Tamarack River Ghost (27 page)

“I’ve got a bit of a problem here, and I believe you can help me work my way through it.” Evans had a rather clever way of getting at difficult issues without immediately putting people on the defensive.

“What’s the problem?” Emily knew full well what it was, but she was interested in how Evans would handle it.

“I’ve been getting lots of phone calls about the accuracy of the numbers you and Randy presented at the Willow River meeting.”

“I’ve heard that. Randy says he got several calls as well.”

“Have you seen these?” Evans asked as he pushed the tally sheets to the front of his desk.

“Yes, I have,” she said. “I did one of them, and Randy did the other.”

“How do you account for the differences? Your results are very different from Randy’s.” Evans’s voice turned from friendly to stern, even a bit confrontational.

“I know that. And I feel bad about it.”

“How do you account for the differences?”

“Well, I hate to say it, but it was Randy’s idea that I present false data at the Willow River meeting.”

“Did he tell you to do it?” Evans asked, a surprised tone to his voice.

“Yes, he did. He told me that there would be serious consequences if I didn’t change the numbers, and there would be even worse consequences if I told anyone.”

“He said that?”

“Yes, he did.”

“What reason did he give you for changing the numbers?”

“Well, . . .” Emily hesitated for a moment and lowered her voice. “He said the good people of Ames County and especially those living in the Tamarack River Valley deserved a boost in their economy. He said that if we presented favorable research results, that is, showed that the majority of the people agreed with having a large, confined hog operation in their community, the zoning committee would give approval to Nathan West to build. And they did.”

“Hmm,” Professor Evans said. “Kind of an unbelievable reason, I would say.” He began tapping his pencil again.

“Well, thank you for stopping by and sharing all this. These are serious charges, you know. Manipulation of research findings is a serious offense. I’ve got to look into this further. This is a difficult matter.” Evans continued tapping his pencil.

“I know that,” Emily said. “I was very disappointed in Randy. I couldn’t imagine him asking me to do this, but he did.”

Once Emily had left his office, Evans walked to the locked file cabinet where he kept personnel files of all faculty members and graduate students. He pulled Emily Jordan’s file and began reading her letters of recommendation.

After a few minutes, he turned to the Rolodex on his desk, found a telephone number, and punched the numbers into his phone. He heard the phone ring twice.

“This is George Adams.”

“Bill Evans up in Madison. How’s everything going in that great city of Columbus?”

“Oh, fine. Running the department is about as good as can be expected. But you should know. Being a department chair at Ohio State can’t be a lot different than at UW,” said Adams.

Evans laughed, as he knew being a department chair at a large state university had its challenges, no matter where.

“How’re Susan and the kids? Let’s see, you’ve got one in high school now?”

“I do. Our little Wyatt is no longer little. He’s over six feet tall and playing varsity football. Susan’s fine. She just got a part-time job at a little bookstore here in Columbus. Something she’s always wanted to do. How can I help you, Bill?”

“Do you remember a grad student named Emily Jordan?”

“I surely do. Friendly personality. Full of enthusiasm. Most optimistic person I’d ever seen, especially among the crop of grad students we had when she was here. Sometimes they can be an unhappy bunch.”

“What can you tell me about her, beyond what you just said and what you wrote in your letter of recommendation?”

“Well, she’s a better than average student and a good researcher. She’s good with details, and once she’s working on something she sticks with it until it’s done.”

“I got all that from your letter. But anything you didn’t put in the letter? Something I should know?”

Adams hesitated for a moment. “I’m guessing you have a good reason for asking.”

“We’ve run into a little problem here. Emily’s being accused of tampering with some research data—making it look quite different from what the results really show,” said Evans.

There was more hesitation on the other end of the line.

“Well, as a matter of fact she had the same problem here. It was pretty clear that on one research project that involved some big agribusiness firms she may have doctored the data a little. But there was no evidence. No way of proving it.”

“Well, well, well,” said Evans. “Seems like she may be up to her old tricks.”

