Death by Dissertation (A Cassandra Sato Mystery Book 1)

by Kelly Brakenhoff

  Tate didn’t break eye contact. “Not if you’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Schneider’s chest puffed out. “I’m a well-respected physician and researcher. I work for a global corporation and serve on two boards of directors. I don’t have time for this nonsense.” He stood up and brought his cup to the corner water station to refill it. The bubbles made a loud glug, glug sound and the other three exchanged solemn looks while his back was turned.

  Facing them again he argued, “Your interference in this research is baffling. We’re working to save children’s lives, and you people are obstructing one of the best projects in Morton’s history. Do you have any idea how lucky we were to win this grant? Now . . . Your unrelated tangents have wasted enough of my Sunday afternoon.”

  Tense pinpricks radiated across Cassandra’s neck and upper back. Gotta remember to breathe.

  “Just doing our jobs, Doctor. Like you.” Tate squared his broad shoulders. “Here’s an interesting coincidence. We checked the phone call history on Austin’s and Lance’s room video phone. Among the calls we investigated from unsaved numbers several were from Omaha. One of the numbers belonged to a deaf woman who denied knowing either Austin or Lance.”

  Schneider had seemed on the verge of dismissing them, but his face changed from indignation to stone while Tate continued. “The person’s name is Debra Timm.” Schneider’s torso slowly rotated toward the window. “When asked if Ms. Timm knew anyone in Carson, she answered, ‘Yes, my brother . . . Arnie Schneider, lives there.’”

  A surprised gasp escaped Cassandra’s lips.

  Schneider sunk into his leather chair and let out a loud sigh. “I’m going to level with you. I called Price’s dorm room from my sister’s house a few times. I gave him the $600. As a recruiting bonus. We needed more blood products to extract enough SOD to complete our research. We would’ve lost the NIH grant if we missed the deadline. We were at a critical juncture in the study.”

  His arrogant demeanor softened, and he shoved a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m sorry I said those things about his deafness causing the lab accident. Truth is, he was a good worker, but he made minimum wage in the lab.”

  Well, this was an about face. Cassandra’s mouth opened, and she exchanged incredulous looks with Andy.

  Schneider’s voice was impassioned, his right fist pounded the arm of his chair. “Deaf people work harder than hearing people because side conversations don’t distract them. Hell, my deaf sister Debra has worked more than 25 years at the Post Office. She’s their best employee because she pays attention to the job—not that anyone thanks her for her loyalty. Austin’s family didn’t have much to help him out, and I didn’t want to see him quit school. He did an excellent job getting more donors here at ABG. I didn’t want anyone to find out. I only meant to help him.”

  Cassandra was stunned. So, that whole rant at The Home Team had been for show? She related to his fierce loyalty to his sister, but he didn’t need to hide his help to Austin. Some people might interpret it as crossing an ethical boundary or favoritism, but she could understand his reasons. Schneider was letting Austin succeed on his own merits instead of waving his deafness around as a cause for sympathy.

  After another ten minutes of uneventful questions, Tate and Summers exchanged some telepathic signal and both men stood to end the meeting. “Thanks for your time Dr. Schneider and for meeting us. We’ll be in touch.”

  They were about to leave the office when a thought occurred to Cassandra. “When I asked Dr. Baral about the internship for Austin Price, he didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. Hadn’t you arranged for that with him? Wasn’t that why you wrote the recommendation letter?”

  It was Schneider’s turn to be startled. “When did you talk to Dr. Baral?”

  She was still missing a connection. “When I stopped at the main ABG office in Lincoln last Wednesday. I was in town for a meeting. I saw the headquarters building and remembered you’d mentioned setting up more internships. I used the opportunity to meet Dr. Baral and tell him about our career services . . .”

  She frowned when he straightened in his chair. Schneider went from calm to red-faced angry in three seconds flat. “Now you’ve done it. Your big mouth has finally gotten you into trouble. Nielson insisted we hire a woman and this is what we got.”

  Her jaw fell open. She didn’t know which insult to address first.

