Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (13 page)

“Oh yes.” Nurse Matthews remembered the call.

“It’s probably nothing.” Lucy felt sheepish. “It’s really not that big. Dr. Palmer said to come in.”

“Better safe than sorry.” The nurse gave Lucy’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. Opening a door to one of the patient rooms, she pointed to a gown lying on the examination table. “One size fits nobody,” she chuckled. “Undress from the waist up, then have a seat. Doctor will be with you in a minute.”

Sammy dashed into the dean’s suite of offices a few minutes after ten. Talking to Sergio’s teaching assistant, unfortunately, hadn’t been particularly productive.

Panting, she pushed open the oak doors and took a moment to catch her breath.
Nice digs
, she thought as she examined the lushly appointed anteroom. The thick maroon carpet and wood paneling represented a stark contrast to the institutional decor of most Ellsford classrooms.

Jeffries’s secretary looked up casually when Sammy approached. The nameplate on her desk read: Mrs. Cook.

“Hello. I’m Sammy Greene.”

Mrs. Cook slid the Ben Franklin half-frames farther down her aquiline nose and gave Sammy a perfunctory smile. “Yes?” An antique clock on the wall chimed the half hour.

Sammy pressed on, “I need to speak with Dean Jeffries.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Well, no, but —”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to your student advisor. Dean Jeffries isn’t able to meet with students directly.”

“Sorry,” Sammy corrected, “it’s not a student issue. I’m here as a reporter for campus radio. I wanted to talk to him about Professor Conrad.”

Mrs. Cook remained unmoved. “The dean’s comment has already been released to the press.” She handed a typewritten memo
to Sammy. “Here’s a copy. It’s the only statement he plans to make.”

Sammy skimmed it quickly. The usual public relations white was — “great teacher, great scientist, great loss.” She looked back at Jeffries’s gatekeeper. “This says nothing about Ellsford’s sacrifice of teachers for dollars. Professor Conrad was a victim of —”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Greene,” Mrs. Cook’s tone was icy, “Dean Jeffries is unavailable. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.” The secretary turned back to her computer terminal, dismissing Sammy with a curt nod.

Sammy remained at the desk. The great oak doors to her left creaked open and Dean Jeffries ambled out, followed by a tall, fifty-something Asian man with a warm smile.

“Everything’s taken care of, we’ll be all set by Wednesday at noon,” the dean said, stepping aside to make room for his guest.

“I have no doubt,” the man replied, in softly accented English. “We’re grateful for your cooperation.”

The dean leaned over to his secretary with nary a glance at Sammy. “Margaret, could you call for Mr. Ishida’s car, please?”

Nodding, Mrs. Cook picked up the phone.

As the dean turned back to Ishida, Sammy decided to make her move. She leaned over to the secretary and spoke loudly, “So when we broadcast that special interests are influencing academic decisions at Ellsford, you won’t have any official comment, is that right?”

As she expected, the dean quickly reappeared at her shoulder.

“Sammy Greene,” Mrs. Cook told her boss.

“I’ll see you in just a moment, Ms. Greene.” He pointed to the adjacent chamber. “Wait inside. I’ll be right with you.”

While Sammy strolled into his office, the dean crossed over to a frowning Ishida and explained sotto voce, “The beer industry’s been a sponsor of our Homecoming Day. We may have to reevaluate the health implications for our students. Anyway, I’ll look forward to seeing you Wednesday.”

Ishida nodded and shook the dean’s hand, as a uniformed chauffeur appeared at the door. “I, too, Hamilton. I, too.”

The moment Ishida left, Jeffries marched over to his office door with a forced smile.

“Tenure Committee at eleven,” the secretary reminded, shutting the door behind her.

Jeffries inner sanctum was spacious, wood paneled, and decorated in an understated fashion: Oriental rug over distressed parquet, antique brass lamp on an oversized oak desk. The large black leather armchair facing the desk bore a decal of the Ellsford University logo on its back. Behind the desk, a beveled leaded-glass window filtered a variegated view of the EU campus. The rain had just stopped, leaving droplets clinging to leaves like iridescent jewels.

