The girl was looking down at her iPhone and making a goofy face right at the time Cassandra spoke to her. The startled expression on her face was probably not the one she had intended to capture for the Snapchat she was sending. “Uh, oh . . . Yes, hi!”
The office’s administrative assistant of 42 years, Connie McDermott, had retired four weeks after Cassandra had arrived taking with her the institutional memory of every file’s home, every professor’s name, and those of many students as well. How the Board of Directors had deemed a professional assistant to the Student Affairs VP as “non-essential staff” during the August hiring freeze was beyond comprehension. Cassandra didn’t have the power to fight that battle yet.
To put it kindly, things in her office frequently fell through the cracks. Student workers took turns sitting at the front desk, answering the phone, responding to simple emails to send basic information, making student appointments, and relaying information to Cassandra and the various directors who reported to her.
Annie looked up at Cassandra expectantly and said, “Do you need something?”
For starters, Cassandra could use a great new assistant. For this moment, at the very least Annie needed to get busy. “Uh, yes . . . Are there any phone messages I need to return?”
“Just a few hangups. And one crabby guy with inappropriate language who said something unkind about you. I hung up on him. I don’t have to put up with that kind of verbal abuse.”
Great. It was bad enough when crank callers made it to Cassandra’s direct line. Now they were harassing her students, too. She said, “Right, sorry about that. What about on voicemail?”
Annie slurped from a disposable coffee cup. “Um. See, I don’t know how to work the voice mail here. Can’t you listen on your office phone?”
Cassandra ground her back teeth together. “Usually someone screens them for me and deals with the people who can be helped without speaking to me. I only return the calls that need to come directly from me.”
Annie’s eyebrows knitted together. “So how do I know if someone else can help, or if you need to talk to them?”
Cassandra really didn’t have time for this today. “If you make a list of the people’s names who’ve left messages, either I or someone in the office can help you decide which ones are important. Sometimes you can tell by the person’s job title and whether they say it’s urgent I speak to them.”
The girl just stared as though if she didn’t move, Cassandra would give up and walk away.
She’d been 19 once, too. Cassandra stared back. Trust me, wahine, I’m more stubborn than you are.
Finally, Annie opened the desk drawer and found a pad of paper and a pencil. She picked up the phone and looked at the keypad with its many buttons. “Uh . . . how do I get the messages again? Do I push 9 or something?”
Cassandra figured by the time she explained the whole process, it would be time for Annie to leave for class. She gave up. “Never mind. I’ll do it myself today. Why don’t you study the phone instructions so you can do it tomorrow? Do you work here tomorrow?”
Annie eyed her like she was considering running over to the Financial Aid office and asking for a better work-study job. “I don’t know.”
* * *
Cassandra had just completed her critical list consisting of the top three things she needed to accomplish when the intercom buzzed. A voice she assumed was Annie’s announced, “Some cop is here.”
At the same time, her door opened and Andy Summers entered holding a white paper bag in one hand and his metal travel cup in the other.
A pleasant surprise. Her mouth watered in anticipation of another treat. “Breakfast twice in a row. You spoil me.”
He took a couple steps toward her desk. “My sister would punch my arm for saying this out loud, but you look like a strong Nebraska wind would blow you over.”
Judging from some of the winds Cassandra had seen so far around here, he could be right. She gestured to the chair in front of her desk. “No offense taken, but I do usually eat at home.”
He reached into the bag for a wax paper wrapped chocolate eclair then handed the bag over to her. “I didn’t have breakfast, and I don’t want to rudely eat in front of you. You’re helping me appear civilized.”
Cassandra removed a warm glazed donut and bit into the sweet goodness. “Happy to help you out.” She handed him a manila folder. “I made you a file on Austin Price. He worked in the Edgerton research lab, and his roommate Lance Erickson works in our office.”
He quietly studied the lists for a minute. “Thanks for putting this together. We’ve already spoken to some of these people. We still don’t know where he was between class and the time his body was found at 3:15 p.m.”
