kids being kids, right?
Chapter Ten
Meg’s text pinging on her phone served as Cassandra’s Sunday morning alarm: “Your place @6:30 tonight before the memorial service?”
Cassandra’s warm, lethargic body had slipped between the haze of rest and eyes open since sunrise when bright sunshine had first streamed into the bedroom window. Cassandra longed to sip hot coffee while hiding under the cozy covers, reading the newspaper without actually getting out of bed first. A small Keurig on her nightstand wouldn’t be too indulgent, would it?
Cassandra fluffed her pillow and replied: “Did you just invite yourself over for dinner?”
Meg quickly responded: “Too obvious?”
Cassandra smiled at Meg’s answer. Cooking for Meg would help Cassandra remember to stop working long enough to eat.
A few hours later, the knock on Cassandra’s open office door frame broke her concentration. “Good morning.” Andy Summers held up a brown bakery bag in one hand while the other balanced a cardboard tray with two to-go cups. “Cinnamon bagel?”
Summers was early 30s, his left hand bore no wedding ring, and he carried himself like a former athlete, albeit one who had maybe kept eating more than he was currently exercising.
Expecting an empty office, Cassandra had thrown on loose stretchy black pants and an over-sized green University of Hawai’i-Manoa hoodie that dwarfed her petite frame. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and with minimal makeup she looked younger than her 34 years. The oatmeal from barely an hour ago rested comfortably in her belly, yet she smiled. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Officer Summers. Mahalo.”
A smidge under 6 feet tall with buzzed, dark brown hair and brown eyes, Summers’ complexion put him squarely in the Midwestern European culture of many Nebraskans. Hard to identify a second or third generation German, Swede, Brit or Irishman. Plus, in talking to Meg and other haole friends, she’d found that most local people were a combination from several European countries and ethnicities.
Summers’ voice was exasperated. “Why don’t you ever call me Andy? I’ve told you at least 10 times.”
Cassandra remembered her third day of work when she had arrived at 6:30 a.m. to find the Osborne Administrative Building’s main door locked. Her new office key didn’t work, so she called campus security.
Andy Summers had quickly arrived to let her in. “You always going to be getting here this early?”
“Most mornings, yes probably.”
“Not that I mind leaving my warm coffee cup to run over here and be your doorman, but I’ll set your ID card to permit early access to this building.”
Usually at work Cassandra was very careful to speak professionally and formally to nearly everyone, but he was surprisingly warm and friendly. She liked bantering with him. “I do like the idea of having my own doorman . . . but I suppose if you’re off fighting crime, I don’t want to drag you away from the excitement.”
He had laughed, “Yeah, ‘cause rousting homeless guys from the doorway behind the dining hall and writing reports about the drunk Beta Psi guy who fell asleep in the bushes by the library is so exciting.”
She’d known instantly they could be friends. Summers had sent her new ID key card that same afternoon. Since then, he’d escorted her to her car a couple of late nights. Once, when a dinner in the Executive Boardroom dragged past 8:00 p.m. he’d walked the entire two blocks to her home’s front door and warned, “Take care to have a buddy at night. We may not be the big city here, but it’s a good idea to be safe anyway. Call me any time, and I’ll be happy to walk with you, or I’ll send someone to escort you if I’m not here.”
What was it about her that made guys act like her protective big brother? Chivalry still existed in the middle of nowhere.
Summers—correction, Andy—had a point. She appreciated their friendship but treated him like a stranger. “Sorry. You’re right. Anyone who brings me coffee and bagels should be on a first name basis. I’ll try to remember next time. How’d you know I’d be here?”
Setting the coffee tray on her desk, he passed one cup over to her. “You’d be physically incapable of staying home today. Too much to get squared away for the week.”
Her eyes wrinkled and she half-smiled at being so transparent. She placed brown takeout napkins on her mostly cleared off desk while Summers took out a bagel for himself and passed her the bag. They chewed and sipped coffee, enjoying the quiet moment.
She waited for him to speak first; he wouldn’t have stopped by without a reason. “The sheriff let Lance Erickson go home yesterday. They couldn’t find a reason to hold him. He confirmed that Price didn’t do drugs but he gave plasma over at the AlphaBioGlobal Plasma center in town. Lance’s parents showed up and demanded they either let him see a lawyer or cut him loose.”
She’d have a hard time believing he did anything wrong. Cassandra nodded. “He’s a good kid. I was surprised they even took him to their station. Have they questioned others, too?”
Andy wore his casual Sunday outfit, too: sweatpants and flannel button down showing through the top of his jacket. He finished the bagel and slouched into the chair, one running shoe resting on a knee. “They talked to a few other guys from his fraternity and searched his room. Here’s the weird thing: Austin’s laptop wasn’t in his backpack in the lab or in his fraternity room. Neither was his phone.”
Cassandra stared out the window towards the Edgerton lab. “What kid doesn’t have his phone within an arm’s length at all times?”
Andy banked his empty coffee cup in a garbage can free throw. “The sheriff took papers from Austin’s fraternity bedroom including a contract between Morton College food service and a local farmer. No idea why he’d have that.”
