Death by Dissertation (A Cassandra Sato Mystery Book 1)

by Kelly Brakenhoff

  Thinking about the rats’ fate made her squeamish. Cassandra’s research area was education, not biology. Peterson gestured at a wall of conference poster boards showing statistical charts. “Our tests have shown the treatment successfully shrinks tumors in the lab rats. We extract the enzyme from donated blood and plasma, and we require a lot of donated material to complete our tests. Ever since we’ve been working with the college housing department to recruit more students to donate, we’ve been successful at getting more of the SODs available for our tests. The control group is a placebo.”

  Cassandra’s eyes started glazing over. The research minutia seemed irrelevant to Austin’s death.

  “If everything goes well, we’ll develop a synthetic version of the enzyme with the same chemical makeup as the naturally occurring enzyme. The nice part about the synthetic version is that we won’t need human blood products. If the synthetic version is a successful substitute, we could use bacteria to manufacture larger quantities inexpensively and use them in further research.”

  Cassandra knew it took years to get new medicines approved by the FDA. Summers asked, “Are there any serious side effects?”

  Nearly every treatment has some side effects. Peterson said, “We’ve noticed aggression like biting and hyperactivity.”

  “Would there be similar side effects in humans?”

  “Human trials are a later stage because of their physiological complexity. People could have different symptoms than rats. For now, I just follow the protocols and write up the results. Someone above my pay grade makes decisions about whether to pursue more research grants or focus on other aspects.”

  Cassandra’s attention was drawn to cages where some rats were noisily scurrying from corner to corner in their cages. As she bent over to peer more closely, one little pink-eyed rat was gnawing determinedly at the cage’s metal drink dispenser. She couldn’t stop a spasm of disgust. “Like those guys? The aggressive behavior you mentioned?”

  Peterson gestured to the right third of the wall. “Those cages aren’t in my study. That side is from one of the other GA’s studies. Sometimes the rats even bite us. Our study only has 30 rats, and is one of many similar studies done around the country. This type of tumor mostly occurs in pediatric cases where the children were diagnosed with tumors that grew very quickly and usually resulted in death within 8-14 months.”

  Cassandra wanted to prevent senseless diseases from harming children too, but she wondered about the side effects from the enzyme. In addition to preventing cancer, what else would it do to humans?

  Peterson smiled, ending his summary on a high note. “Of course, I’d love to be associated in any way with helping cure an aggressive form of childhood cancer.”

  Tate asked, “Police looked for Austin Price’s phone up here last Friday, but never found it. Any ideas what could have happened to it?”

  Peterson frowned, like he was surprised at the abrupt change of topic. “Who. Me? I have no idea what happened to his phone. I wasn’t even here Friday when he died. Last time I saw him was Thursday night, and I didn’t pay attention to where his phone was. The students keep busy here. They come in, do their work and leave. There’s no time for playing on phones.”

  Tate flipped back through his notes. “What was Price working on Thursday night while you were here?”

  Peterson stepped over to his work area and glanced down at a log book among the papers. He turned pages until he found Thursday’s notes. “He was here late . . . some excuse about a Chem test in the afternoon so he didn’t get here until after dinner. I stopped by around 7:30 to lock up and he had twelve syringes ready to go. I remember counting them. According to this, he finished nine.”

  He stopped talking while he ran his finger down the page again. When his eyes raised to Andy’s, he said, “Price didn’t write why he only treated nine rats on Thursday. That’s somewhat unusual, but as long as he kept the notes straight, he could’ve caught up Friday. He was scheduled to work at 4:00.”

  Andy’s brows went up and he made eye contact with Tate. Cassandra questioned how well this study was run. It didn’t take a biology degree to know that the messy front room and now the lax treatment notes were deficient. Tate said, “He was found dead on the stairs at 3:15 Friday. Would he have come in early?”

  Two large red spots colored Peterson’s cheeks and his forehead broke out in shiny sweat. His short, light brown beard was thin in spots and he ran a shaky hand over his hair. “Maybe his afternoon class canceled. I don’t know.”