  Tate had stilled. “What trouble?”

  Schneider bent down in the chair covering his face with his hands. Tate leaned down right by Schneider’s ear and repeated, “What trouble, Doc? Did you know her house has been broken into twice this week?”

  His head flew up and he pointed at Cassandra who hadn’t moved. “Her house?”

  She took the whole scene in like watching a movie. This didn’t seem real.

  Schneider’s head shook. “I . . . I . . . Baral called me Wednesday. He complained about the interruptions in the research study. ABG has invested a lot of money in this. They dislike delays and police investigations. I told him we were rushing the end of the study as much as possible.” He rose again and walked to the window. “I didn’t know . . . I didn’t think. Baral asked me if I’d told anyone about the internship. Of course I haven’t.”

  Schneider’s hands pushed his hair around both sides of his head, giving his casual Sunday attire a rumpled, beaten appearance. He faced Cassandra and accused, “How did you find out about Price’s internship?”

  Tate picked up the recommendation document from the desk. “It was saved on Price’s laptop.”

  “Baral asked me if I knew you. He asked me if a Cassandra Sato worked for Morton College. I told him yes, but I didn’t ask why he wanted to know . . . I figured he saw your name on TV.” His eyes looked left and right, pleading. Scared. He blew out a breath. “If those people think you hampered their cancer research, you . . . are in danger.”

  Summers crowded up to him, too. “What kind of danger? What people would hurt her?”

  Schneider dropped his eyes, head still shaking as he confessed. “My college fraternity roommate was Dr. Baral’s son. I knew his family well. We were good friends for a couple years. Until he . . . snapped. He was kicked out of school when an ex-girlfriend accused him of putting her pet cat in the oven. She thought it was lost and didn’t find it for days until she went to put in a pizza.” He drank more water. “I haven’t seen him in 20 years, but he’s still around. He does odd jobs for anyone who pays him. If Baral sent his son after you, he will hurt you. No one will be able to stop him or catch him.”

  “What’s this guy’s name?” Tate asked.

  He did a palms up shrug. “Last I knew, he went by Roy Barnett.”

  Summers took Cassandra’s elbow and half-carried her out of the plasma center. Her legs moved stiffly and her brain processed the sights like watching actors in a film: the sheriff and college security cars parked in the lot, sitting in the passenger seat riding down tree-lined streets to her home.

  Andy even guided her to the front door. After she fumbled with the key several times, he gently took it from her grasp and opened the door. She hated feeling helpless and weak. She was a strong, independent woman. She’d stood up to plenty of doubters to get this far. Now some pharmaceutical company’s private creep was stalking her? In Nebraska?

  “I’ll have one of my guys park in your driveway. All the rest of today and tonight. We won’t leave you alone. Tate and I will figure this out, Cassandra.”

  She was scared and angry in equal measures. “How can you say that? This jerk’s apparently a professional. You can’t protect me forever.” Her neck and shoulders were sore from two hours of tension, but arguing with him wouldn’t help. “I’m going to lie down, Andy. Call me later if you find anything.”

  “Tate’s already on it. We’re small but we do have resources at our disposal. We’ll call in out of town help if needed.” He squeezed her arm in reassurance and quietly left her house.

 
; Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The ringing office phone echoed through the deserted rooms and jarred Cassandra away from her early morning paperwork. She picked up the handset without thinking. “Before you hang up, you might want to know that Dr. Arnie Schneider stands to gain piles of money from the cancer research lab at Morton.”

  Squinting hard, she fought the instinct to slam the handset back in the cradle. “Hello, Mr. Swanson. You’re up early.”

  Nielson’s cultural exchange group was expected within twenty-four hours, and she’d spent too much of last week doing his job to focus on her own work. Normally neat, her desktop was covered in files, flyers, and books while she completed written reports about the successful Homecoming activities.

  Unable to resist her curiosity about Dr. Schneider, she said, “You’re not working on another story about Morton, are you?” If Nielson arrived in Omaha to front page headlines about his college, he might burst a blood vessel. “What makes you believe that Dr. Schneider will earn money from our lab?”