Andy took another bite and examined her face carefully. Chicken skin raised on her upper arms as she returned his stare. What exactly were his intentions here? He gave off a casual, friendly vibe, but he lingered too long—like a tongue-tied high school senior two weeks before prom. Maybe he was just a slower moving, thoughtful guy, and she was imagining that he was trying to work up the courage to ask her on a date. He was hard to read.
He must’ve thought the same about her because he said, “Penny for your thoughts?”
“I couldn’t sleep much last night for worrying about Austin and whether this was an accident or if there’s more to the story.”
He finished the eclair and nodded. “Things don’t make sense if he just had a medical incident and fell. At first, we’d wondered about him being a drug user. The preliminary autopsy report showed no alcohol or illegal drugs in his system. Complete toxicology results take a couple weeks. I asked some of the guys who knew him, and they mentioned that he sells plasma over at the AlphaBioGlobal (ABG) place in town. That explained the needle marks in his arms.”
The last time she’d tried to donate blood, they had looked at her weight and low hemoglobin and politely rejected her. She shivered at the thought of all those needles. “That matches up with what you said yesterday and what his roommate said, too. How often can a person give plasma?”
Andy pulled out his notepad, flipped a few pages and read aloud. “Up to 7 times a month if you eat right, are in good shape, and time the visits. Some students earn up to $300 a month selling plasma. It pays better than minimum wage, and they can study while they sit and wait. It’s not for everyone, but . . .”
Cassandra said, “Austin made pretty good money, then. Between both jobs.”
“Ya know . . . some students get into gambling on college or professional sports or at the casinos over in Iowa. Another angle could be if he was behind in paying losses and loans, that’s big trouble.” Cassandra wrote notes while Andy talked. The investigation was following so many leads, it was hard to know where she could help.
Summers looked up, “Also wanted you to know the state guys found blood and a small puncture on some surgical gloves in the research lab. They suspect Austin stuck himself with a syringe at work. They’re comparing his blood tests to the chemicals used in the research lab.”
“Could a lab syringe have caused his death? Remember the contract they found in Austin’s personal papers with Nielson’s name on it?” Nielson’s concern about the lab grant funding was intriguing.
Andy said, “This isn’t completely my case now. I have to keep the county sheriff and the state patrol informed of anything I learn. Homicides are rare. Lots of eyes involved.”
Maybe she should check the school records to see if Austin paid his account on time. Cassandra told Andy about the fingerspelled letter L that she and Meg had both noticed on the photos. Andy wrote it in his book. “Both of you saw it. You might be right about Austin trying to send us a message. We’ll keep it in mind, but without a witness it would be hard for us to use that as evidence.”
She’d have one less worry on her conscience if it turned out she was right about the photo clue. She flashed him the genuine smile she reserved for friends. “Whatever it t
akes to get this cleared up.”
Summers neatly packed away the donut bag, swept the crumbs off her desk into his hand and dropped it all in the garbage as he walked out of the office. “Talk to you later, Cassandra.” His gaze held hers for an extra breath, and then he was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
Cassandra skipped the polite preamble and started the directors meeting with an update on the Price investigation. “The preliminary autopsy report says no drugs or alcohol were found in his system,” she read to the others.
A skeleton crew of eight men and four women were seated around the executive office’s conference table cluttered with coffee mugs, leather bound notebooks and two large boxes of sprinkled frosted donuts. Eyeing the three grey-beards who’d staked out the prime seats near the door, she wondered who would be first to make a quick escape. She’d seen them rush to the bathroom during previous meetings when their enlarged prostates gave out.
Cassandra continued, “They’ve certified Austin’s death as violent, most likely trauma to his head. There were some shallow cuts on his skull and bruising on his arms and torso. The theory is he fell down the stairs and hit his head on the way down. The needle marks in his arm weren’t from taking drugs. He was a frequent donor at the plasma company in town. I heard regulars can make $300 a month there.”
