by Diana Kirk
"You seem pretty sure."
"We were friends."
"Were?"
"Yes."
As Andrea told all of this to Sergeant Krastowitcz, she noticed how large he was. It wasn't his height. It was everything about him. Large. Something about it excited her, made her feel small; feminine. She hadn't felt feminine in years.
She wondered if he was a typical tough guy cop; dictatorial, and arbitrary toward women. Was this one different? She was unable to tell. Policemen as a class were inclined to be vain and somewhat egotistical; just like physicians. However, they never lacked courage and under other circumstances, he might be worth getting to know better. But as usual, her timing was off. She might even be a suspect. God almighty. What if she was a suspect? Shit.
Andrea looked back at the pile of papers on the desk. Just about every junior medical student who failed the rotation and had to retake the entire three months of medicine hated Milton. He was the brunt of the jokes at the graduating seniors awards banquet each May. Residents who got in trouble hated him. Most of the faculty members were jealous of his large multi-million dollar federal grants and even the other members of his section hated him because he made them teach the residents along with doing their full share of research work.
"You can't keep a teaching faculty appointment in this department unless you teach." That was his motto. He was a hard worker and he expected the same from his faculty. Academic medicine was not the most demanding profession for physicians. Residents were there to cover night-call and admissions. Only a few faculty members really liked research and those who did were fanatical about it and didn't like to teach. Milton Grafton demanded that they do both and he was hated for it. How could Andrea explain university politics to Gary?
As her thoughts wandered, the office receptionist poked her head around the corner. Looking up, Andrea jumped and dropped the handful of papers. They scattered over the floor.
"Oh, Dr. Pearson, I'm sorry. Did I startle you? Dr. Hardwyn is on the phone. He wants to talk to you. Shall I put him through?"
"Of course, Sharon, thanks." She hadn't spoken with Dean Hardwyn since their meeting when he told her about the letter from Milton. Her trembling hand reached for the phone. Hesitantly, she placed the receiver to her ear.
"Hello, Dr. Hardwyn?"
"Andrea, glad I caught you. Nasty happenings over there. Are you all right?"
"Why, yes."
"I called the police station to get some information and they said that a Sergeant Krastowitcz is in charge of the investigation."
"Yes, he is."
"Would you know his whereabouts? Have you talked to him?"
"Why, uh, yes. He's here."
"May I talk to him?"
"Certainly," she handed the phone to Krastowitcz and watched as he spoke with the Dean. She wondered if she would be able to sit down and talk to Hardwyn about that letter some-time in the near future. She had to find out about her faculty appointment. Now that Milton was gone, she was sure Hardwyn would push it through for her.
"Not exactly," Krastowitcz said. "I'm working my way toward your office, today. You were one of Grafton's co-investigators weren't you?"
Andrea wondered what the Dean would have to say about Milton. She admired Krastowitcz's smooth interrogative manner on the phone. He was cool and precise.
"Maybe you can fill me in on just what direction his research was going. Can I come by this afternoon? Say around two-thirty? Good. I'll see you then." Krastowitcz hung up and turned toward Andrea.
"I need to know some more about Grafton's background, but I've got to meet with your Dean. There just isn't enough time. Would you be willing to meet with me again this evening?"
"I, a--"
"Tell you what, we could grab a bite to eat. I know this great little place."
"Dinner? What time?" Her stomached ached as though she hadn't eaten for days. What did she have to lose?
"It's two-o'clock now, and I've got to get over to Hardwyn's office. How does seven sound?"
"I--It should be okay."
"Can I pick you up at your place?"
"My place? I guess so. You'll need the address."
"No. I've got it in my report. Remember?"
"Yes. I remember." Her spirits sank. Of course, this wasn't a date. It was an investigation.
"We're finished in here, for now. Think about the room some more and see if you notice anything missing. Especially from the walls. We can come back to it at a later time."
"The walls? Sure. Fine. I'll just check the papers on his desk and go straight home."
