Death by Dissertation (A Cassandra Sato Mystery Book 1)

by Kelly Brakenhoff

  Meanwhile Dumbledore and Hermione caught up and quickly made all three throws. The Sandlot teammates on the sideline went ballistic. “You ain’t good enough to lick the dirt off our cleats!”

  In a complete disregard for the rules, one of Lance’s teammates moved the target so the football finally went through the hole. Too late. The Wizards had already won. They danced around like they’d just won the international Quidditch Cup.

  The losers heckled their friend. “You’re killing me, Smalls!” “Scab eater!” “Fart smeller!” “Shut up, idiot!” Finally, their insults receded as they wandered off to the field’s far corner and probably someone’s house to drown their sorrows.

  Cassandra wasn’t surprised to see Professor Bergstrom present the trophy to the winning Wizards team assembled in the middle of the field. The trophy—an obviously homemade concoction of a golden cup atop a gold spray-painted 2 by 4 adorned with fake gems and Happy Meal toys, previously winning teams written in black Sharpie marker along the base—was hoisted triumphantly into the air.

  Cassandra laughed with the rapidly dispersing crowd. The long day finally hit her, and all she wanted was home and her soft bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Traditional Hawaiian music played softly in the background from the iHome on Cassandra’s bookshelf, and she read a transcript printed from a Facebook page. Josh Krinke, a PhD physics student, had been referred to the Student Affairs office for “odd behavior” by his dissertation committee chair. The student had written, “Those guys from Colorado were just making a point.”

  Cassandra gasped in horror and sprayed coffee droplets on the notes she’d been scanning before her Wednesday morning appointment. The transcript made several references to guns and Columbine, including, “Their approach may have been a little rough, but what teenager hasn’t fantasized about shooting up the place and going down in a blaze of glory?”

  This very quickly had gotten the attention of his colleagues. Ambiguous comments and vague intentions aside, no college wanted to become the next Virginia Tech.

  Cassandra opened her office door and stepped outside. “Mr. Krinke?” She glanced around the room looking for a PhD student, but no one moved right away. She walked farther into the office, “Mr. Krinke?” she repeated and looked to Devon, the student assistant, for help. He pointed right and towards a heavy set guy camped out on the couch with a huge backpack at his feet.

  Krinke looked about 40 years old with 1/4-inch buzz cut hair. He had let his beard grow out 8 inches and she noticed what she sincerely hoped were remnants of this morning’s breakfast stuck in there. He wore a gray hoodie, baggy black pants, and black combat style boots whose soles were so worn, she could see a couple places where his white athletic socks peeked through the holes on the sides. In contrast to his Unabomber-looking appearance, he wore wire-rimmed glasses over intelligent eyes and his face was open and pleasant-looking.

  Headphone wires poked out of his ears and he was looking down at his smartphone, thumbing through images while his head moved to the beat of his music. Cassandra walked slowly towards him and stood in front of him waiting for him to feel her presence. He looked up, smiled and reached up to pull the headphones out. “Sorry. Are you Dr. Sato?”

  She beckoned him into her office.”Yes, I am and you must be Mr. Krinke? C’mon back.” Prudence told her not to close the door behind them completely.

  Krinke sat his large frame into her visitor chair and arranged his belongings around him. He reached a meaty hand into the bag and came up with a blue water bottle covered in peace sign symbols.

  Cassandra’s back was straight, her hands folded on the wooden desk. “Mr. Krinke, your committee chair, Dr. Gries, has asked me to talk to you about your Facebook posts and comments. I’ve read them, and admit I’m curious about your reasons for posting them in a public forum.”

  She pushed the pages across the desk towards him. “Could you please tell me about these?”

  Perspiration beads shined on his forehead. “Well . . . I . . . uh, I’m trying to get my name out there more. You know, get some name recognition before I graduate.” He made air quotes around “name recognition” and continued, “I’ll be looking for a job soon, and I want people to know who I am. Create a buzz.”