“Appears that way, doesn’t it. Shame, too. She’s a good student and a good researcher, no need to mess around with the results. What usually happens is you get caught, one way or another,” said Adams.

“George, thank you. I’ll let you know how all this turns out. It’s shaping up to be a real mess.”

“Let me know if I can be of further help. Nobody wins in these situations, nobody. How well I know.”

Bill Evans hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. Once the word got out that the preliminary data from a research project had been tampered with, everything would go south. He, as department chair, would be called on the carpet by the dean—why hadn’t he more closely supervised his assistant professor’s research projects? And the dean would be admonished by the chancellor, and so on up the pecking order of the university’s bureaucracy. Tampering with research data was right up there with sexual harassment cases—they were always messy and ended up with splashy headlines in the newspapers. Evans was well aware of the many problems state universities faced these days, especially with legislators who decided university budgets. The least little bit of negative news became fodder for the budget cutters.

Evans knew what he must do. He thought for a fleeting moment that he would sit on the information, with the hope that it would all go away. But he knew better. He knew of a case or two in which a rule was broken and the person in charge tried to keep it quiet. It didn’t happen. The information got out.

He turned to his phone and punched in some numbers.

A voice on the other end of the line said, “Dean’s office.”

Two days on the Wisconsin calendar take on near religious significance: in November, the opening day of deer season, and in May, the opening day of fishing season. Wisconsin sportsmen and sportswomen mark these dates on their new calendars every January. Absolutely nothing takes precedence over them—no clear-headed person would ever schedule a wedding, a birthday party, or even a funeral on these days—that is, if anyone were expected to attend. These were sacred days, revered year after year.

Opening day of fishing season took on circus proportions on the Willow River Millpond each year. Fishermen from as far away as Milwaukee and Madison gathered to try their luck at catching a native brook trout. They fished from shore, they fished from the dam that created the millpond, they fished from boats small and large (no motors of any kind were allowed, however). They drank beer, told stories, and partied as they waited for first light. They fished with fly rods and spinning rods, with cane rods and old-fashioned casting rods. They fished with fancy home-tied flies. They fished with spinners and assorted lures. They fished with earthworms and minnows, little-finger-length, silver bait minnows, that for most fishermen worked best to lure a spring-hungry brook trout.

Some built campfires on the shore, where they huddled to keep warm on a chilly early May morning. They laughed and hooted—they woke up the neighbors, but nobody complained. These loud and rowdy fishermen brought much-needed money into Willow River.

On this particular opening day, Natalie was on duty, of course. She had invited Josh to accompany her; they had arrived at the millpond about
midnight, and the parties were already in full swing. She didn’t think much of the shenanigans that were a part of opening day. For her, trout-fishing meant sneaking along a quiet little stream with a fly rod, allowing a fishing fly to float over a likely hole where a trout lay dozing, and then, when the fish took the bait, set the hook and pull it in, all the while respecting the fish and its fight for survival. Once the fish was in your net, you admire it, perhaps take a photo of it, and then let it go. The folks on the Willow River Millpond today were fish eaters—nothing wrong with that, of course. It was their right. But the way they went about it galled Natalie.

Her job was to check fishing licenses and make sure nobody was taking home more than their limit—which was unlikely of course, because fishing competition was so heavy that anyone was lucky to catch one or two fish.

Natalie and Josh sat in her truck, watching the goings on and waiting for first light, when she would begin checking licenses and fish numbers. She had a big thermos of coffee, which the two of them shared as they talked. It was a cold morning, right around freezing, so she started the truck every half hour or so to take off some of the chill.

“How’s the new job going?” Natalie asked. Josh hadn’t talked much about it.

“I haven’t gotten used to it; it’s a new approach to journalism, I must say.”

“People pay to have their news published?”

“That’s right. You have a story you want published, say you want to report on some recent arrests, the DNR would have to pay to have it published.”

“So what about the story that needs telling and nobody has money to pay to see it in print?”

“Well, according to my boss, the assistant editor and I are in charge of writing those stories.”

“Sounds a little weird to me.”