  Andy said, “Did you and he communicate ok? Do you sign, or did you write notes? Could he have misunderstood the treatment process and made a mistake?”

  “We understood each other fine. He told me he could read my lips well. We didn’t really sign. We just pointed or gestured and wrote if we needed to. We were working on a tight deadline. My preliminary data and reports are due next week. If I turn those in late, my funding could be pulled.”

  Peterson jabbed the logbook and paper stack for emphasis. “He was a smart kid and he knew what to do. I wouldn’t have left him alone with my rats if I thought he’d do something wrong. I can’t afford to lose the last six months of work.”

  Tate looked at his pad for a few seconds. “So if he mistakenly poked himself with one of the treatment syringes, would that have affected him in any way?”

  By his stunned expression, Cassandra could tell he didn’t know about the bloody glove they’d found. “Poked himself? Um . . . uh, well, in a healthy adult the natural enzyme shouldn’t have adverse side effects.” His voice lowered to a mumble. Cassandra had to lean in to hear him. “We haven’t tested it on humans, yet.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cassandra hurried into the renovated brick building on Main Street that housed The Home Team. Picking her way through the wooden tables, she slid into a red leather booth next to Meg. The only sports-themed grill of three bars in town, by default it was the place to celebrate birthdays, watch professional sports, or Saturday games of the much more famous football team down the road in Lincoln.

  Cinda noted the time on her phone. “12:40. Not bad, Dr. Sato. No Hawaiian time today.”

  “I’m not late, I’m busy.” Normally, Cassandra was a homebody who preferred eating stir fry or sandwiches over taking time to go out for meals, but friends were the exception.

  Margie Gallagher, a middle-aged woman dressed in a blue Morton polo shirt and khaki pants, deposited a mason jar of water in front of Cassandra. The bar’s owner, Margie was married to one of Morton College’s professors, and he helped out on weekends. “I’ll be back in a few, hon.”

  The decor was 2/3 local memorabilia from the Carson High School photos and jerseys, or Morton Maples teams’ stuff; the final third was dedicated to the Huskers, a statutory requirement of any self-respecting sports bar in Nebraska. The pizza and burgers were decent and Margie was known to make a Reuben sandwich worth driving a good distance to order.

  Hungry from her brisk walk to Edgerton and then the bar, Cassandra ordered a bowl of chili and a salad. Meg got a Reuben and fries, and Cinda, a big chicken salad. While waiting for their food, Cinda said, “I want to know who Austin was with after class on Friday. Did he go straight to work?”

  Too bad the lab had no video feed so they could replay what happened. “I don’t think they know yet,” said Cassandra. “Something made him early, though.”

  Meg said, “Was that surgical glove with blood from Austin or someone else?”

  “The autopsy showed he had a poke and rash on his hand, so they believe that was his glove. None of the other workers reported an accident.”

  Cinda said, “It’s hard to believe no one saw him in the building, the lab, or outside.”

  It didn’t matter if it was believable or not. Austin had a rash, there was blood on the glove, somehow he fell down the stairs, and hit his head. The fact was, no one noticed anything wrong with him until it was too late to help him. “Pretty sure
Lance’s phone showed a text from Austin after 1:00. That’s all.”

  Meg took a short drink. “Do you think people feel comfortable coming forward with information? If he was doing something sketchy, maybe no one wants to tattle.”

  Cassandra shrugged. “Nielson wants us to keep it quiet. I’m working with our security and the sheriff’s office, but they only tell me what I need to know.”

  Cinda wouldn’t let it drop. “It’s too bad they couldn’t reconstruct the scene and try different scenarios. What if someone else was there and they argued? Like on NCIS.”

  Watching Andy and Tate the last few days had been pretty educational. Cassandra frowned. “Who has time to watch NCIS?”

  Meg laughed and Cinda’s eyes twinkled as she teased, “Those of us who don’t read journal articles for fun at night before heading for bed.”

