This discussion, while enlightening, was not moving them closer to action on any of her agenda topics. She pasted a chilly, polite smile on her face. “Thank you, gentlemen for your insightful debate on prioritizing spending during these difficult economic times. Can I put both of your names down for the campus task force on strategic planning that meets next month to begin work on the next biennial budget cuts?” She paused just long enough to scribble their names on her paper and continued, “If everyone agrees on their roles for this week’s events, I suggest we adjourn this meeting until the next one in November. We’ll keep you all informed about developments in the investigation of Mr. Price’s death. Thanks for your time, and have a good day.”
The table quickly cleared and everyone stood, whipping out their smartphones to check messages and calendars for their next destination. Cassandra chuckled inwardly as she noted old man Gregory was one of the first to become engrossed in his technology, sausage-sized thumbs fumbling over the tiny phone screen as he flipped through his calendar. Ironically, she should be one of those connected 24/7 Millennials, but she had no social media accounts and her Facebook profile picture was the default shadow. She preferred her notebook and pen, and a good yoga workout to wasting time online.
Chapter Fourteen
“This is a long shot because I know you’re busy, but Deputy Tate from the sheriff’s office and I are going to the plasma place today. I’d like your help.” Cassandra had squinted her eyes tight when Andy Summers called her between student appointments. She needed a clone or a magic wand.
She wanted to follow through on her offer to help the investigation, but stepping on jurisdictional toes would not go over well. “What’s our role?”
“Morton’s research labs work closely with the medical personnel. You could authorize information sharing if needed and eliminate delays.”
She consulted her calendar. “I could meet you in 90 minutes after two appointments.”
Nielson would be very pleased if she could wrap this up quickly. Plus, seeing the plasma center was a great excuse to become familiar with another aspect of student life. She agreed to meet him later.
“Dr. Sato, a Blake Shelton is on the phone for you.” No sooner had Cassandra hung up with Andy when the student receptionist bounced into her office. Cassandra stared an extra few seconds at Bridget.
Cassandra’s eyebrows raised, “Did you say Blake Shelton . . . the country singer?”
Bridget’s shoulders slumped and her smile vanished. “Oh yeah, so it probably wasn’t Blake Shelton then, was it? Maybe he said Blake Sampson. He asked to talk to you.”
She really needed to convince Nielson to hire a full-time office assistant. “Did he say where he works or why he wants to talk to me?”
“He might have . . . I can’t remember. If you just pick up the phone, you can ask him. That would be easier.” She returned to her chair.
Cassandra shook her head and picked up the phone. “Good Morning, this is Dr. Sato, how can I help you?”
The voice was male. “Hello, I’m Derek Swanson calling from the Omaha Daily News. I have some questions about the Morton College student’s death, and I’d like to arrange an interview with you tomorrow.”
This was exactly the type of calls the front desk should be screening for her so she could call him back with a prepared answer. Caught off guard, she scrambled to say something intelligent. You never knew when or how reporters would use a quote. “I have many meetings tomorrow, Mr. Swanson.” She noted his name on the pad of paper in front of her, along with Omaha Daily News reporter and interview. “Perhaps our Media Relations Director can call you back when we’ve a prepared statement. I don’t normally handle press interviews.”
“I understand, Dr. Sato,” he replied smoothly. “You’re in charge of Student Affairs though, right? When I googled you, I couldn’t find any social media posts except that photo of you and the street preacher from a few weeks ago. Funny stuff. Otherwise, it’s like you hardly exist.”
That photo just wouldn’t go away. “Well . . . since you’re speaking to me now, you must realize I do exist, Mr. Swanson. You may find it hard to believe, but my days are full of appointments, meetings, and interactions that involve real people,” she said. Not at all defensively.
He fished around, “I wonder what you’re not posting. I noticed you recently moved to Nebraska from Hawai’i, correct? I can’t imagine why a person who lived in paradise would move to this backwater—unless you’re hiding something . . .”
