Regards,
Dr. Catherine Flynn
Dean of Arts and Humanities
Waverly University
It was clear that this Catherine Flynn did not waste any time. I’d only heard about her in passing and seen her signature on a few of O’Connor’s documents, but I’d never met her. I now had no other option. I sent a quick email back, saying that I’d see her tomorrow, then packed up my things to head home. If Flynn wanted to discuss my thesis, she was in for a major disappointment. What with O’Connor’s disappearance, the extra classes I’d been teaching, and my foray into investigative journalism, I’d all but forgotten to pick a topic for my thesis. This meeting was bound to be a disaster.
4
Research Hall was across the quadrangle from the Arts and Humanities Building. I’d been there once or twice to run errands for O’Connor. It was drafty and dark inside, as though the university custodians had forgotten to replace several of the fluorescent light bulbs. An elegant wooden staircase was featured in the center of the lobby, bordered on either side by an ornate banister and lined with one long Oriental rug. As I headed upstairs, the carpet muffled my steps as if to subdue my presence in the building. I ran my hand along the smooth mahogany of the banister, marveling at its craftsmanship. Then I caught a glimpse of my watch. It was three minutes to nine o’clock, and Catherine Flynn would surely not accept my appreciation of the building’s design as an excuse for my tardiness.
On the fourth floor, I was out of breath from taking the steps two at a time, and of course, Room 410 was at the end of a lengthy wood-paneled hallway. I jogged toward it, earning a look of consternation from a passing professor. Flynn’s name was printed on the frosted window set in the door. I knocked gently, smoothing my hair back in the hopes of appearing more collegiate and less windswept.
“Enter.”
Flynn’s office was twice the size of O’Connor’s. A towering bookshelf adorned one entire wall, and if my eyes didn’t deceive me, it was stocked full with rare first editions. A sculpture of a crow, made entirely of onyx, served as a single bookend. On the opposite side of the office, Flynn had hung her multitude of degree certifications in gilded frames as if to showcase her individual devotion to higher learning. Flynn herself sat behind an immense ebony desk set against a triptych of windows. Sunlight streamed in, bathing Flynn in a pale aureate glow. She was a hawk of a woman with raven-black hair, sharp eyes, a streamlined nose, and thin lips. She stood as I approached her desk, and if her severe features weren’t intimidating enough, she’d topped the effect off with a slim black power suit and a pair of sky-high gold heels, both of which belonged more on a Milan runway than on the Waverly campus.
“You’re late, Miss Costello,” she chided.
It was only two minutes past nine o’clock, but late was late to Catherine Flynn. “My apologies,” I said, reaching out to shake her hand. Her grip was firm and cold. “This building’s a bit of a maze.”
“Hm. Have a seat.”
I sank down in one of the leather chairs opposite her desk, its deep seat swallowing me, and unbuttoned my coat. Flynn paced leisurely behind her desk, reading through a manila file folder. After a few minutes of silence, I cleared my throat to remind her that I was there. She glanced up.
“Would you care for a cough drop, Miss Costello?” she asked, and though her tone was even and polite, the offer was clearly rhetorical.
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
“Hm,” she said again. “I see here you’ve worked as O’Connor’s graduate teaching assistant for three consecutive semesters now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you never thought to diversify your experience?”
“Sorry?”
She regarded me over the top of her black-rimmed designer reading glasses. “Waverly hosts a number of distinguished professors. I only wondered why you limited your interactions with the faculty to Professor O’Connor.”
“Oh, I certainly didn’t mean to,” I said, trying and failing to sit up straight in my chair. Though glamorous, the chair’s design wasn’t conducive to a professional posture. “I simply admire O’Connor’s style of teaching.”
“And yet, if you had perhaps shown more interest in other professors in your department, you might not have found yourself in such a situation,” commented Flynn.
“What situation is that?”
“Mere months away from graduation and lacking a thesis advisor,” she retorted, circling around to my side of the desk. She leaned against it, crossing one long leg over the other. “O’Connor’s vacation time has undoubtedly set you back.”
I gave up on the chair, moving to the edge of the seat in a half-hearted attempt to exert an air of confidence. “To be fair,” I began, “O’Connor was perfectly reliable before his disappearance. Shouldn’t the university be more worried about the fact that one of their ‘distinguished professors’ inexplicably disappeared rather than implying his sudden absence at school is the result of a lack of dedication to his career?”
Flynn peered down at me. “My, my,” she said with a click of her tongue. “Aren’t you an opinionated one?”
I stayed quiet, keeping my gaze level with Flynn’s own.
“Though I admire your allegiance to O’Connor,” she continued, “I encourage you to focus less on his ‘sudden absence’ and more on your thesis. I assume you have something to present to me?”
I looked away from her then. I had been up half the night trying to figure out what to propose as my thesis idea, knowing that I couldn’t walk into Flynn’s office empty-handed, but no matter how many subjects I considered, none of them captured my attention half as much as O’Connor’s research.
“Miss Costello?” Flynn snapped her fingers. “Have I lost you? What is your thesis topic?”
