Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (3 page)

Taft targeted colleges and universities as “dens of iniquity,” promoting rallies against abortion, gay rights, and recently, animal research. What worried Sammy most was that so many students seemed persuaded by his hateful rhetoric.

Reaching into her purse, she grabbed her Nikon One Touch
and snapped shots of the demonstrators. She’d track them down for interviews later.

The flash caught Taft unaware. For a moment he stared in her direction. Even from the distance, Sammy was struck by the power in his dark eyes, an expression she’d seen at last year’s abortion protests — rage saturated with hatred that seemed just a fraction away from an explosion of violence. Then he had led a mob through the medical school, painting hate messages on the walls of the GYN clinic where poor women came for abortions. One nurse ended up in the ICU with a head injury, but after hospital bills were quietly paid, no one pressed charges. Sammy never did discover the name of the anonymous benefactor, though she had strong suspicions.

Now she took a deep breath, unconsciously anticipating trouble.

“Chill out man!” the tech snapped. “They’re just animals.”

“You’re the animals!” retorted a conservatively dressed protester to Sammy’s left.

A boy with a military-style crew cut shoved the tech to the ground, “Let’s get ’em!”

The mob pressed forward, pushing open the door and storming into the laboratory where the pigtail macaques were boarded.

Sammy stopped to help the tech who was on the ground, moaning. Blood oozed from a cut on his forehead. “It looks as though it’s just superficial,” she told him as she helped him sit up. She handed him a Kleenex from her purse.

“I’m okay,” he said, “but these people are nuts. Don’t they know our work saves lives?” Sounds of crashing cages and breaking glass brought him to his feet. “Jesus, they’re letting them out,” he screamed. “The monkeys!”

Sammy turned to where he pointed. Taft stood to one side, nodding approval as several of his group unlatched the animal cages. The injured tech started to run from one cage to the other, trying to prevent the jailbreak, but he was outnumbered by the violent horde. Several monkeys, now free, joined the melee, providing a chattering chorus amid the shouting.

Sammy watched the tech lunge for one tiny pigtail whose silver
collar glistened in the morning sunlight. In a flying tackle, two of the protesters pounced on the hapless lab worker, and the frightened primate leapt into the arms of the youth with the crew cut.

“Ow!” Sucking his bleeding hand, the flat-topped youth dropped the squirming animal, which scampered off into the crowd.

Sammy witnessed one of the protesters fly backward onto a lab table, victim of a well-placed accidental kick from the struggling technician.

“Freeze!”

As three more protesters lunged in revenge, Sammy heard a whistle behind her.

“I said, all of you, freeze!”

A balding, pot-bellied policeman with a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache stood at the door to the lab. He was flanked by a corps of younger deputies. Sammy recognized Gus Pappajohn, campus police chief, and his cavalry, and stepped aside to make way.

“Don’t anybody move,” Pappajohn barked. He pointed at Sammy. “That means you too, Greene.”

The deputies moved in to corral the protesters while Pappajohn bestowed a withering glare at the reporter. “Where angels go —”

Sammy responded with a tense smile.

The chief of police shook his head. “Greene, haven’t you graduated yet?”

“Less than two years, Sergeant.”

“May they go ever so quickly.” Pappajohn’s Boston accent held a trace of his Greek roots. A member of Boston’s finest for over twenty-five years before taking two bullets in the gut, he was forced to accept early retirement, and moved up the coast to Ellsford. He hadn’t counted on the climate being quite so harsh. In a weary voice, he added, “You want to tell me about it?”

“Look, this isn’t
my
show.” She scanned the gathered protesters for their leader.

“What’s wrong, officer?” Reverend Taft appeared at the lab entrance as if he’d just arrived on the scene.

How did he get back there? Sammy wondered.

Pappajohn’s expression grew more dour. “Good. Another one of my favorite people. Join the party.”

While the deputies helped the tech round up the monkeys, Taft surveyed the damage with an unconvincing look of shock. “My heavens, what is going on here?” He nodded at the injured protester, who clutched his abdomen. “This is what happens when a university allows innocent animals to be used for experiments.”

Members of Taft’s flock joined in a chorus of assent. “They must pay for their sins!”

“Fuck you!” screamed the tech whose head wound now sprouted fresh blood. “You’ll all pay for this!”