She didn’t like his tone or implications. “Was that a question?”
He switched back to rapid-fire inquisition. “Actually, my article focuses on the student angle. Morton College is a tight-knit community. Our readers want to know how students are affected by this tragedy. Are they afraid? What’s the school doing to protect students from another attack?”
No one had called it an attack. This wasn’t going well. She took a breath and used her stern teacher voice. “Sir, police are still investigating the nature of the death. We’re following normal protocol for a serious incident like this, but now is a not a good time.”
He wasn’t intimidated. “I gotta submit my article day after tomorrow, and if you don’t tell me the college’s version, I’ll have to print the theories rumbling around campus and online. I’d really appreciate a call back by the end of the day.”
She wouldn’t be calling him back. Her stomach was in knots. “I’ll give your name to the Media Relations Director, and she’ll get back to you.”
* * *
Shawn McIntosh shuffled into Cassandra’s office and slumped into the seat across from her desk.
“Good morning, Mr. McIntosh. You were referred to me because it’s now eight weeks into the semester, and your Theatre teacher tells me you’ve been to class once.”
“Theatre? Yeah, I went. She, like, just read off the Power Point. She posts it all on Canvas after class, so I figured, hey why go to class when I can sit at home and read it myself. Don’t need to shower, walk across campus. Can play a few more rounds of Halo, right?”
Cassandra wrote “Remember to ask the students later about Halo,” on the notepad next to his open file on her desk. Must be a video game, and it didn’t sound productive. “Aren’t you here at Morton on a Presidential scholarship?” she checked McIntosh’s schedule again.
“What? Oh . . . yeah, I think so. I don’t know. Whatever the school doesn’t cover, my grandma pays for, so I’m cool.”
“How are your other classes going?”
He shrugged, “I’m taking Intro to Business and that’s pretty easy. Just a few papers, a midterm and final. Statistics. Geology. Just those four. It’s not too bad. Way easier than high school,” he bragged. “On Fridays I only have one class at 10:30 a.m., and then I’m done for the day. College is great, bro.”
Cassandra had attended university for eight years and wrote a 182-page dissertation so she could be called Bro by this pampered 18-year-old. She repeated to herself: I love students. I love my job. Keeping the pleasant mask on her face, she said, “I’m glad you are—enjoying—your semester so far. However, Mr. McIntosh, I can assure you that this is the easiest semester you likely will have in your academic career. You’re enrolled in freshmen level survey classes where the instructors start off slowly to ensure that all students become acclimated to their new role as full-time college students. As the year continues you’ll notice a marked increase in the number and difficulty of assignments. You need to attend class to hear the additional information the instructor uses to supplement her Power Point presentations.”
The rumpled young man across her desk gave her a blank, disinterested stare. Cassandra cleared her throat. “Certainly not every class you take will be a favorite. However, you need to do well on them all to maintain your substantial and generous scholarship. Didn’t you do well in high school in order to qualify for these funds? Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“I dunno. I didn’t really do much in high school. It was pretty easy, and I just handed in what they told me to do. I aced the ACT, but I really don’t care about finishing school right away. I’m planning to ski at Breck over fall break. I hope they get some fresh powder by then.”
The skiing part perplexed her. “Breck? Where’s that? People ski in Nebraska? It’s so flat here how would you do that?”
His laugh came out like a grunt, and he shook his head like she was a dimwit. “Bro, the only skiing you can do in Nebraska is cross country, like you see on the Olympics. I’m talking real sick runs in Colorado at Breckenridge. My dad’s family goes every Christmas, but my squad’s going early this year since we have a free weekend.”
She asked skeptically, “Isn’t that a pretty far drive? Can you do that in a four-day weekend?”
Another shrug. “Yeah I’ll take off the Thursday before and slide it into six days. I won’t miss much, and it’s no big deal. I’ll get the notes from someone. It’ll be fine.”