  Derek Swanson summarized, “Schneider has worked at ABG since he graduated med school twenty years ago, although the name has changed twice in corporate takeovers. Until six months ago, he was a big fish in a small town. He made good money by Carson standards, but had lackluster prospects. He’s rich on paper: lives in a big house, leases expensive cars, belongs to a couple of private clubs. Even though he’s an adviser for doctoral students, he did the bare minimum of his own research.”

  Her eyes popped open. “Has that changed?”

  “Six months ago he bought a condo in Vail and booked a European river cruise for January. I’m following up on leads that I think prove he’s having an affair. He kept his title as Carson Clinic Director and ABG added him as Assistant Chief Medical Officer. My source says that’s contingent on the success of an experimental cancer treatment and dietary supplement he’s working on.”

  Despite her distaste for gossip, she wrote notes on her legal pad while he spoke. “Why’re you telling me all of this?”

  “When the article is ready to submit, I’m going to need a reaction from Morton administration. Is Morton getting a cut from these pharmaceutical profits?”

  She frowned. “Human trials are far into the future. Nothing that advanced is happening now at the college. Look, please wait until Dr. Nielson returns before you print anything. You’d get more accurate information if you speak to him directly.”

  “Is Nielson personally involved? My article isn’t ready. Yet. But if Schneider gets arrested in the next few days, I’ll print what I already have.”

  Her eyebrows shot skyward. “What makes you think he’ll be arrested?”

  “I saw the security and sheriff cars at ABG yesterday. I know you were there too. Something’s going on, and I’m gonna find out what it is.”

  Cassandra coughed into her shoulder. How many people were following her around, anyway? “I have no comments. Please don’t use my name in connection to any of this.”

  She hung up. Monday had barely begun, and already she was in hot water. Cassandra tried to return to the reports, but there were too many thoughts zipping around her head.

  She picked up her phone looking for a distraction and texted Meg. “Aloha. News flash. Arnie Schneider has a deaf sister in Omaha. Also, HE paid Austin the $600. Called it a recruiting bonus. A deputy has been house sitting me for 2 days. Plus, that Omaha reporter is stalking me. Maybe I’ll get lucky. He’ll see Zorro lurking around and catch HIM.”

  Meg responded quickly, “Typical Monday morning, eh? Most people eat a donut and read the paper. Not you. Even on bad days you overachieve.”

  Meg’s sarcasm had few boundaries. Cassandra laughed. “Your moral support is unlimited.”

  Meg sent a happy face and thumbs up emojis. “Mahalo.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, a knock sounded on her door. She’d been completely in the zone typing the Homecoming reports. Looking up from her desktop screen, she was surprised to realize an hour had passed since she’d refilled her coffee. Her neck cracked when she looked up at the ceiling, and her back was numb from leaning over the desk. She took the opportunity to stand and personally open the door so she could stretch her legs.

  “Hey Andy,” she greeted him as he entered the office and closed the door behind himself. She walked over to the corner Keurig and brewed herself another cup. “I hope you brought some more of those yummy bagels. I rushed this morning and forgot to bring a snack.”

  She sat behind her desk, crossed her legs and regarded him with a smile. It slipped a notch when he remained in place by the door. Unmoving. Holding no bakery bags or travel cups.

  His gray uniform pants and navy Morton Security polo were freshly pressed, but his expression looked . . . uncomfortable. Frowning, she set down her drink. “That’s ok. I can get something from the work-study stash . . .” She gestured towards the main office. Maybe she should let him speak.

  His hands turned out at his sides. “Cassandra, . . . I . . . need to—”

  Why was he stammering? She snapped, more sharply than she wanted. “What, already—”

  Two steps brought him closer to her desk. His cheeks flushed red, and a few sweat beads shined on his temples. Had he run upstairs? “I’ve been sent to escort you off campus. The Board of Directors met this morning and placed you on suspension. You don’t have to clean out your office, because you’re only suspended. The student workers will cancel your meetings and reschedule your student appointments with other staff. You have five minutes to gather your personal belongings, and I’m to drive you home.”