On the far wall, a row of Perma-Plaqued diplomas and awards documented Jeffries’s ascent through the academic hierarchy: B.S., summa cum laude from Stanford, Ph.D. in Biology from Harvard. Next to these were photos with colleagues and friends including several with past U.S. presidents and world leaders, and just below, a row of bookshelves filled with leather-bound copies of Shakespeare and Chaucer.

Sammy took in the room at a glance, then regarded the dean for a moment. Jeffries was a man to whom the passing years had been more than generous. Though the date of his college graduation clearly put him in his sixth decade, he had the unwrinkled face of someone closer to forty. A small man, he wore his still-dark hair in a conservative style that matched the traditional cut of his dark suit — the only pretension, a gold chain and Phi Beta Kappa key. But for all his academic credentials, Jeffries was known primarily as a superb fund-raiser, bringing in enough money over the years to ensure his tenure as Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences.

“Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

Jeffries waved at the armchair across from his desk. “Sit down, Ms. Greene. Your reputation has preceded you.”

Sammy couldn’t resist a smile. “Sorry, but I had to talk to you about Professor Conrad. We’ve planned a memorial on today’s show.” She pressed the record button on her tape player.

Jeffries’s eyes narrowed. “Professor Conrad was a gifted teacher
and scientist,” he said quickly. “We’ll all miss him very much.”

“Yes, I know.” Sammy tapped the press release. “But I’ve also heard that he wasn’t going to get tenure. The question then is why?”

Jeffries cleared his throat. “Now wait. That’s not true. The Tenure Committee doesn’t make its final decisions ’til December. They’re still reviewing publications and student evaluations.” A genial smile. “We do take those into account, you know.”

Sammy nodded politely. “What other criteria do they use to evaluate professors — money they bring in, perhaps? Grants?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss specifics. All I can say is that Connie was a superb teacher and researcher — even back in his Berkeley days.”

“You knew him from before?”

“Connie was a graduate student. I chaired his department at Berkeley.”

“Genetics?”

“Biology. Genetics was a division. Anyway, he was a tiger even then — bibliography a mile long. Hundreds of citations. And his work was good. Not the factory output that passes for research nowadays.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“The current penchant for writing five papers from one experiment to pad your publications when it’s really five different versions of the same work.”

“So you brought Professor Conrad here to Ellsford after he graduated?”

“ Not exactly. Connie went over to Stanford as a junior professor working under Yitashi Nakamura.”

“The late Professor Nakamura?”

“Yes. I brought Yitashi to Ellsford, and he recruited Connie a couple of years later.”

“Why’d he leave Stanford?”

“I offered him a laboratory he couldn’t refuse. Yitashi always —”

“No, I meant Professor Conrad.”

“Oh.” Jeffries checked his watch and added almost offhandedly, “He didn’t get tenure.”

Surprised, Sammy stumbled for her next question. She flipped through her notebook. “I talked to Professor Conrad the day before he died. He seemed to feel that Ellsford was focusing more on bringing in grants and churning out papers than teaching students —” She left the thought hanging.

“That was his mantra at Stanford too. But I’m afraid the days of the ivory tower are long gone,” Jeffries said. “Your tuition doesn’t cover a tenth of the expenses of running this university. To provide teaching services for our students without raising fees, we need to find funding from other sources.” He chuckled, “As I’m sure you’ll agree.”

Sammy forced a smile.

“So, we’ve got to provide services to all our sponsors. They help support our facilities and laboratories, and we produce research. The result — everybody wins. Our fund of knowledge is advanced, and you get the benefit of the best scientists as teachers.”

Sammy had heard this official explanation before. The dean didn’t make it sound any more convincing. She pursed her lips. “I guess you have to buy the company line to get tenure.”

Jeffries was not amused. “I can’t speak for Stanford.”

“And here?”

The robotic tone returned. “We believe and support academic freedom. The committee evaluates many criteria.”

“Who’s on the committee?”

“The committee consists of six professors from the College of Arts and Sciences. It changes every year.”

Sammy waited.

Jeffries shook his head. “I can’t give out the names. After they make their recommendations, I review their comments and forward my opinion to the chancellor.”

Sammy frowned, puzzled, “You mean you have the final say?”

“I don’t often go against the committee, but I can.”

“And with Professor Conrad?”

Jeffries folded his hands over his blotter. “The question, my dear, is now academic.” Consulting his watch once again, he rose slowly. “I’m afraid our time is up, Ms. Greene. Let me show you out.”