  People already knew who he was, or he wouldn’t be facing her in this office. “So these posts are meant to ‘create a buzz’ and help you find a job?”

  He approved of her quick understanding. “Yes, exactly!”

  She stared at him a few moments, speechless. How does, “It’s going to be just like Columbine, man,” and, “Let’s get those guns blazing,” help him find a job?

  She tried another tack. “What exactly is your dissertation topic, Mr. Krinke?”

  “Energy transfer dynamics in closed quantum systems.”

  She waited a couple of seconds trying to digest that one and took a guess. “But that isn’t really about shooting anything with a gun or making a bomb, correct?”

  His manner was eager and friendly. “No. I wanted to generate more interest in my page. I need to go viral. If you use more provoking language, the search engines find you. Then more people add comments, and your page goes to the top of people’s News Feeds. I posted some things on Twitter too, but I only have 57 followers so those don’t go very far unless you get Retweets.”

  Right. She really needed to study more about this whole social media thing, but at the same time she was grateful her life wasn’t wasted reading this garbage every day. “Are you sure those are the best ways to get attention for your dissertation and your job search?”

  “I don’t know. The people in my physics class noticed me. And my committee noticed. I’m here now, right?”

  “Yes, but you can get in trouble for posting inflammatory statements on social media. People might interpret them differently than how you intended them. Did you intend to scare people into thinking your research had something to do with Columbine?”

  “No, but I had to set them up that way so the comments made sense back and forth.”

  Cassandra looked down at the transcript again. “Excuse me, I don’t understand what you mean.” There were 35 comments under one account profile and 47 under a second. She re-read them hoping they would offer a clue about what he meant.

  He pointed towards his name at the top of the transcript. “Well, you see, I have this profile here with my name and information. Then I made a second profile page using another name. That one says I’m a biologist from Ohio. Then, I made them friends with each other.”

  Pride glowed in his cheeks at his marketing ingenuity. “So now I can post a status on either my profile or the other. I can post comments back and forth between the two of them like a conversation! I can Like or Share things between the two profiles. I have the privacy set to public on the Ohio one, so more people can see everything!”

  Indeed, it seemed resourceful. Cassandra was no expert. Her own Facebook page connected about 30 of her family and closest friends with every privacy available and maximum security settings. She never posted anything about herself; only looked at photos of the nieces and nephews or kept up on what people back home were doing. She read her news feed maybe once a week. She was far too busy with her real life to waste time engaging with high school classmates she hadn’t seen for 14 years and never intended to see again.

  “Thank you Mr. Krinke for explaining your social media use. I’m recommending you also schedule an appointment with Cinda Weller from the Counseling and Career office. Because of your use of those inflammatory words and your work directly with undergraduates, we need to carefully evaluate your ability to complete your degree work here. We’ll be in touch with the details of your next appointment.”

  “I’m weird, but harmless,” he asserted. “Just a guy trying to get a job. You know, the job market is rough out there. You have to work hard to stand out from the crowd,” he heaved himself out of the chair and slung his bag onto his back.r />
  Cassandra walked him to her door. “One piece of advice, Mr. Krinke: Unless you want to attract far more attention than just a job, please refrain from mentioning Columbine and explosives in relation to Morton College, our students or our staff.”

  His chipper composure never dropped. “Sure no problem, Dr. Sato. If you think that’s best. Maybe I’ll start a blog with some original info-graphics or charts. I’m sure I can think of something worthy.”

  Once he left, Cassandra went back to her office, closed the door and let out a huge sigh. Even if the counseling office gave him a passing grade, she’d wonder about him anyway.

  Cassandra’s eyebrows knitted together as she looked more carefully at the Facebook log pages on her desk. Buried 10 comments down the transcript page about the shooting Luke Peterson had written, “Sounds like we need to go out Thursday night. My project might be off the rails, too. Just gotta survive the next few weeks without everything blowing up in my face.”