“All right. I’m not about to play judge and jury here,” Pappajohn answered. “We’ll talk about it at the station.” He turned to his men and pointed to the tech. “Get this guy to the hospital ER, ship any injured kids to Student Health, and move the rest of ’em out.”

Pappajohn draped one arm over the Reverend’s shoulders. “Okay, let’s go.” He nodded at Sammy, who was inching toward the door. “You too, Greene. “

Damn. Larry Dupree was not going to be happy about this. Not one bit.

“Special interests are taking over our campus!” Barton Conrad slammed his fist on the end table, startling several bored colleagues. “One of these days, you’ll wake up and find you’ve paid too high a price for their support. And you can kiss your precious academic freedom good-bye!”

The science professor poured his second glass of sherry and swigged it down in one gulp. A log in the oak-paneled fireplace sparked and snapped, the crackle an emphatic coda to his impassioned outburst. In the flickering light Conrad appeared far older than his forty-two years.

Seated nearby, Dean Hamilton Jeffries pushed his poker at the embers with tense, staccato strokes. “I understand your concern, Connie,” Jeffries answered. “But we’ve taken every precaution to ensure
that no financial contribution will interfere with the work we do here. Even the Nitshi Corporation has a written hands-off policy.”

“Have we read the fine print?” Conrad wondered aloud, ignoring his colleagues’ smirks.

“No one’s asking you to sleep with the devil.” Jeffries responded.

“Not in so many words. But it does seem that the more money we bring in from industry grants, the happier
we
are.”

Jeffries adopted a tone of frigid politeness. “You are probably aware that federal grant funding for research is down forty percent this year. Tuition increases can’t even touch our needs.” He glared at the professor. “Just how do you propose we pay your salary, Connie?”

“All I’m saying is there’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

“Except at our Friday faculty meetings,” injected Bill Osborne, professor of psychology, triggering a round of laughter. He filled his sherry glass and passed the decanter to his neighbor in the circle of faculty.

Friday afternoon gatherings at the chancellor’s home were a once a month tradition at Ellsford University — ever since Thomas Ellsford, Jr., had founded the private institution some eighty years earlier. Over the years, the catered luncheons had become a reluctant obligation — especially for junior faculty out to impress those elders who would award tenure, a lifetime of job security. The tasty fare compensated for the stultifying atmosphere and obsequious conversation. Today, though, Conrad’s outburst was livening up the late meal and après sherry hour.

In deference to old-fashioned manners, everyone now stood when Chancellor Reginald Ellsford entered the study. In his arms he held a bronze plaque.

“Sorry I’m late, gentlemen and ladies. A little business to attend to. Thank you for waiting.” He took his place in the throne-like chair beside the fireplace. Conrad refilled his sherry glass and found an empty space on the couch as the group nestled back down into their seats.

The Chancellor continued. “I don’t have to tell you that outstanding
teaching has always been top priority on this campus. So, it is my great pleasure to bestow this year’s Ellsford Award for Excellence in Teaching to —” Pausing, he squinted at the engraved letters “to Dr. Burton Conrad.” He looked up and scanned the room until he saw Conrad. Acknowledging him with a nod, he added, “It’s an honor to have you at Ellsford University.”

Polite faculty applause broke out as the chancellor rose and displayed the bronze plaque.

“Well done, Connie!”

“Right on.”

Conrad summoned a tenuous smile and slowly stood, unsteady from multiple drinks. The chancellor met him halfway, shook his hand, and gave him a pat on the back. Face flushed, Conrad muttered a quiet “thanks.” After a short pause, he took a deep breath, deciding to use this moment to further express his concerns. “We’re on the verge of —”

“I’m afraid I can’t stay,” the Chancellor interrupted. “Business calls.” He smiled and pointedly adjusted his Rolex. “See you all next month.”

The cue for the meeting’s dissolution given, the others stood up as well, gathering overcoats, papers, and grabbing last-minute snacks from the half-eaten platters of pâté and crackers.

As most of the group filed out, Conrad remained in the center of the room, irritated that his audience had been stolen from him by his hesitation.

“Saved by the bell,” Bill Osborne whispered in his ear.

Conrad turned to his friend and colleague. “Always the politician.”