Marcus Fischer added, “We’ve talked to the other fraternity members and there’s a whole group of them besides Austin who donated plasma a couple times a week at the ABG place on Main. It’s an easy part-time job where they can study or catch up on Netflix.”
She looked up from the report. “A couple kids in our office do it, too. I couldn’t handle those needles.” Cassandra shuddered. “The police are piecing together a timetable of his last 24 hours. Austin worked at the research lab Thursday after classes. According to the grad assistant, the earliest he would’ve left was 7:30. Between class and work on Friday we don’t know his movements, yet. What’s still unknown is why he fell. They’re investigating like they would a homicide. No one knows who was the last person to see him.” It was surreal to discuss death so coolly.
Bob Gregory, VP of the business office, frowned so deep his eyebrows met in one bushy line across his forehead. “You can get as sentimental as you’d like, dear. The way I see it, a homicide would be better than finding the college negligent—for liability purposes.”
Big picture budgets notwithstanding, she couldn’t hide an instinctive wince. “Likely his family isn’t concerned about liability now. They’re simply missing their son.”
Fischer raised a finger to speak next. “His parents have left a couple messages on my phone, but when I called back I’ve missed them. You may hear from them at some point, Dr. Sato. They want answers.”
Everyone wanted answers, but first Cassandra needed to confirm which director was in charge of each Homecoming event and where they had coverage gaps. Intensely aware of President Nielson’s absence and maintaining an excellent Homecoming tradition, she wanted no more surprises. Gregory had volunteered to oversee Tuesday night’s Obstacle Course Race where the teams competed while dressed in Halloween costumes. Cassandra had pegged him as most likely to lurch sideways in cardiac arrest from 30-odd years of breakfast donuts instead of unexpectedly leading a silly race.
Hannah Chapman from Marketing said, “This year’s theme is ‘Zombies Rising.’ Anyone feeling energetic, let me know. I’m still recruiting players for the student versus faculty and staff volleyball match Wednesday night.” She was Cassandra’s age, impeccably dressed and confident. Cinda had already warned her that Hannah was being headhunted by larger institutions.
Papers shuffled as the old-timers avoided eye contact with Hannah. Three hands went up from the younger administrators whose air of anticipation was palpable that one day soon they’d take the reins. After only two months, Cassandra knew how they felt. Morton had so much potential if they could just move this place into the current decade. Thursday was the Alumni Dinner, then Friday the parade and carnival, topped off by the football game vs. Iowa Christian College and the bonfire on Saturday night.
Cinda Weller said, “Thanks to Dr. Sato’s new Women of Tomorrow leadership group, we have partnered with the wellness people to promote students having fun without binge-drinking. Student clubs will perform skits all week in the residence halls to advertise the weekend events. We have hired three bands to provide entertainment on Friday night.”
The traditional carnival included booths and games lined up all around the center green space. Several popular food trucks from Lincoln and Omaha had been booked for meal times. Alumni, parents and visitors were encouraged to attend the parade, carnival and stay overnight in hotels in the neighboring towns to return on Saturday for the football game and bonfire.
Hannah added, “We have all the signs and posters ready to hang this morning. We’re paying some students to Tweet and take event photos to create the buzz.”
“Create the buzz?” asked Gregory.
“Spark enthusiasm among students to increase attendance,” she clarified. “They won’t come if it’s not fun. We have to offer a viable alternative to get them on board.”
He grumbled, “Why couldn’t you just say that? These young pups make up new words every other month. They have the attention span of fleas from their screen addictions.”
Cassandra hoped the students’ enthusiasm wouldn’t be dampened by the previous Friday’s events. She crossed her fingers that nothing more would happen to make campus unsafe. “Old business . . . the Finance Committee meets tomorrow about the physics lab capital improvements. There are some suggested revisions to the architectural designs and then the full Board of Directors votes preliminary approval at their next meeting. We don’t get involved until the full Board approves designs.”