“My boss says it’s the future, that it’s the new model for the publishing industry that will both make money and get the news out. Online news does have some advantages; we can link to video; we can provide up-to-the-minute market reports. Even link to social networks.”

“So do you think you’ll keep reporting on the big hog operation that’s coming into the valley?” Natalie asked.

“I hope so. That’s the biggest story to come along in a while. Right now it looks like a done deal—I thought for a time that public opinion might sway the zoning committee to vote against it, but the university’s research seemed to seal the deal for Nathan West.”

“You think that research was accurate? Those numbers looked a little goofy to me,” said Natalie.

“Looked that way to me, too. I’m doing some checking on that right now. But no matter what, looks like we’ll have a big hog producer in the county.”

“Are these big factory farms the future, Josh? Is the small, family farm dead?”

“Looks that way. Sure looks that way,” said Josh.

Josh looked out over the millpond as early-morning darkness slowly slipped away, revealing a millpond covered with boats, sometimes only six or seven feet apart. Occasionally, he heard the thump of one boat slamming into another, then some loud words admonishing the culprit who had failed to anchor his boat properly.

“Well, it looks like time to go to work,” Natalie said, taking a last sip of coffee. “You coming?”

“Sure, I’ll tag along,” said Josh. “Might find a story for the paper.”

Natalie began checking fishing licenses; most folks were polite and dug into their pockets for the little slips of paper that gave them the right to fish. A few grumbled because they had to take off their gloves to dig out their billfolds. But everyone complied. Natalie knew full well that those fishermen who did not have licenses, and there were always a few, had quietly slipped away when they spotted the warden’s truck.

“You like a beer?” one fisherman asked after he’d been checked and put his billfold away. His speech was slurred. From the pile of empty beer cans in front of the guy, it was obvious he had been drinking since he had arrived.

“No, thank you,” said Natalie, smiling.

Today, she would only be checking those fishing from shore—they were not in short supply, as they stood almost shoulder to shoulder all
around the pond. Those in the boats she would check another day, when she launched her boat. She did not want to push her boat into a pond overcrowded with boats and noisy fishermen.

As the first glimpse of the sun appeared in the east, Natalie heard an enormous splash and a drunken yell, “Man overboard. Man overboard.” Someone had fallen in. Several people on shore began chuckling, but it was not a laughing matter. The water was cold, as was the air, and hypothermia would quickly incapacitate the fellow if he weren’t quickly fished out of the water. Several boats were immediately at the place where he had fallen in. He popped to the surface; the down jacket he wore helped him do so, but it would quickly become soaked and drag him under again, had not a couple of nearby fishermen grabbed him and hauled him into their boat, likely saving his life.

Natalie and Josh watched the entire episode; she was especially concerned because she didn’t want to face a drowning on opening day of fishing season. “This is Warden Karlsen,” she called out. “Bring the man to shore. Bring him here.” She waved so the fisherman could spot her.

Soon the inebriated, thoroughly soaked fisherman stood on shore next to one of the several campfires. He was shivering uncontrollably, suffering the first stages of hypothermia.

“My . . . fishing rod . . . ,” the man muttered. His teeth were chattering.

“What about your fishing rod?” Natalie asked.

“It fell . . . overboard with me. It’s . . . on the bottom of the pond.”

Natalie gave the man a perplexed look. He was worried more about his fishing rod than his own life.

“My wife . . . gave it to me for Christmas,” the man said. He continued to shiver as someone helped him replace his thoroughly soaked jacket with a dry one.

“She’ll . . . kill me,” he said, near tears.

“You should have thought about that before you decided to drink while in a boat. And next time, remember to wear your life vest,” Natalie said. She had no patience with boaters who drank and even less patience for those who refused to wear life vests. Even those in rowboats, as was the case for this thoroughly soaked fellow. He said nothing. With the warm
jacket and the blazing campfire, his shivering had slowed. His dip in the pond had also sobered him up considerably. He stood now, lamenting the loss of his new fishing rod and thinking about the tongue-lashing he would receive from his wife when he returned home.