“The history of Waverly,” I blurted out. O’Connor’s research was Waverly-centric, and since it was the only thing I could concentrate on recently, the university’s inauguration seemed a probable subject for my thesis. My brain worked furiously to expand on it. “You know,” I said, gesturing pointlessly with my hands. “Waverly is one of the most esteemed institutions in America. Its graduates are known to become some of the most influential members in society. I’ve been researching Waverly’s background.”
Flynn twiddled a ballpoint pen between her fingers. “All of that is well and good, Miss Costello, but I’m afraid you need an angle.”
“An angle?”
“Yes, a thesis isn’t simply an extensive research paper,” she said. She pushed herself away from the desk, wandering toward the bookshelf. I twisted around to keep her in my line of sight. “You must propose some kind of new information to us, something original to prove to the committee that you’ve made the most out of your time here at Waverly.”
“In that respect, I’ve already narrowed my focus,” I responded. “I’ve been examining the most successful Waverly graduates throughout the years. In fact, the numbers there are astonishing. Did you know that Waverly has churned out more CEOs and reputable business owners than any other university in the United States? The Ivy League is wondering how we do it. I am too.”
“I see. And do you have any of this information available for me to look over?”
She had me there. All of my information was from O’Connor’s research, and there was no way in hell I would share that with Flynn. “Unfortunately, my laptop and I had a misunderstanding this morning,” I said. It was better to get nailed for the faulty-technology excuse than bring up the dubious legality of holding O’Connor’s files hostage. “My flash drive was erased.”
Flynn removed her reading glasses and folded in the temples. “Miss Costello, do you understand that without a completed thesis, you will not be able to finish your degree?”
“I’m well aware.”
“Good. This is not a joke, Miss Costello. Waverly takes your education very seriously.” At this point, Flynn had said my last name so many times that it now sounded tired in her m
outh. “I suggest you revitalize your dedication to your thesis. Perhaps we’ll have another professor cover O’Connor’s American History class. That should leave you with quite enough time to spend in the library.”
I didn’t dare argue, despite the fact that I rather enjoyed teaching that class. “Whatever you see fit, Dr. Flynn.”
Flynn sat down behind her desk again, entwining her fingers together. “Miss Costello, I expect to see you in my office again very soon. At that time, if you do not have a substantial amount of work to present to me, we will consider why you decided to waste so much time at our university.”
“Was that a dismissal?” I asked, my temper bubbling over. “Can I go now?”
“You may.”
I stood, buttoned my coat, and turned away from Flynn to leave.
“Miss Costello?” Flynn had donned her reading glasses again, sparing not a glance at me as she typed away at her computer. “As you research Waverly’s most auspicious students, perhaps consider the reasons as to why you are not rising to their ranks.”
I had no response for Flynn that wouldn’t automatically get me booted out of Waverly, so I left her office, slamming the door shut so hard that its inset windowpane rattled.
Outside Research Hall, the cold nipped at my nose. I exhaled heavily, watching a puff of vapor escape from my mouth and float upward. Unlike some of the other students at Waverly, I wasn’t privileged enough to have the faculty and staff in my back pocket. O’Connor, it turned out, was the only professor on campus that had any faith in me, and now that he was gone, I was at a loss. I spared a moment to gather myself, sitting briefly on the stone steps of the building to rest my head in my hands, but the cold quickly seeped through my jeans and into my bones. Flurries of snowflakes were falling again, so I picked myself up before too many of them could settle in my hair and turned my feet toward home.
As I walked down the short alley between Research Hall and the next building over, grateful that the towering brick structures sheltered me from the worst of the wind, I heard the crunch of footsteps through dead leaves behind me. This alone wouldn’t have startled me, but when the footsteps quickened and crescendoed, I whirled around with my hands at the ready.
“Easy!”
The owner of the footsteps was a young woman, bundled up in a snow jacket and several layers of scarves. Her deep-set eyes watered, from the wind or something else I didn’t know, and her shoulder-length, dark hair was greasy and unkempt as though it hadn’t been washed in several days. Though she raised her hands as an indication of innocence, her harried appearance made me uneasy.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Probably not,” she said. She glanced behind her, as if to make sure that the two of us were alone in the narrow alleyway. “But I think I can help you.”
“How so?”
She stepped toward me, closing what little distance was left between us. “My name is Jo Mitchell. I overheard you speaking with Donovan Davenport in the library yesterday.”
“So?”
“I just thought you should know that you were right about him,” she said, her voice so hushed that it was in danger of being swept away by the chilly breeze that flitted through the alleyway. “About his transcripts.”
“How would you know that?” I asked.
“Because I was supposed to be Waverly’s valedictorian last year.”
She fell silent as a group of students, laughing raucously, passed by at the end of the alley. I waited until their conversation faded then said, “I’m listening.”
Jo huffed into her gloved hands and rubbed them together. “At the end of the spring semester, I was slated to graduate at the top of my class, summa cum laude, until I failed three core classes that were necessary to my major. I’ve never failed a class in my life.”
