by Megan Goldin
‘Absolutely not,’ I say sympathetically.
‘Sad thing was that he came from a tough background. He was determined to get out of it. The drugs ruined him in the end. Yup,’ he says. ‘I’m pretty cut up to hear that he was killed.’
‘I’d be interested in talking with the family. Do you have any names or contact addresses?’
‘I may still have the employment file.’ He takes me through a door with the sign ‘Staff Only’. We walk down a narrow passage to a staff room at the back.
He unlocks a door and pushes it open to reveal a cluttered room with filing cabinets pushed against one wall. On the desk are a thick pile of invoices on a spike, alongside an abandoned breakfast special still in its wrapping and a mug of coffee with congealed milk floating on the surface. On the back wall is a whiteboard with notes written in blue marker, mostly reminders about staff schedules.
He unlocks the top cabinet drawer with a key on the ring hanging from his belt.
‘Here it is,’ says Paul, pulling out a file. It’s a thin file. Not much inside except tax and payroll records and an employee information sheet. He hands me the sheet with the personal details for a closer look. It lists a residential address a few blocks away from the campus.
‘It’s double-sided,’ says Paul helpfully. I turn it over to read the second page. It lists health questions about pre-existing medical conditions.
At the bottom of the form is a section for an emergency contact. There’s a name and a cellphone number scrawled in almost illegible handwriting. I lift the form closer so I can read it properly.
The name says ‘Julie’ and the contact number is my old cellphone number, the one that I had before I married Matt.
Chapter Thirty
Mel
There’s one of them at every workplace: a fly on the wall, an inveterate gossip who knows everyone and everything there is to know, the good and the bad. It was the bad that I wanted in my search for a motive for Laura West’s murder.
Diane Lester had worked in the previous dean’s office for eight years before her recent transfer to the alumni association, which I gathered was the university equivalent of being put out to pasture. She was a slim woman on the wrong side of fifty, all bone and hard edges.
I met with her at an off-campus cafe for an early lunch. I ordered a Greek salad. She had a chicken caesar salad; hold the egg and the croutons, and a half serve of fat-free dressing on the side.
‘A woman my age has to watch her weight,’ she confided with a light laugh. She was full of nervous energy and an underlying resentment that I figured might work in my favour.
I’d chosen an outdoor corner table where we could talk freely without being overheard. So far, I’d managed to keep a lid on the identity of the Kellers Way victim. Media attention has a nasty way of biting you on the ass. You get a flood of pseudo witnesses coming out of the woodwork, lying for the publicity or making up stories for a shot at reward money. Either way it creates more work and solves nothing.
‘How well did you know Laura West?’ I dived straight in when the waiter left with our orders. Diane had only thirty minutes for her lunch break and I wasn’t going to waste it on social niceties.
‘I was the dean’s personal assistant when Laura was hired, so I was privy to everything there was to know about her hiring; salary, negotiations, all of that. Most of that information is confidential of course,’ she added hastily.
‘Of course,’ I agreed smoothly. That was not why I was here. I could get that information from Laura West’s personnel files and bank accounts. I was here for nuance, for the type of information that didn’t appear in employment records or official documents. I wanted the dirt.
‘How would you describe Laura, as a person?’
‘Well, that’s a difficult question.’ The hesitation on her face told me she needed coaxing. Not because she was loath to gossip, but because she didn’t want to appear overly eager to bitch about a dead woman.
‘This discussion is between us. It’s important I hear an unfiltered account,’ I reassured her, ‘so I can get an understanding of Laura.’
‘Well,’ she said, fidgeting with her napkin. ‘Laura was not the easiest person to work with. She was highly respected. Brilliant in her field. Don’t get me wrong. It was well deserved. But as with most exceptional people, Laura was arrogant, self-obsessed and very much an individualist. There was always conflict or drama around her. Often both.’
‘Who did she argue with?’
‘I wouldn’t say argue exactly,’ Diane corrected herself, taking a sip of water. ‘She simply wasn’t the type of person to meekly accept decisions or policies that she didn’t agree with.’
‘What sorts of decisions?’
‘I can’t remember all the details, but I do remember there was a lot of back and forth on funding cuts to research.’
‘The university cut her funding?’ I paused as the waiter brought our salads in large glass bowls, along with a basket of freshly baked bread rolls and a dish of herbed butter.
‘No, not her funding. Funding for her husband. The university was not comfortable with some of his research. When they had to cut spending in the overall budget, they reduced Matthew West’s funding. It didn’t go down well with either of them.’
‘That was loyal of Laura, to battle the university on her husband’s behalf to get his research funding reinstated,’ I observed.
‘She didn’t see it that way. Matthew was probably her greatest weakness.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Laura would do anything for him. She’d already sacrificed her career for him.’
‘Sacrificed in what way?’
‘Laura was headhunted by the country’s top universities to head their neuropsychology programs. She chose to come here on the condition that we’d offer a position to her husband as well. The university agreed to hire him and give him the necessary research funding. Afterwards, I think the university regretted the arrangement.’