  Meg added, “Sometimes I read People magazine or watch stupid reality shows to unwind. Besides, it helps me know what the students are talking about in class if I follow the latest TV shows and movies.”

  Cassandra had never thought about Meg’s need to keep up on popular culture for work. “That’s cool. Your brain is filled with bits from meetings and studying, too.”

  Meg, tapped her finger to her forehead. “Too bad I can’t remember most of it. It’s up there somewhere—all the classes and lectures I attend, plus the other things I read. Gives me a good excuse to watch bad TV occasionally. I forget a lot though, unless I hear it repeatedly.”

  Cinda lowered her voice and leaned towards the center of the table. “Maybe I’ve watched too many TV shows, but I do think there’s something odd about Austin’s death. He was an athletic, healthy kid. There must be more to the story.”

  “Meg and I noticed something in the police photos, but I don’t know if anything will come from it.” Cassandra scanned the nearby tables to make sure no one was listening. “When Austin died, it looked like his hand was forming a letter ‘L’ like he was trying to communicate something. We told Andy Summers about it in case it’s a clue no one else noticed.”

  Cinda’s eye got wide. “You mean like how victims write the killer’s name in blood at the crime scene? Cool. I wonder what the L stands for?”

  Cassandra said, “I’ve been thinking about this a lot. The graduate assistant who was Austin’s boss is named Luke. Austin worked in a lab. It could stand for a Greek letter like lambda. Isn’t that used in scientific equations?”

  Meg shrugged, “I know you want to help the police, Cass, but I think the L won’t lead anywhere. Don’t you have a student worker in your office named Logan? Besides, Austin’s best friend and roommate was Lance. I for one don’t want people thinking Lance was involved.”

  Cassandra didn’t know Meg had lost faith in their clue. Her face fell. “But I really thought we were helping the investigation.”

  “Even if Austin did it on purpose, they can’t use a fingerspelled letter as evidence in a death investigation,” Meg said with authority. “You need to drop it, Cass, and figure out a better way to help.”

  Andy Summers had said nearly the same thing, but for some reason it stung more coming from Meg.

  She must have realized Cassandra’s disappointment, so Meg prompted, “Maybe you should tell Cinda about the laptop and what else the police found.”

  Cassandra quietly told Cinda about the laptop and the food service purchase contract with the farmer that Austin had saved in his papers.

  Cinda hadn’t known about the dining hall side of the agreement either. “I eat cafeteria food for lunch every day. Usually I go through the salad bar, but I like the idea of using locally sourced beef and produce. Isn’t farm-to-table the latest thing? Who would’ve pegged No-Nonsense Nielson for being a trend-setter?”

  If the cancer research grant and cafeteria food contract was such a point of pride for the college, why hadn’t Cinda known about it? Cinda’s eyes shifted to over Cassandra’s right shoulder.

  Cassandra wasn’t surprised when she felt a presence near her. “Dr. Sato? I thought that was you.”

  Recognizing the voice, she thought, twice in two days. Maybe Nielson had been right about her getting out of the office more. “Dr. Schneider, good afternoon.”

  He was fairly handsome in that well-groomed, sharply pressed way of powerful men. His smile framed perfectly straight white teeth. “Good to see you again. I was just leaving when I noticed you here with your colleagues. After you left yesterday, it occurred to me that we should get together in a couple of weeks when President Nielson returns from China, and you have more time. I want to set up some internships for biology or chemistry students. Our clinic is too small, but if the students are willing to live in Lincoln next summer, they could work at our main office. ABG is always looking for new talent, and I want Morton students to have the best opportunities available.”

  Cassandra imagined Nielson’s pleasure at furthering this community relationship. “I’d be happy to talk to you about potential internships. Cinda, here, works with the counseling and career services center. We could both meet with you.”

  “I’ll have my assistant set it up.” Schneider paused like he would leave, but changed his mind, “Say, our plasma clinic staff are still upset about that deaf student who died the other day. Is there any news about his accident?”