That was easy, Krastowitcz thought later. Why did he feel like he had just made a conquest? She wasn't exactly melting. In fact, she'd seemed to actually dislike him until they were interrupted by the Dean.
It wasn't a date. They were just going to dinner to finish the discussion on Grafton. Well, maybe he would turn the investigation around to a little personal interrogation?
Still, she hadn't seemed overly impressed with him. Besides, he was leery about any type of relationship, especially with someone involved in a case. And he knew how much cases took away from a personal life. What personal life? He had none--never had. And yet, there was something about this woman. It was a nice thought while it lasted, but for now the only thing he should concentrate on was murder, not women.
That's what he'd do, forget it for now. After all, it was no crime to enjoy a simple dinner with a handsome woman, was it?
Chapter VI
. . . AND TO TEACH THEM THIS ART IF THEY SHALL WISH TO LEARN, WITHOUT FEE OR STIPULATION. . . .
With one-way and closed streets, it took Krastowitcz five minutes to drive from the hospital to the medical school. One of three in Nebraska, Dorlynd was situated on the banks of the Missouri River. It shimmered in the afternoon air while thin, spiraling fingers of mist reached upward, caressing the hazy Nebraska sky like a lover just awakening from an afternoon's embrace. The blue void responded by sucking the moisture upward until river and sky coupled as one.
The campus was completely surrounded by gnarled maple trees that hovered over the benches and study nooks scattered around the stylish buildings. One of the newer buildings at Dorlynd, the medical school was a round bubble-like structure that looked like a fat beetle squatting next to the older, taller buildings. It was a prototype, built in 1978 from research funds. Instead of going up, the building went down, deep into Nebraska soil. Inspired by the Strategic Air Command, there were fifteen stories underground.
Krastowitcz hoped the Dean's office wasn't on the bottom. Not that he was claustrophobic, he just didn't like being shut in, especially so far underground. A remnant of his time spent in Nam.
He pulled the Charger into a spot right in front. Did Graf-ton's murder have anything to do with all the vacant parking stalls? Or did all doctors go home after two-thirty in the after-noon? Academics in the medical profession certainly didn't appear to work very hard. Krastowitcz entered and noticed the foyer lined in dark wood of some type. Why did universities think everything had to be dark? He shook his head, spotted a large sign telling him the Dean's office was on the ground floor ahead to his left. He exhaled in relief.
What if this guy was the typical, academic snob, over- educated and lacking the patience to present himself pleasantly to the common man?
Talking down to him.
God, he hated that. These pencil-pushers--hell, in general--didn't most of the world think the police were beneath them? On the other hand, contacts with the criminal element tended to make officers suspicious of human nature and socially repulsive.
Krastowitcz was proud to be a police officer. He'd focused his entire attention on the derelictions of mankind, and was, by nature, suspicious of everyone.
He flashed his badge to the anxious secretary. "I'm Sergeant Krastowitcz. I've got a two-thirty appointment with Dr. Hardwyn."
"Yes. Right this way, sir." She opened a heavily carved door and allowed him to pass.
At least some people in this town gave him respect. Krastowitcz flashed his friendliest smile. "Thanks, Miss."
Once in the Dean's office, he took an instant dislike to Hardwyn, a tall, slender man with the detested condescending attitude. To be civil to this slime-bag was, to Krastowitcz, an undeniable act of courageous public relations. The Dean's slim hand was lost in Krastowticz's large paw, and he squelched an almost uncontrollable urge to squeeze the cold, clammy appendage as hard as he could. Maybe that would get some emotion out of the academic.
Yet, everyone he'd interviewed talked favorably of Hardwyn. In fact, he was thought to be somewhat of a miracle worker when it came to getting necessary equipment, funds, or anything else needed to run the university.
"If you want anything at all, no matter what it is, just ask Hardwyn," one young researcher had told him. Pearson thought he walked on water, so he must have a few good points. Krastowitcz chalked his negative response up to preconditioned prejudice, which was ludicrous of course. He wasn't prejudiced. He hated everyone equally.