‘Why was that?’
‘There were issues over his research.’ Her tone was vague as she picked at her salad with her fork. I knew that I’d stepped into sensitive territory.
‘What issues?’
‘I’m not sure exactly, but I believe there were concerns that his research didn’t adhere to the standards set by the university. I think there were ethical concerns.’
‘Do you know what his research was on?’
‘I can’t recall exactly,’ she said with a shrug, though I had the impression she knew more than she was letting on. ‘But about six months before Laura died, her husband’s funding was cut as part of overall budget cuts. Laura barged into the dean’s office the day it was announced. I heard raised voices.’
‘So she gave the Dean a dressing down because her husband’s funding was cut?’
‘From what I could tell, yes,’ Diane said. ‘If you ask me, I’m not sure if her husband appreciated the lengths she went to for him. I don’t think he showed the same loyalty.’
I took a sip of water as I contemplated her words. Diane was filled with resentment. And information. It was a dangerous combination in a disillusioned employee. Will’s wife had come through big time. All I had to do was ask the right questions and Diane would unload whatever she knew.
‘In what way was Matthew West disloyal to his wife?’ I asked matter-of-factly.
‘There were plenty of rumours that he was sleeping around. With his students mostly, sometimes other faculty. That was why he’d left two other universities before he moved here. He had that sort of a reputation. You know, a playboy professor.’
‘Did you ever see anything that substantiated the gossip?’
‘Not that I can remember,’ she answered. ‘Matthew West’s a good-looking man. He oozes charisma. You almost expect a man like that to be unfaithful. It may well have been malicious gossip. Laura was assertive, outspoken. She was hardly the doormat type. I wondered whether they might have had an open marriage. I mean
, how could she not have known? The biggest blow-up that I recall was when the two of them were up for tenure.’
‘What happened?’
‘Laura and Matthew were supposed to get tenure immediately after their mandatory probationary period. Laura received hers as soon as the waiting period elapsed. But the university made up one excuse after the other as to why Matthew West wasn’t eligible for tenure yet.’
‘Do you know the reason for the delay?’
‘I think it was because of the controversy over his research. There were concerns. I remember that Laura met with the dean and insisted that her husband’s tenure be approved as well or else, she threatened, she’d quit.’
‘That was audacious. She must have been confident of her position to give an ultimatum,’ I remarked.
‘It was very Laura,’ answered Diane. ‘Laura could be as sweet as pie or hard as nails, depending on whether she needed something from you. At the same time, she inspired loyalty in her students. They would walk through fire for her. She was like her husband in that regard. Their students were their biggest fans. She knew the university would never get rid of her. She was an academic superstar; a drawcard for endowments and students. Laura knew she could play the prima donna and get away with it. And she did. Until she was killed.’
‘Do you recall how Matthew West reacted when Laura disappeared?’
‘He was devastated. Completely torn up. The student body held candlelight vigils and memorials. He was at them all. When the university finally approved his tenure, the student newspaper wrote an article about it. He was enormously popular with his students and they were thrilled.’
‘But not the staff?’
‘There were eyebrows raised among some members of the faculty. As for management, well the dean was not one of his fans. Though he rarely showed it. He passed away last year, otherwise I’d have suggested you talk with him. Hiring Laura West was a big coup for the university and the dean tried his best to keep her happy. In the end, he wasn’t able to turn a blind eye to the ethical implications of her husband’s research. He asked Matthew to move his research program to the community college.’
‘That’s unusual,’ I said. ‘Do you know the reason?’
‘Well, the standards are laxer there,’ she said. ‘The agreement was that he would teach seminars at the community college and transfer his research there under a cooperation agreement between the two colleges. The arrangement allowed him to get his funding on the condition the research was done off-campus.’
‘Is that arrangement still going on?’
‘No, not at all,’ she said. ‘After Laura’s death, he dropped the study and eventually submitted a new proposal on impulse control that was accepted by the ethics board. By all accounts it was a very interesting area of research. He’s since published in several important journals.’
I made a mental note to text Joe after the meeting so that he could photocopy Professor West’s most recent journal articles. I’d left Joe at the campus library to do some research for me while I met with Diane.
‘It sounds like Professor West had quite a dramatic change of fortune with his new research,’ I observed.
‘Without a doubt,’ said Diane. ‘He’s turned into one of our most acclaimed academics, with a national profile. It’s hard to believe he was on the verge of being fired six, seven years ago.’
Diane put down her fork.
‘May I ask you a question, detective? Why all these questions about Laura? I thought this was all dead and buried, as it were.’ She flushed under her makeup at her poor choice of words. ‘I mean, I thought that her murder was solved.’
‘I’m working on a related investigation,’ I said, trying to keep things vague without lying outright. ‘One last question Diane. From what you know, did Laura West have enemies? People who were substantially better off once she was out of the picture?’
I registered more hesitation on Diane’s face. She knew something but she wasn’t sure whether she should tell me. I watched the expression on her face change as she debated with herself how much to divulge. In the end she put down her fork and sighed.