This kid reminded her of Gregory’s sermon earlier in the morning about entitled brats. Her growing exasperation showed in her voice. “Are you sure you want to be in school, Mr. McIntosh?”
“Why do you care so much? Do you get paid a commission for each student you save?” His eyes darted down at the phone in his hand as though looking for an excuse to leave.
He was inching up to the line in the sand where her patience ended. She raised one eyebrow at him in warning. “Attending classes is a big part of being successful in college. Surely your grandmother who’s helping to pay your tuition would be proud of you for doing well here?”
Mentioning his Tutu would alarm most Hawaiian students, but McIntosh was unmoved. “What’s it matter to you? It’s not your money. My Granny’s sweet for helping me. She’s loaded.”
Her second eye brow went up, but McIntosh didn’t realize his mistake and kept talking. “Really, it’ll be fine. I think this schedule is going to rock for me. I can get out to the slopes way more than I could in high school. South Dakota is even closer, but those hills kind of suck compared to Summit County, Colorado. The powder there is top, bro.”
Well that’s about one Bro too many, Cassandra thought. You can take the girl out of Waipahu, but no reason to forget lessons learned growing up in her working class neighborhood. She placed her palms on the desk and said, “Listen up, braddah. You tink you can throw me attitude and I just goin cave in? You got one nother ting coming.”
The smirk fell from McIntosh’s face. Cassandra dropped her serious, professional persona and continued in her public school-girl accent, “Back home, I took on kids twice as smart as you and I still wen shoot dem down. You no like be here? Den leave.”
She jerked her thumb towards the door. “Do me and your grandmaddah da favor. Get plenty other young people out there who would jump at da chance for come to dis great place.”
Cassandra stood, pointed directly to his bewildered face and enunciated slowly. “So, you choose: show up fully or exit fully. Aloha, for now. No let da door hit you on da way out.”
After two silent beats, McIntosh stood up and loped out of her office, gently closing the door behind him. Cassandra shook her head. No oceans in Nebraska. After years dealing with stoked surfers who cut class for big waves, now she would see a whole new type of slackers. The ski bums. Oh boy.
Chapter Fifteen
Cassandra, Andy Summers and Deputy Tate approached the front desk of AlphaBioGlobal Plasma Center’s simple, modern lobby. A fresh-faced young woman with blond hair piled on top of her swaying, bouncing head wore white earbuds in her ears and her eyes were focused on the open textbook on the reception desk. Looking up, Ponytail started, removed the headphones, and sized up the uniformed officers with a slightly confused expression on her face. “Can I help you . . .?”
Deputy Tate read off the small pad he’d pulled out of his shirt pocket. “We’re looking for Dr. Arnold Schneider, the Executive Director.”
“Sure, ok . . . just a sec,” she picked up the phone and started punching numbers. Cassandra did a slow 360 of the place where so many students spent their time. The comfy couches and countertop coffee station stocked with flavored coffees and snacks seemed more inviting than a normal medical clinic. In fact, the large TV playing a Big Bang Theory rerun silently while captions scrolled along the bottom of the screen was nicer than anything in the dorms.
After a few soft words, Ponytail replaced the phone on the receiver and pointed to her left and behind her. “Just go down this hallway. His office is at the end of the hall.”
Tate leaned to the right to read the name tag on her shirt. “Thank you . . . Lisa.”
She flashed him a smile, and fumbled with the earbuds while she stared back a few extra moments. Cassandra eyed Tate’s broad forehead, high cheekbones and strong chin. Sure he was handsome, but weren’t they all at work?
A fifty-ish looking man wearing a white lab coat met them halfway down the hallway. Tate stuck his hand out, “Good morning, Dr. Schneider.”
Cassandra knew him already, so she waited while the men introduced themselves. “Officer Summers, Deputy . . . nice to meet you both. Dr. Sato, what a pleasant surprise. I haven’t seen you since your first campus interview in July; I trust you’re all settled in?”
When she nodded, he continued, “What can I do for you today?”