  Krinke and Peterson. The obvious answer—there were less than a hundred PhD students on the whole campus—they were bound to know each other. Cassandra focused on Luke’s message and worries. Luke had seemed unaware of the circumstances of Austin’s death, but was someone else threatening to sabotage his dissertation?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Cassandra hadn’t meant to seek out Professor Mike Bergstrom’s office in Bryan Hall. She had stepped out between appointments for a bathroom break when the lovely, sunny view out the window beckoned her. Just a few minutes out in the fresh air.

  The bright sun made her think it was at least 70 degrees outside. What a huge disappointment it was to reach the cold bench outside the admin building only to realize the sunshine was just for show. She forced herself to sit for a few minutes and turned her face upwards. Maybe if she closed her eyes and thought of Ala Moana Beach she could trick herself into believing it was warm.

  A cloud passed over the sun and a shiver ran up her spine. Opening her eyes, she jumped a bit. “Oh! Dr. Bergstrom, you are not a cloud.”

  His hearty laugh came from deep in his chest. “Not a cloud . . . no. However, I do have my darker moments. Were you making a wish, Dr. Sato?”

  “Just wishing for a warm day like we had last week. I knew it would be colder here, but I expected it to happen in December, not October already.”

  “Welcome to Nebraska. If you don’t like the weather today, wait a few hours. It could change,” he recited with twinkling eyes. “I was just headed over to my office for some coffee. Why don’t you join me?”

  Normally, she would have immediately dismissed his suggestion and fled upstairs to work. Some impulse—and Dr. Nielson’s reminder to get out of her office more—led her to accept his invitation. Stately brick Bryan Hall sat next to the Osborne building across a wide sidewalk. As they reached the landing step to the second-floor faculty offices, her nostrils were assailed by the pungent odor of pipe smoke.

  The entire campus was a smoke-free workplace, but she suspected the drywall and ceilings would have to be completely replaced if they wanted to get rid of the residual sweet tobacco smell. Cassandra kind of liked it. Combined with the dark paneled woodwork in the hallways, the decor screamed, “Philosophy professors at work!”

  Following him through the polished wooden door, she was astonished by his shoe box sized office space. This was how they treated tenured professors?

  His avocado green metal desk was shoved under the room’s only tiny window which hadn’t been cleaned in months. Folders, papers and books occupied nearly every square inch of his desk. Cassandra perched on a dilapidated yellow flowered sofa from a bygone era. Extending her legs, she could almost touch the sturdy metal bookshelf along the opposite wall. Two large frames above the sofa held quotes in graphic lettering. One in all black had a golden outline of a bat and said, “It’s not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me. -Batman.” The other, “You can’t know. You can only believe—or not. —C.S. Lewis” Leather volumes by C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Thomas Aquinas held place of honor on the top shelves, while textbooks by Bergstrom himself and other less notable works were stacked haphazardly on the bottom shelves.

  She studied the titles by Bergstrom and noted several Batman comic books and commentaries mixed in with the scholarly texts. Chuckling, he explained, “Those are resources for the Philosophy of Batman course—my most popular class!”

  He reached over to an end table wedged into the corner between the sofa and his desk to retrieve her a clean mug. Atop the table sat the only thing in his office made in this century—a compact shiny gourmet coffee machine. He worked the knobs and switches and in only a few minutes offered her a mug of delicious smelling coffee.

  Opening a little drawer, he retrieved a plaid tin of British biscuits, popped open the lid and held them out to Cassandra. She was completely charmed. “You shouldn’t have shown me this place. Now that I know about this, I may become a regular here.”

  Nicotine stained teeth peeked out from his trim gray beard. “You know, of course, that you’re welcome to my home away from home anytime you need me.”

  She sipped the fragrant, nutty coffee and bit into the small shortbread cookie. Savoring the combination, she could feel her shoulders relax and her breathing slow. She hadn’t realized how tight her body had been before this little break.