‘Despite her popularity with students and benefactors, not everyone liked Laura,’ she said carefully. ‘The admin staff found her arrogant. Some of the faculty were jealous of her research grants. Others were put out by the support she received from the university in terms of resources. She had two research assistants when most researchers had only one, and that was if they were lucky. That sort of thing. But I don’t think that anyone outright hated her. And frankly, even though Laura sometimes rubbed people the wrong way, she was very charming and quite good at smoothing over any unpleasantness. She was the type of person to buy everyone a generous Christmas gift, which would usually ingratiate her with them for another year.’
‘Did anyone work closely with Laura?’ I asked.
Diane pursed her lips as she thought.
‘She had a researcher, Helen, who was her assistant for quite a long time. They were close,’ she said, looking up at me. ‘Helen is now an adjunct professor. You could ask her. Except —’ She stopped talking abruptly and looked down at her salad bowl as if she had just realised she’d spoken out of turn and hoped that I hadn’t noticed.
‘Except what?’ I asked.
‘Well, I gather they had a falling out before Laura’s death.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Laura came to see the dean about a week before she disappeared. She wanted Helen transferred out of her department. I don’t know the reason, but Laura was adamant.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Julie
I find Alexander Henderson’s old apartment at a run-down building near the community college. It’s a seedy complex that overlooks the back of a strip club with pink neon lights that flash desperately in the daylight. The stairs are raw concrete. White paint peels from the metal handrail and cigarette butts are scattered on the ground.
When I reach the fourth floor I walk along an open-air corridor that overlooks the parking lot. A television blares so loudly that I hear it long before I reach the apartment in question. I knock on the door several times. There’s no answer. I resort to tapping on the window with my car keys.
The television volume goes down and eventually the front door swings open. The man who opens the door is wearing a stained T-shirt stretched over a morbidly obese belly. The irritated look on his face immediately tells me that he’s not happy about the disruption.
‘I’m watching Dr. Phil,’ he snaps.
‘Sorry.’ I try to sound contrite. ‘Is this Alexander Henderson’s old apartment?’
‘Who?’ he bellows.
‘Henderson.’ He lived here until earlier in the year. The guy scratches his scraggly beard as he contemplates the question. His expression remains blank.
‘Never heard of him before,’ he says and makes to shut the door.
‘He used to live here.’ I move my foot to block the doorway. ‘He was killed in a car accident a few weeks ago. I’m trying to find his next of kin.’
‘Well, it’s not me, lady.’ He twists to look back at the television screen as we talk.
‘Ok, I get that. How long have you been living here?’
‘Five, six weeks.’ He’s still twisting his head around to watch the show. ‘The previous guy was kicked out for not paying his rent. Then I moved in.’
‘What was the name of the guy they evicted?’
‘I didn’t ask,’ he shrugs, without looking at me. ‘Are you a cop?’
‘I’m with the probate court,’ I answer, thinking on my feet. ‘Did the previous tenant leave anything behind? Any belongings?’
‘Well, all the furniture was his. The landlord confiscated it to cover his unpaid rent, so you can’t have it if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I don’t want it,’ I respond. ‘I’m wondering whether he might have left any papers behind. It might help us find his next of kin.’
‘I put away all the personal stuff at the top of the back cupboard,’ he says. ‘Take a look. If you can reach the shelf.’
He opens the apartment door and stands back to let me through. This guy seems more concerned with watching Dr. Phil than letting a stranger into his home. And he clearly does not believe in fresh air. There’s a rancid smell from the kitchen, where a garbage bin is overflowing and dishes are piled up in the sink. A half-eaten meal is on a tray on the floor. He returns to his armchair by the television set and turns the volume so high that I want to pull out the electrical cord.
‘The cupboard is in the laundry,’ he shouts out. His eyes are fixed on the television set as he waves in the general direction.
I walk through the galley kitchen to the laundry room in the back. A sour smell hangs over a basket overflowing with dirty clothes and towels. I stand on a kitchen stool that wobbles on the uneven floor as I open the cupboard door.
I find a heap of sporting equipment; a tennis racquet, baseball gear, that sort of stuff. I doubt they belong to the current tenant. I even find a lime green dog’s bowl. It looks weirdly familiar. When I remove it I find a small box shoved behind it, stuffed with all sorts of random papers. There are letters and other documents addressed to Alexander or Alex Henderson.
‘This may be what I’m looking for,’ I tell the tenant as I walk out of the apartment carrying the box. He says nothing. He doesn’t budge. He’s engrossed in some sort of mother–daughter dispute going down on the Dr. Phil set. I slam the door behind me.
I head down to my car in the lot below and go through the box while sitting in the front seat. There are old utility bills. Most of them are stamped ‘overdue’. I find a pile of letters from debt collectors with varying levels of threat. Most have never been opened. Some are torn in half.
The only personal letter is a Christmas card sent by ‘Aunt Nancy’. There’s an address on the back of the envelope with her full name, Nancy Poole. I look up her contact details on my phone and dial the listed home number. It rings through immediately.