Tate began, “You heard about the death of Austin Price, the Morton College student, on Friday? We’re here to ask a couple of questions about him.”
“Yes I did hear about that.” His thick, slightly gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses framed a self-assured looking face. A wealthy man used to being in charge. “I’m not sure how I can help you, but I’ll try.”
“Can you please walk us through the process that happens when a person comes into your center? What do you call them—donors? Clients? Patients?”
“Donor is the preferred term in our business. First timer donors spend several hours completing a health history and questionnaire. Do they have tattoos or piercings, where have they traveled, just like regular blood donation protocol. However, since we pay our subjects, we do extra screening on hemoglobin and protein levels, among other things. That whole interview lasts about an hour.”
They stood outside a large open room housing eight reclining medical chairs. Cassandra’s quick glance showed scrub wearing staff members bent over two different patients. She maneuvered past the doorway, avoiding the view. Schneider said, “Here in the donation area, depending on the speed and how much they can give, it takes anywhere from another 45-60 minutes. Once we have someone in our system and approved, their subsequent donations take slightly more than an hour. One person can donate 7-10 times a month.”
Tate followed up, “Do you have trouble getting enough people to donate blood and sell plasma? Where does it go once you’ve collected it?”
“We’re unique because of the size of Carson. Our clinic is actually a satellite for our larger company AlphaBioGlobal in Lincoln. We collect both whole blood and plasma here. The platelets and red and white blood cells are separated from the plasma which is used for manufacturing lifesaving pharmaceutical products. Any unused material goes to the Lincoln or Omaha blood banks for distribution wherever it’s most needed.”
“Are your donation rates steady or have you noticed any changes?”
Schneider’s hands rested casually in his pockets. “There’s been a large increase since August and the campus blood drive last month. Plus, we tend to be busier during the school year when the students need extra cash.”
Although interesting information, Cassandra couldn’t figure out where these questions were leading. Tate didn’t hesitate though. “How does the payment part work? How much do the students make each time they donate?”
Dr. Schneider knew all the numbers. “They make $50 for their first donation, $40 for referrals and bonus payments for returning frequently in one calendar month. It varies widely de
pending how often students come in.”
Andy Summers asked. “Austin Price was a frequent plasma donor?”
Schneider considered a few seconds, then shrugged. “Since he’s deceased, I guess HIPPA no longer applies. I looked up his name when I heard about his death. Yes, Mr. Price was a donor here, but I don’t know any more than that.”
Tate looked up from his notes. “I understand you’re ABG’s liaison to the Morton lab. It appears that Mr. Price stuck himself with a needle. Could that be related to his death?”
Schneider’s eyebrows went up, “Stuck himself?” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and studied the donation room. “Well, there’s two groups of rats: one gets a placebo and the other is injected with an enzyme. I can’t think of any reason why that would harm Mr. Price.”
Tate scribbled notes while Schneider spent a few minutes explaining the science. “We’re also following up on the student’s missing technology. His laptop and cell phone haven’t been located yet.”
Schneider frowned slightly. “His laptop? And his phone, too? Hmmm . . . yes that’s odd, isn’t it?”
Needles made Cassandra’s stomach flip. Little perspiration beads formed at her hairline, even standing in the hallway. Tate changed direction: “What effect do frequent donations have on a person’s body? Do the arms scar over? Is there a limit to how long a person can donate?”
Any time she’d had blood drawn, a bruise and poke mark remained on her arm for days. Her back spasmed in a shudder. All the riches of Dubai wouldn’t convince her to do that several times a month.
Once all their questions about Austin had been answered, Dr. Schneider took them on a brief tour of the medical lab area, but not inside due to sterilization rules. Back in the cool, comfortable lobby, Cassandra’s composure returned. Deputy Tate said, “Do you also know Luke Peterson from the Morton biology lab?”
Death by Dissertation (A Cassandra Sato Mystery Book 1) Page 9