The firmness in his voice was persuasive. Sammy gathered her things and inched toward the door. As she opened it, she added an afterthought. “By the way, the last time I saw him, Professor Conrad asked me to give you a brown envelope, but I forgot to take it with me when I left. Did he get it to you?”

The dean looked at her and shrugged, “No. Sorry. I’m afraid not.” He smiled politely and closed the door.

Alone in the exam room, Lucy removed her blouse and bra and stopped to appraise her rash in the wall mirror. The elevated pink circle on her chest hadn’t grown since Saturday, but then it hadn’t gotten any smaller either. And it still looked gross. Hurrying to cover up, she slipped on the ill-fitting, coarse paper gown just as Dr. Palmer walked in carrying her chart.

“Good morning, Miss Peters.”

Always so formal. Not that he wasn’t nice. Lucy just wished Dr. Palmer would smile once in a while — like Nurse Matthews.

“Hi.” Spying the empty blood specimen vials and syringe tucked into the pocket of his long white coat, she asked sheepishly, “You won’t need to stick me today, will you, Dr. Palmer?”

Palmer ignored the question. Instead he turned to a clean page in her medical record and began to write as he documented her symptoms. “When did you first notice the rash?”

“Saturday. Actually my friend Anne pointed it out to me. She —”

“So you hadn’t noticed it before?”

“No.”

“It isn’t painful?”

“No?”

“Any itching?”

“No.” The same questions Anne had posed.

“How have you been feeling generally?”

“Well, I haven’t really had much of an appetite,” Lucy admitted. “And I guess I haven’t been sleeping much.”

“Oh, why’s that?”

Lucy grew shy. How could she tell him about Chris? Can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t keep my mind on anything but Christopher Oken. “Well, I, uh. It’s probably because uh, because I have a new boyfriend.” There. She said it.

Dr. Palmer looked at her for the first time. His gaze seemed stern. “Are you having sex with him?”

Lucy reddened. “Yes,” she whispered, after a moment. The same fear experienced talking to Anne on Saturday now gripped her. She blurted out, “You don’t think this is VD, do you, Dr. Palmer? We ... we used protection.” Oh God, this was so embarrassing, but who else could she ask?

To her dismay, Palmer only mumbled a noncommittal “Hmm.” He stretched on a pair of latex gloves and began feeling her neck, then under her chin. “This hurt?”

“No.” She fought back a rising sense of fear.

He mashed under her armpits.

She winced. “That hurts a little.”

“Hmm.” Again.

He next had her lie down and palpated her abdomen. “Have you been running a fever?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t have a thermometer.”

Palmer pulled down the front of the gown just far enough to examine the pink circle. Frowning, he pushed, probed, and measured its diameter with a ruler. Lucy was certain from the doctor’s expression that something was terribly wrong.
Oh God
,
it’s VD
.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Her voice quavered.

Palmer’s response was not reassuring. “Probably nothing serious, but I’d like to do some tests.”

A lead weight hit her in the stomach. “What kind of tests?”

Palmer replaced the paper gown and patted Lucy’s arm
gently — the gesture somehow not as encouraging as Nurse Matthews’s. “Nothing to worry about. We’ll have you in and out of the hospital in no time.”

“Hospital?” Overwhelmed by terror, Lucy struggled to stem the flow of tears.

“But I have midterms and —” she gulped air.

Palmer handed her a box of Kleenex. “Forget about midterms for the moment. This is more important.” He picked up the wall telephone and dialed a four-digit extension. “Dr. Palmer here. I have a patient for admission. I’d like you to escort her.” He listened, nodding. “Yes, that’s right. You know the procedure.”

Replacing the receiver, he turned back to Lucy who was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “One of my assistants will get you settled. In the meantime, why don’t you give me the names of your professors? I’ll take care of canceling your exams.”

“You mean postponing them?” she sniffled.

“Yes, of course.” Palmer conceded with a thin smile as he headed for the door. “Oh, and if you’ll give me the name of your boyfriend and roommate, I’ll make sure they know where to find you.”

“Dr. Palmer?”

He stopped and faced her. “Yes?”

“Thank you.” Her eyes were trusting through her tears.

Palmer’s smile tightened and his voice cracked as he turned away with a crisp, “You’re welcome.”