"How do you do, Sergeant?" Hardwyn said smoothly. "Please, sit down. What can I do for you?"
"Are you aware of any of the details regarding Milton Graf-ton's death, Doctor?"
"Not precisely, but I've had a full phone report from Captain Straley."
Krastowitcz bet he had. What a name dropper.
"Right now, I'm trying to talk to everyone who knew or had contact with him in the last forty-eight hours."
"Of course."
"I'm willing to consider anything. Even a slight acquaintance. I understand you knew him during his training and were instrumental in his coming to Dorlynd. Can you provide me with a list of people he was closely associated with?"
"Let's see." Hardwyn leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his coarse gray hair. "That may take me some time. Are you looking for those who had a grudge against him?"
"Well, I--"
"The list is long. It would take me less time to tell you about those who liked him."
"Is that so?" Krastowitcz leaned forward. "Go ahead, Dr. Hardwyn, take all the time you need, I'm all ears."
"Dr. McNaughton, Tom? Yes, Tom McNaughton. He was suspended last week for cocaine usage."
"How did you know that?"
"Dr. Grafton informed me of his actions prior to the suspension. As Dean, I'm told of all dealings involving medical education for the faculty. I'm also apprised of everything that goes on at the Medical Center, Sergeant. . . everything."
Krastowitcz narrowed his eyes at the overbearing egotist. "Amazing," he said, meaning exactly the opposite. "So, who killed him?"
Hardwyn seemed to ignore the remark and droned on.
"There were numerous people who hated Milton Grafton. From students to disgruntled residents. Several faculty members, also, because he either blocked their promotions or cut their salaries. I can't think of anyone else."
"Try. Even the slightest disagreement."
Hardwyn sat for a moment and glared down at his hands.
"I don't know about this. It was just a misunderstanding."
"What?"
"Well," Hardwyn fumbled at his desk and folded his hands together. "There was a problem with Dr. Pearson's faculty appointment. In his letter of recommendation, Dr. Grafton suggested it would be in her best interests if she had another year of research fellowship training at another institution."
"What's that mean?"
"Basically, Sergeant, Grafton blocked the faculty appointment of his chief resident, Dr. Pearson. I believe you were talking to her earlier."
"Why?"
"After a year of working with her, he felt she was too immature for advancement. I don't know why. She doesn't appear to be that way. But you couldn't figure Milton. He had his own reasons for everything."
"Go on."
"Well, she became quite upset--verbally abusive. Threatening."
The urge for a cigarette nagged at him. How could he be so wrong about her? His instincts hadn't let him down before. He'd run a record check on her for sure, now. "What kind of threats?"
"Not the kind you're thinking of," Hardwyn rushed to say. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply--"
"What kind of threats?" Was he in on it, too?
"She threatened litigation."
"Anything in writing?"
"Not exactly. Milton had recommended it to me confidentially and, of course, I took him at his word."
"Sure," Krastowitcz yawned and looked at his watch, four o'clock. He had to get out of here. This guy talked in circles.
"And then there's Peter Mueller, Milton's lab assistant. He's impossible, can't get along with anyone--but Milton always protected him."
"From what?"
"From being fired. I would have done it, myself, many times, if it hadn't been for Milton."
"What about Grafton's background. I understand you were classmates together?"
"I'd just started at Case Western Reserve--"
"Where's that?"
"Ohio. I was doing surgical cancer research when I became involved in the medical and surgical aspects of autoimmune deficiency long before AIDS had been discovered."
"What does that have to do with Grafton?"
"That's how we met. Milton Grafton, the young hot-shot, was my fellow and subsequently became a close friend. Milton was the star, though, the flashy one."
"What do you mean, flashy?"
"He was a natural born grant writer. He managed to write grants and papers that were almost never turned down. It was as if he had an infallibility. He just couldn't fail."
"He did this time."
Hardwyn covered his eyes with his hands. "Oh, God."
"Can you continue?"