Though Conrad’s tone was obviously sarcastic, Osborne merely shrugged. In fact, he did affect a rather patrician air. His herringbone sports coat, impeccable blue button-down, pinpoint Oxford shirt, red silk tie, sleek black tassel loafers, and heavy silver ID bracelet were a fashion contrast to the threadbare tweed blazer, shiny corduroy trousers, and rubber-soled Rockports that Conrad wore.

“We’re both too old to play the part of perpetual grad student,” Osborne said. “Personally, I want tenure.” He winked at Conrad. “Thought you did too.”

Conrad ambled over to the couch and reached for his sherry glass, emptying it once again. “So did I.” He held the plaque to the lamplight, noting that under the inscription “Ellsford Award for Excellence in Teaching,” his name had been misspelled.

“So why threaten to flunk our star forward?” Osborne asked.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“On the news. Campus radio, yesterday afternoon. Some female talk-show host.”

“Wonderful,” Conrad snorted. “Truth is, if Bud Stanton doesn’t pass Monday’s midterm, no more basketball.”

Osborne shook his head. “Death wish.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that if you don’t pass Stanton, EU can’t beat Duke. Which means otherwise generous alumni will think twice before writing their usual fat checks.”

“Stanton doesn’t know a chromosome from a hole in the wall.”

“And last semester he knew diddly about the superego.”

“You passed him anyway?”

“Don’t act naïve, Connie. Whether you know one bloody thing about psychology or genetics doesn’t matter in the least. What matters is how you play the game.”

Conrad poured himself another drink. “And what if they ask you to take a fall?”

Osborne frowned. “Meaning?”

“To throw the g —” Conrad started to answer, then caught the unfriendly eye of Dean Jeffries who was heading toward them. “Call me tonight and I’ll explain,” he whispered.

“Okay,” Osborne nodded. “I’m flying to New York tonight. My flight gets in at eight. I’ll call from the hotel.”

“Dr. Jeffries!” Conrad recognized the high-pitched whine of Edwin Houk. The anemic junior history professor pulled the
reluctant dean back to the middle of the room before he’d had an opportunity to reach Conrad. “Two of my students — our students — are up for a Rhodes. Quite an honor for us at Ellsford, wouldn’t you say?”

Osborne turned back to Conrad with a barely concealed smirk. “Subtlety was never Houk’s strong suit.”

“He’s a shoo-in for tenure.”

“You could be, too. With your publications,” Osborne nodded at the plaque by Conrad’s glass, “and that.”

“That.” Conrad took a large sip.

Osborne’s tone reflected exasperation. “Come on, Connie. Have you thought about what’ll happen if you’re denied tenure here, too?”

Conrad stared into his empty glass. “I suppose I’ll have to find another job.”

“You’re not exactly a kid anymore.”

Conrad tossed him an indignant look.

“Anywhere you apply will need references. They’ll ask EU if you’re a team player.” He pointed to Dean Jeffries. “Speaking of which, we’d better do our bit to butter up the dean. Want to go save him from Houk?”

Conrad waived the offer. “I can’t.”

Osborne shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He turned back to his friend with one last warning. “Look, Connie, don’t be so self-righteous. You could end up committing academic suicide.”

Student Health was just a few buildings away, but policy required paramedics to deliver the injured riot victims by ambulance — even those with minor injuries.

“ID?” A nurse near the entrance accepted the plastic card. “Luther Abbott. Freshman.”

“Have you been seen here before?”

“Just for my shots.”

“Good, then you’ve had your tetanus booster.” The nurse examined the back of his right hand.

“Darn monkey practically bit my arm off.”

The wound wasn’t deep, but there was a one-inch tear just below his wrist on the surface of his skin.

“Look, it’s still bleeding!” Luther said. “I ought to sue the university!”

“Uh-huh.” She tried to sound noncommittal. The last thing she wanted was involvement in some legal action. Bad enough she had to sign the incident report.

“Will I need stitches?”

“Animal bites like this are never closed. Too much chance for infection to spread,” she explained. “You’ll probably need antibiotics, though.” She instructed the paramedics to put the gurney in the treatment room. Then she told her assistant to start irrigating the wound with normal saline under pressure. “Doctor’ll be with you in a minute.” She handed the youth a clipboard. “Fill out this questionnaire in the meantime. Dr. Palmer requires it for his patients.”