  It was her turn to stare at him, unmoving. She replayed the words he’d just spilled out. Escort. Suspension. Cancel. Five minutes. Her eyes flashed and her lips formed a stiff line. He was not her enemy. Clearly, he was miserable being the chosen messenger. Which coward had sent him instead of delivering the news personally?

  To him, she nodded—not trusting herself to speak politely. She calmly stood, stacking the papers and files on her desk. Pulling her lined navy trench coat over her shoulders, she grabbed her coffee mug and her purse. Head held high, she sailed into the main office ahead of Andy.

  With concerned eyes and hushed tones, Rachel, Devon, and Lance watched their short procession. Before she cleared the outer door, Lance made a thumbs up sign and a little wink to Cassandra. Her reassuring smile supply was tapped out.

  Twenty minutes later, her key was steady as she opened the front door and let herself inside, Andy following. The car ride home had been silent. She had many questions, but she didn’t ask them on campus. Andy had barely shut the front door and stepped into the living room when she rounded on him. “Alright. Give it to me straight. What do you know?”

  His eyebrows raised and he chuckled. “Not everything. Someone found out that we questioned Dr. Schneider yesterday—I don’t know how. The Board met this morning and appointed Dr. Bergstrom as interim until Nielson comes back to work.”

  She crossed her arms in front of her, nodding. “Derek Swanson from the Omaha Daily News called me this morning with some crazy conjecture about Schneider doing experiments in the Morton lab. Probably I wasn’t the first person he called fishing for details.”

  He searched her face. “You’re still an employee, and we’re still responsible for your safety. I’m going to keep a security officer parked in your driveway for a least a couple more days. We’re concerned about this psycho stalking you. Deputy Tate looked up Roy Barnett, but Barnett’s not a big internet user. He couldn’t even find a current address or driver’s license for him. I’ll let you know when we hear back from the Omaha lab on all the enzyme samples. It’ll probably take a couple days.”

  “Mahalo for the ride. I’m glad it was you who told me instead of some pompous board person.” She took a big breath. “You can go back to work. I’ll be fine here.”

  He put a hand up as though he’d touch her, but thought better and dropped it. “I’ll check
in with you later.”

  The door snapped shut, she let out a huge sigh and her proud shoulders slumped. Pulling on sweats, a t-shirt and a ponytail, she made a ham sandwich and settled into the couch. She thumbed the TV remote and wondered aloud, “What do people watch during the day?”

  Her phone lit up with messages from Meg, Cinda, Marcus and even Connor who typed variations on the same theme: Old Bastards.

  She copy-pasted the same response to all of them: “I’ll be ok. Gonna rest a while. Talk to you later.”

  Dr. Bergstrom left two voicemails, but she didn’t listen to them. She had no animosity towards him. He was the logical choice to make decisions until Nielson returned. She knew he’d stand up for her, given the chance.

  A while later, she returned to the kitchen and rooted in the pantry until she found a bag of unopened wavy potato chips. Squinting at the expiration date—yesterday—she decided they’d still work and brought the whole bag back to her nest on the couch. A perky woman on a food preparation show demonstrated how to make salsa three ways, but Cassandra’s focus wandered from the screen.

  For the umpteenth time since last Friday, Cassandra replayed the anticipation and excitement she’d felt upon moving. She’d stopped at Ala Moana Beach with her brother on the way to the airport and walked barefoot near the water’s edge. Slowly sinking onto the warm, powdery sand, she lifted her face toward the hot circle of the sun. The waves crashed rhythmically in and out, and the salt water smell mixed with flowers fallen from plumeria trees. Teens played volleyball behind her on the park’s green grass, and families held potlucks on the surrounding picnic tables, grilling teriyaki chicken over charcoal. Tearing herself away at the last possible moment, she’d risen, dusted the sand off her slacks, and returned to the car. Her brother for once had understood that this moment needed silence.