She frowned. “How does a food service contract connect with a student falling down the stairs?”
He gathered their napkins and the bag, swept the bagel crumbs from her desktop and lobbed the balled-up wad over his head—two for two. “I’m not a huge believer in coincidences. I don’t know many 20-year-olds who just fall down the stairs.”
She met his gaze in the quiet intimacy of her office, wondering for the first time whether their friendship broke any rules. His right hand slowly unzipped his worn Carhart jacket and reached inside, pulling out a large yellow envelope.
Cassandra slid out two photos, silently examined them, and replaced them in the envelope. Andy’s chin came up a few degrees. “When you gonna tell me why you needed these?”
She swallowed hard and handed the envelope back. “V-very soon. I’ve probably seen too many detective shows and don’t want to waste anyone’s time.”
&n
bsp; His face returned to his normal, easygoing smile. “I trust your judgment. Just know my patience has limits.” He pointed to his freshly shaved chin. “This charming smile doesn’t mean I’m a pushover.”
Chapter Eleven
Cassandra greeted Meg with a hug promptly at 6:30 Sunday night on her back doorstep.
“Aloha!” Cassandra said, as they stepped up to the kitchen where hearty barbecue smells enveloped the air around a small Crock-Pot on the counter.
Meg inhaled, “Howzit! Smells ono!!”
Cassandra put water on for hot tea, and Meg sat at the table. Cassandra indicated the Crock-Pot while scooping sticky white rice from her steamer into sky blue glazed bowls. “My best attempt at Kalua pig . . . without the part about digging a backyard hole so it cooks in a pit of coals all day.”
Meg took a long drink from the plastic water bottle she’d carried in. “Hope you skipped the part where they leave the head on, too.”
Cassandra placed the bowls on the table and handed Meg shiny black chopsticks. “Head wouldn’t fit.”
“Ahwe, Sistah,” Meg exclaimed in creole Hawaiian holding up the utensils. “I’m full haole again. No mo eating everyting wit chopsticks.” She positioned them and awkwardly stabbed at the pork and rice a few times until she was able to squeeze enough between the sticks for a full bite. By the fourth scoop, Meg was a seasoned veteran again. “I probably should use these more often. I’d eat less, cause it’s so much work.”
After dinner, Cassandra fetched shoes and a heavier coat from her bedroom while Meg cleaned up the kitchen. Before they left, Cassandra handed her iPad to Meg. “Andy Summers showed me a couple of photos of the scene where Austin Price died. I remember a kid taking pictures with his smart phone at the scene too. Can you find those pictures online? I want to show you something. You don’t have to look if you don’t want to, but I’m trying to help the police with leads.”
Meg’s voice was hesitant. “Isn’t this a job for the sheriff? Why would we investigate on our own?”
Cassandra wanted Meg’s unbiased perspective. “I know it’s unusual, but Nielson told me to liaison with the investigation. He wants it closed quickly.” Cassandra unlocked the iPad and watched Meg tapping and swiping the screen rapidly trying different apps and websites.
Shortly Meg found several photos that were too blurry to see much detail beyond grainy shapes when zoomed in. Finally, she found two clear ones.
Cassandra said, “Look carefully. What do you notice?”
The first was a wide shot showing the concrete outdoor staircase of the Edgerton building and Price’s body lying on his back, headfirst on the steps. “I’ve read mystery novels and watched movies, but guessing how this happened isn’t so easy.”
The next photo was closer, just Price and no background. Maybe it had been taken before the police arrived. His skin color was purplish, and his eyes were closed as though he looked sleeping or unconscious. Meg took a couple big breaths. “Just can’t believe he sat in class with me two days ago.”
Cassandra waited patiently while Meg studied the close-up. Meg pointed to his arms. “I see the little marks where the police had wondered about the drug use . . . his legs . . . one straight, the other partially tucked under him.” Her finger moved over. “His left hand like maybe he tried to catch himself . . . or to sit up. Hard to tell which.”
There was another long pause until Meg exclaimed, “His hand! His right hand . . . is that an L?”
She wasn’t the only one! Cassandra pointed to the screen excitedly. “You see it too?”
Meg zoomed in even closer. “It could be. A fingerspelled letter L? It could just be the way he fell. But maybe he did it on purpose. It looks like an L!”
If they both saw it, that couldn’t be coincidence. Their eyes met. “So . . . is that a clue?”
Meg’s shoulders slumped. “Do we tell anyone? What if we get someone in trouble and it’s not the right person?”
He could’ve just randomly fell that way. The pork and rice settled like a fist sized rock in Cassandra’s stomach. “But if we don’t tell anyone and we’re right, then I’d feel horrible later.”
Meg set the iPad on the kitchen table and nodded miserably, “So would I.”
Cassandra turned it off and zipped up her coat. “Let’s think about it tonight and decide tomorrow.”
* * *
The Campus Ministry club had planned the candlelight vigil, expecting fewer than a hundred people to show up near the Chapel building. However, before 9:00 p.m., the courtyard was filled. Leaders circulated through the students with boxes of white 6-inch candles stuck into little paper cones to catch the wax. The temperature had dipped into the 50s; most people wore jackets and light scarves. They spoke in hushed tones, waiting.