This was the first sign of emotion he'd seen from the prick. Was he human after all? Maybe Hardwyn really wasn't the bad guy he'd thought. His instincts were all mixed up, today. For some reason he'd read the guy wrong. Still. . . the hairs on the back of his neck were almost never wrong. His own personal crime detector.
"This is hard, Sergeant. When you've known someone as long as I've known Milton, you just don't envision this type of ending."
"Go on."
"Let's see. . .Milton began writing small state grants. Then graduated to clinical trials financed by wealthy drug companies. By the time I recruited him to Dorlynd, Milton brought millions of dollars with him. NIH money specifically designated for AIDS research. When you add the twenty-five percent overhead fees the university gets on top of his grant funds, Dorlynd became many millions of dollars richer the minute he got here."
"How did you convince him to come to Omaha?"
"That was hard. But, of course, Milton didn't get along with anyone at Case Western, either. So, after months of wearing him down, he got into a nasty do with a student there and decided to take me up on my offer."
"What kind of nasty do?"
"The usual. The same thing he got into here. If a student doesn't like the grade a professor gives him, he'll move heaven and earth to get that grade changed. Milton wouldn't change a grade for anyone, not even his own mother."
"Sounds like a swell guy."
"Don't get me wrong, Sergeant. Milton had his faults; but he was a brilliant scientist. One of the brightest stars working on the AIDS problem. I don't know who will carry on his work."
Krastowitcz's stomach burned. Too much coffee mixed with unpleasant people made for an upset belly. He needed some Maalox or Rolaids. He needed to get out of here.
"That about does it. Except for one thing--"
"What's that, Sergeant?"
"Were you aware of any homosexual involvement by Dr. Grafton?"
"What?" Hardwyn shot out of his chair. "Certainly not. Why do you ask?"
"From certain mutilations, our medical examiner has suggested there might be a possible connection to some sort of homosexual involvement. You seemed to have known him the longest and yet you knew of nothing?"
"I-I was a colleague, er, friend, not intim
ately associated with--Frankly, Sergeant, I'm shocked."
Krastowitcz stared at him. Why would a physician be so shocked? Especially an AIDS researcher. There was more to this guy and he'd find out what. He stood and turned toward the door. "Thank you, Dr. Hardwyn. It was just a thought. Make up that list of contacts for me and I'll be back tomorrow to pick it up." He opened the door and strode through. "You've been very cooperative."
"I hope I've managed to help some." Hardwyn moved toward him extending his hand, again. "It's been such a shock to everyone."
Shock my ass. There was more to this guy than Krastowitcz cared to know. All he'd wanted to do was clear away some of his paperwork--this case would bury him for sure.
SUZANNE BURST into Andrea's office. "Andy, I'm glad you're still here." She gulped a breath, and pointed toward Grafton's door. "O-o-o-h, it's creepy. How can you stay where the murder happened?"
Andrea's shoulders sagged. She didn't need Suzanne's theatrics right now. "How was last night?"
"I'm late for psychology class, but I just had to tell you. I'm so happy."
"About what?"
"Trent, silly. We're born soulmates."
The woman was hopeless. What was this? Another one of her true loves? Andrea couldn't bear to hear about her escapades, again. "God, Suzanne."
"No, really. Last night was a success and there's going to be a repeat performance tonight."
"You didn't."
"Not yet. It was all I could do to control myself at The Tap. I had the strongest urge to jump that hard body. I'm sure something else is hard, also."
Andrea slammed her palm down on the desk. "Suzanne."
"Lighten up, Andy. It's what you need. I'd pay money to see someone jump you."
No, she'd not let Suzanne make a fool out of herself. Somehow she'd stop her. Andrea crossed over and wrapped her arms around her friend. "You know, I hate to sound like your mother--"
"Then don't." Suzanne pushed her arms away.
"Someday, you're going to end up in trouble."
"Yeah? Well, those days are over. I've found my man. Difficult as it was, I played it cool. I didn't want to appear too easy."
What made her so angry? Was she jealous or did she really care about Suzanne? She picked up her mail and tried to calm herself. "Too easy? That's a laugh. Why don't you wear neon signs."