  Bergstrom quietly drank his coffee, content to wait in unhurried, comfortable silence. After what seemed like five minutes but was probably one, Cassandra realized she wanted to ask his advice about the investigation. “Remember on Monday when I told you that there was no drugs or alcohol in Austin’s system? Well, that might not be completely accurate. There’s evidence that he may have stuck himself with a syringe from the research lab. They found an elevated level of the treatment enzyme in his blood. They haven’t begun human trials yet. No one knows how much he actually injected, so it’s hard to predict how or if that enzyme contributed to his death.”

  He nodded, encouraging her to continue.

  “His cell phone still hasn’t been found, but the laptop was turned in. They’re following up on some payments he received from somewhere for about $600. Maybe Austin had a side job that no one knew about? Even his own roommate.”

  His dark eyes fixed on hers. “What do you need to ask me, Dr. Sato?”

  She didn’t know how he could help her, except to listen. She stalled for time. “The problem, Dr. Bergstrom, is that something just doesn’t feel right. I can see these small pieces, but they don’t fit together. Austin knew something was wrong before he died. He texted his roommate for help, but didn’t say why. He’d saved the contract page between Dr. Nielson and the farmer.”

  “Those things might be connected somehow.”

  “Yes, they might. Or they could just be random. I can’t say anything publicly though, because President Nielson and Dr. Schneider have both emphasized that we need to avoid any negative press this week. I don’t know Dr. Schneider well enough to judge his flexibility on this.”

  She searched for the right words to use. “Dr. Schneider seems a bit arrogant. He made some comments about deaf people that were way off base.”

  Bergstrom relaxed into his chair and gazed out the dirty window. “You’ve been around higher education long enough to know that the President and the Board Chairman wield a lot of power, even at an insignificant place such as this. If you enjoy your job as much as I think you do, you can’t afford to alienate either of those men.”

  That’s why she’d kept silent so far. She was top management now and needed to think about the college’s reputation first. She frowned into the empty bottom of her coffee mug. “But what if something fishy is going on here? And what if Austin somehow knew about it? I couldn’t live with myself if anyone else were hurt because we’re concerned about Morton’s public image more than protecting students.”

  He was enjoying himself entirely too much. “An excellent point. You’re faced with an ethical d
ilemma. Do you ignore the wishes of your superiors to do what your instincts tell you is right? Do you choose the actions that do the greatest good, or create the least evil?”

  His glee at inserting philosophic platitudes into everyday conversation was palpable. But this was real life, not his freshman seminar class. She’d have to evaluate which course of action to follow.

  At least talking to him had relaxed and distracted her from the stressful hum in her office. Rising, Cassandra returned her mug to the table. “I appreciate you listening to my ramblings.”

  “Anytime, Dr. Sato. Just remember: ‘It is our choices, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.’”

  Cassandra’s hand paused on the doorknob. “That’s a famous quote from someone I should probably recognize . . . Is it Thoreau?”

  Bergstrom winked. “Dumbledore.”

  * * *

  “Put me in undercover!” Lance insisted to Cassandra and Meg. “I know the cancer lab needs helpers now that Austin’s gone. I know all his passwords and can confirm what’s on his laptop. Austin complained before that he worked too many hours; it must be worse without him there.”

  Cassandra’s relaxed state had quickly dissolved upon returning to her office from Bryan Hall. Lance and Meg had been waiting for her, their eyes bright with anticipation. Cassandra’s administrator radar immediately raised a red flag. “Wait . . . how do you know there’s more on Austin’s laptop? What else did you find?”

  Lance held up a playing card sized portable hard drive and Meg interpreted. “I may or may not have copied Austin’s laptop files onto this hard drive before I turned it over to the police.”

  Cassandra put on her stern face. “You did WHAT? Oh man, you’re going to get us all in trouble, aren’t you?”

  Remembering the work-study eavesdroppers, Cassandra closed her office door for privacy. Meg grinned, “Wouldn’t be the first time . . .” Cassandra’s arms crossed and she stood near the window. Meg pointed to Lance while she spoke and signed. “What’s the worst that can happen? He’s a kid. Kids do stupid things for their friends.” Turning to Lance, Meg asked, “What did you see on the hard drive?”