Meg and Cassandra arrived 30 minutes early so Meg could talk to organizers about interpreting logistics for the deaf students and employees, if they came. Cassandra and Meg approached Lance while he leaned against a stone wall staring vacantly into the crowd. Cassandra had seen deaf people hug in friendly greeting before, and in Hawai’i everyone hugs hello. Usually Cassandra didn’t touch students, but she was suddenly overcome with the urge to comfort him.
Before Cassandra moved closer, Meg swooped in and attempted a sloppy bear hug, but Lance’s stiff arms made the gesture awkward. Meg stepped back, smiled uncomfortably, and signed, “How are you doing? Everything okay?”
The look on his face clearly showed everything was NOT ok, but he nodded anyway. “I told the cops that Austin didn’t do drugs. The needle marks on his arms were from giving plasma. I don’t know why he fell, but I doubt it was drugs.”
If he gave plasma, they probably drug tested him anyway. Meg signed when Cassandra spoke. “I heard they couldn’t find Austin’s laptop or phone, huh? That seemed weird. Didn’t he always bring them with him?”
Lance held up a finger to hold off friends who were trying to get his attention to join them. “Austin didn’t always bring his laptop to classes; sometimes he left it in the room. If the police didn’t find it there, who knows what he did with it. The missing phone is weird though.” He waved goodbye to the women and joined his friends in the front of the crowd.
Cassandra drifted back to let Meg do her job and watched the crowd. Promptly at 9:00, some students playing acoustic instruments began the service. Next, the kindly, barrel-chested Chaplain ascended the chapel steps and addressed the hundreds of faces illuminated by flickering candles using his loud voice polished by years of sermons. Meg stood several feet away from him and signed his speech. “Today our hearts are heavy because of the sudden loss of sophomore Austin Price. Whether you knew him personally or not, the loss of such a young life creates an empty space on our campus. There’s nothing I can say today that will fill that void, that will lift the heaviness of our collective sorrow. We gather here tonight to celebrate his life and to comfort each other. We’re filled with questions to which we have few satisfactory answers. Why Austin? What caused such an abrupt ending to a vibrant, young man’s life? Although we may not learn the answers for days or weeks, we can trust today in our Lord’s mercy and generosity to those who believe in Him. May Austin’s soul rest in a place of refreshment, light and peace. Let us use this time together to remember Austin and honor his memory. I’d like to introduce . . .”
Cassandra tuned out the speakers and focused on the crowd. She noticed a middle-aged couple off to the side surrounded by young people who were shaking their hands and hugging them. Maybe his parents, she wondered?
Even with the extra deputies and staff lining the green space, Cassandra didn’t notice any disruptions. Students’ faces appeared saddened and shocked as they huddled in small groups together. A few snapped photos of the peaceful setting. The small, brick Gothic-style chapel was a beautiful backdrop to the candle-holding crowd. The mournful, haunting music carried clearly in the crisp night air. As people dispersed less than an hour later, she overheard a few stude
nts quietly wondering aloud what really happened to Austin.
Afterward, Meg dropped Cassandra at her house. Cassandra said, “Mahalo for the ride and the help tonight.”
Meg looked at her watch. “I’d better get home. I’m going to ask Connor about our fingerspelled L idea. Sleep tight.”
Cassandra locked the door behind Meg and turned off the outside light. Once in bed, she relaxed by visualizing the warm sun, cool ocean breezes, and the ono smells in her mother’s kitchen. Drifting off to sleep, she felt a little zip of anticipation for tomorrow. So many words began with the letter “L.”
Chapter Twelve
Before 7:15 Monday morning, Cassandra had already replied to several state and national news agencies who had clogged her email with requests for information. “Morton College has no comment right now. Please respect student and family privacy. Give them time to grieve, and the police time to investigate.”
Her phone pinged with a text from Meg: “Connor and I both think we should report about the L. Even if we are wrong it could be a lead. Hugs. Talk to you later.”
Starting up the large coffee pot with her own carefully rationed Kona coffee before the rest of the students and staff arrived, Cassandra considered what other background information the investigators could use. She printed the list of AOO fraternity students, added Austin Price’s known friends’ names, and his class and professor list.
Because Cassandra knew only ASL phrases that a kindergartener could use, she didn’t know Austin well. Deeper conversations happened when Meg was in the room to interpret, or when people took the time to pass a notebook back and forth with the deaf students. She should have tried harder to talk to him and Lance.
Austin hadn’t died of natural causes. Maybe he’d been bullied, and she hadn’t noticed the warning signals. Too many things didn’t add up. They still didn’t know why his phone and laptop weren’t with him in the lab.
When she went into the waiting room to refill her coffee mug, Annie was sitting out front. Cassandra fastened on her best Monday morning smile and said as cheerily as she could manage, “Good morning, how are you?”
Death by Dissertation (A Cassandra Sato Mystery Book 1) Page 7