  Not in the past 24 hours. “The campus security and sheriff are still investigating. We don’t really know—”

  Schneider interrupted, “It was an unfortunate accident. I didn’t know him personally, but I remember seeing him at Edgerton a few times. Frankly, I’m not sure he should’ve been working in a laboratory environment.”

  He casually shoved a hand in his pants pocket. “Maybe he didn’t understand the protocol. How does he get along if he can’t hear or speak to people?”

  Meg squinted at him. “What do you mean?”

  Schneider said, “With his inability to hear, the environment was obviously dangerous for him. Maybe the accident was partially the lab staff’s fault for allowing him to work alone. He couldn’t call for help when he needed it. The college shouldn’t be hiring people unable to work independently. Huge liability. We’d better cross our fingers his parents don’t sue.”

  Meg took a deep breath, and Cassandra came on full alert. This guy had no idea he was drifting into the deep end without a life preserver. Megs lips barely moved. “Sorry, what?”

  “I’m planning to propose this topic at the next Curriculum Committee meeting. We can’t allow students in work-study jobs they clearly aren’t qualified for. For their own safety.”

  Cassandra could feel Meg’s whole body tense beside her. Schneider added, “The disabled should be encouraged to major in fields that are less dangerous. Like Computer Science or the trades. Something where they don’t interact with customers or use the telephone. Wouldn’t it be kinder to guide them to careers that better fit their skills?”

  And . . . there he went . . . he had just sunk completely underwater and would drown in ignorance if someone didn’t make him stop talking. Cassandra squeezed Meg’s leg in an attempt to restrain her from going over the table at him. Cassandra didn’t need to be a sign language expert to know that you can’t discriminate against someone because they can’t hear. She said, “Morton helps each work-study student with a disability on an individual basis depending on their needs and skills. Naturally, we wouldn’t want any student in danger, but we don’t make blanket rules.”

  Meg’s hands formed fists on the table top, but she remained seated and silent, much to Cassandra’s amazement. Luckily, Mrs. Gallagher arrived at that moment with their food. Noticing the stony faces around the table, she passed out the plates efficiently and left without saying a word.

  Schneider said, “Need I remind you with Dr. Nielson gone, I feel especially responsible to ensure there’s no negative exposure for the college. I’m doing everything I can to keep our donors happy. The sooner we move on from this incident the better.”
<
br />   Cassandra assured him. “We’ve assisted the investigation when they’ve asked for our help.”

  “Nielson and I would rather you focus on Homecoming and leave the investigating to the sheriff. The less our staff is involved, the better. Good day, ladies.”

  They stared after his back silently as he pivoted and strode out the front door. Meg scooped up a handful of fries. “What a tool.”

  Cinda grimaced and said, “He’s not the only person I’ve heard say that before, Meg. Employers do worry about safety and liability. Maybe we should look at our safety policies.”

  “Wait, you can’t agree with that arrogant idiot, Cinda. Deaf people can do any job they want.”

  Cassandra didn’t want to get into a big debate, so she chose her words carefully. “Schneider seems very dedicated to the college. Although he could use some sensitivity training . . .”

  Meg rolled her eyes. “Just speaking the truth.”

  * * *

  Walking back to her office after lunch, Cassandra mentally rehearsed asking for the Finance Committee’s approval on the physics lab design. Dr. Nielson had told her she needed to report on his behalf. She wanted to appear knowledgeable and authoritative without coming off as bossy. Pausing in the office doorway, she saw three students hunched over the large, expensive color copier. Devon yanked out the paper tray, removed the paper and banged the edges to align them properly. He slammed the tray back in, punched a couple buttons and then pressed Start with a flourish.

  At first nothing happened, but after a few seconds a loud, unpleasant machine gun style ka-chung, ka-chung, ka-chung sounded, and the paper rolls squeaked until Haley cut the power. “What did you do?!” she growled at him.

  “Me? I’m trying to fix it. I didn’t spill a cup of coffee all down the side of it.”