Professor Mike Bergstrom held up a cautionary hand. “Whoa. The Faculty Senate should be involved in the process too. All this preliminary work has been completed without our input. Once it’s approved, it’ll steamroll forward and making changes at that juncture will be difficult. What about open dialogue with faculty, staff and students before this moves forward? All the stakeholders should be involved or later there’s going to be clashes.”
Former Morton President Bergstrom had stepped down seven years earlier to return to his first love—teaching philosophy—and had been around the college longer than anyone else in memory. If he decided something wasn’t going through, he knew hundreds of ways to block passage. His appearance and manner was 100% stereotypical college professor from his Einstein-esque wild gray hair and trim beard to the cardigan sweater with leather elbow patches. Before the current no-smoking laws, the upper floor of Bryan Hall where his office and most philosophy classes were held had a perpetual cloud of blue pipe smoke. His love for C.S. Lewis was surpassed only by his love for instilling critical thinking skills in young minds. Rated consistently as one of the best professors on campus, the students flocked to his classes. Cassandra had seen him work the faculty senate meetings where he often sprinkled philosophy-related quotations into his lectures and conversations.
Bob Gregory was only a few years younger than Bergstrom, but grouchier. “What’s your resistance really about? We’re following procedures.”
“Didn’t you build a biochemical lab four years ago? Now physics, too.” Bergstrom reminded the group. “Just because you can’t get a National Institutes of Health grant for studying Thomas Aquinas doesn’t mean humanities facilities upgrades should lag behind the physical sciences. What’s so glamorous about observing rodents anyway?”
Cassandra followed the old guard’s debate like a chess match, recognizing she had lost control of the agenda. In this classic higher ed standoff, her old college was exactly the same as mainland institutions: the antagonism between science and the humanities.
Greg Murray, Faculty Senate Chair and Biology professor, defended his turf. “In order to sit around discussing dusty old men, all you need are desks and chai
rs. You don’t need nano technology, elaborate database server systems, or dry chemical extinguishing agents.”
Bergstrom stood so quickly his chair rolled away and hit the wall behind him. His eyes bulged from his face and his mouth spluttered incoherently. “Dusty old—!”
Bob Gregory lectured, “This is the post-secondary environment we live in today, Mike. The research dollars are in the sciences. Young people use free time in their dorm rooms huddled around a white board to brainstorm that patentable Big Idea that will make them the next Bill Gates or Mark Zuckerberg. If students attend here four years without becoming entrepreneurs for the latest sexy new venture, they figure their degree is the consolation prize. Kids today don’t want to graduate, get married, get the entry level job, buy the starter home and move up the ladder slowly, methodically like we did in our twenties.”
Cassandra was transfixed, along with everyone else in the room.
Gregory pounded the table with a fist. “They talk about Lifestyle design as though you could buy a life. Hell, compared to my college days, they already have it all! They live in fancy suite-style apartments we build them, use top-of-the-line computers, and the latest smartphones. No wonder they don’t aspire to a life where the pinnacle of their career is thirty years in the future. This is the way we’ve brought them up. They knew how to use a computer before they knew how to use the toilet. We have brought this curse upon ourselves.”
Bergstrom remained standing letting Gregory rant, eventually folding his arms across his chest and nodding in agreement. When he finished, Bergstrom slowly applauded his sermon. The others looked at each other around the table in bewilderment and politely clapped as well.
Cassandra was torn between admiration of his speech and irritation that these gentlemen were wasting valuable minutes of her very busy day. She checked the clock on the wall, conscious of keeping to the allotted time and the student waiting in the front office for her next appointment. Since her job was Vice President of Student Affairs, she thought the serving students part of it should be the highest priority of her day.
Death by Dissertation (A Cassandra Sato Mystery Book 1) Page 8