I could relate. The last few steps before graduation were always the hardest ones to take. My own life was a direct example of that. “Stress has a way of taking us down with little effort,” I said, hoping to reassure the young woman. “Believe me, I know that feeling—like an uncertain future is creeping up on you?—all too well.”
“It wasn’t stress,” Jo insisted, a biting edge to her voice. “I was fine, ahead of schedule even, and then someone altered my grades to make sure that Donovan Davenport became valedictorian.”
The conviction with which she delivered this piece of news supported what I’d already assumed was true. It was evident that Davenport’s transcripts had been tampered with. It was just as likely that whoever was responsible for Donovan’s inexplicable success had also knocked aside other students in order to make way for him.
“Did you report it?” I asked.
“You actually believe me?”
I nodded, kicking the toe of one boot then the other against the brick wall of Research Hall in an effort to get some blood flowing through my frigid feet. “I’ve seen Donovan’s real transcripts. Straight As, my ass. So tell me, did you report it?”
When she realized that I wasn’t messing around with her, Jo’s eyes brightened. “Yeah, I did,” she said. “I went to every professor, but they all claimed that they had no idea what I was talking about, and that I would have to take it up with the department. They sent me on a wild goose chase from one university official to the next. I thought I was going to lose my mind.”
“What happened?”
“Eventually, they called me into the dean’s office for a meeting,” she said, tucking her chin into one of her many scarves. “Except when I got there, I found out that Dean Hastings had called the school psychiatrist, and they were both waiting for me. They told me that I was suffering from intense anxiety and paranoia brought on by stress.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” said Jo with a curt nod. “They said that if I wanted to complete my degree at Waverly, I would have to agree to attend weekly sessions with the psychiatrist, and I certainly wasn’t going to graduate at the top of my class anymore.”
It all sounded too conspiratorial for Waverly’s reputation. The university had an honor code; falsifying grades and forcing students into therapy were violations of that code at the highest level.
“Look, I just wanted to let you know,” Jo continued. She wiped moisture away from her face with the back of her gloved hand. “If they can convince the entire university that I’m crazy, I’m sure they can do the same or worse to you for digging into their business.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“I thought you knew.”
“No.”
“Shit.” Jo looked skyward in apparent dismay. She sniffed, wiped her nose, and said, “Just don’t get involved, okay? And be careful.”
She took a step back as if preparing to walk away, but I grabbed her wrist to hold her in place. “Who’s behind all of this?” I asked in a low voice. “What else do you know?”
“Nothing. Let go of me.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe that,” I said but allowed her to pry herself from my grasp.
Jo looked me up and down as if evaluating my ability to handle whatever information she was withholding. “If you get any deeper in this, there is no way out,” she warned.
“I can handle it.”
She sighed. “Fine. Do you have a pen?”
I flipped open my messenger bag without hesitation and handed her one of the red correction pens I used to grade students’ essays. She uncapped it, took my hand, and began to write on the back of it.
“I’ve had enough of this shit, all right?” she said as she doodled away on my cold skin. “You do what you want with this, but don’t come looking for me. I don’t want to be involved anymore. I just want my damn degree.”
As she capped the pen and gave it back to me, I glanced down at the back of my hand. Jo had only written three words—nec plus ultra—and drawn an outline of a bird, and when I looked up again, she had already made it to the other end of the alleyway.
“Hey, wait a second!” I called after her. “What the hell d
oes this mean?”
She kept walking. “Figure it out. Or don’t. To be frank, the latter is your better option.”
With that, Jo Mitchell disappeared behind Research Hall, leaving me in the cold to stare at the meaningless red ink on the back of my hand.
At home, I collapsed on the sofa for a nap. Franklin hopped up next to me and settled down. I curled in around his warm body and pressed my nose into his fur. He smelled like a dog, musty with a hint of baby shampoo, but there was still something comfortable about it. My mind whirled, circulating through all of the secrets that Waverly University was hiding, but I hadn’t slept a full eight hours in several days, and so I drifted away into blissful unconsciousness.
Some hours later, Wes gently shook me awake. Blearily, I opened my eyes.
“Hi, baby,” said Wes. He was still dressed in his uniform. It looked like he had just gotten home from work. “Have you been here all day?”
“Mostly,” I admitted. At some point during my knockout nap, Franklin had abandoned me. Now he sat patiently by his dog bowl as if to remind us that it was time for his dinner.
“You have ink on your face,” Wes said, licking his thumb and rubbing at my cheek.
I sat up suddenly, remembering Jo’s message. The red ink on the back of my hand was smudged but still legible. Before I could forget, I leaned across Wes, reaching for a blank sticky note from the coffee table, and jotted down nec plus ultra. For good measure, I did my best to imitate the bird outline. I was no artist, but I got the general shape of it down.
“What’s that?” Wes asked, looking over my shoulder at the note.
“Something else to confuse me.”
“Well, explain it to me while we figure out what to make for dinner.”
As Wes and I unearthed a pair of chicken breasts from the refrigerator and decided to make chicken parmesan, I filled him in on the events of the day.
The Professor Page 4
