Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller)

by Deborah Shlian

  “Yeah?” Sammy cast a glance toward the outside door in the distance. Only a few more steps. “How come?”

  “You work for Osborne. Now there’s a nice guy.”

  “Yeah.” Sammy waved and made her way quickly to the door.

  The door cracked opened with Sammy’s first knock.

  “Yes?” Karen Conrad had changed from her dark suit into a pair of gray wool slacks and a light blue silk blouse. Framed in the doorway with her long brown hair unclasped, falling in waves on her shoulders, she looked more like the happy woman in the photos Sammy had seen in her ex-husband’s home. Her tears were gone, her makeup reapplied. Her smile, however, was tentative. “Can I help you?” she asked in a soft English accent.

  “My name is Sammy Greene. I’m a student at Ellsford,” Sammy explained. “I also work for the campus radio station W-E-L-L. Would you have a moment.”

  “This really isn’t a good time.” Karen moved to shut the door.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I saw you at the funeral.” Sammy’s smile was full of sympathy. “I took Professor Conrad’s bio class. He was a wonderful teacher.”

  Karen nodded. “Yes. He was.” She paused, then opened the door wider to let Sammy in. Stepping aside, she waved her hand toward the brightly lit foyer. “Come, I was just about to have tea.”

  She led Sammy to a sunny sitting room filled with potted plants and comfortable pastel-colored furniture. Sammy settled on a loveseat while Karen poured brewed Darjeeling from a white china pot. Her hand — and her voice — were steady.

  “I was one of his students myself, you know,” Karen said, taking a seat opposite Sammy. “I came to Berkeley after my third year at Christchurch.”

  “Christchurch?”

  “Christchurch College, Oxford. Barton was one of my first American professors. Rather different than what I’d expected.” Karen sipped her tea. “Still, I took a fancy to his unusual approach. Science as politics — the politics of science.”

  Conrad hadn’t changed much over the years, Sammy thought.

  Karen leaned back on the sofa, her eyes twinkling. “Barton would get particularly passionate on Friday nights.”

  Sammy’s eyebrows shot up at the unexpected admission. “Uh, with you,” she stammered.

  “Oh, dear, no.” Karen laughed gently. “I meant Friday night discussion sessions at Yitashi’s house.”

  “Yitashi Nakamura?”

  “A group of us would gather at his home each Friday and chat.”

  “About science.”

  “World affairs, politics, movies, music, philosophy.” Karen smiled at the memory. “Barton and Yitashi used to go at it like two samurai. Fight to the death.”

  In response to Sammy’s raised eyebrow, she added. “Figuratively speaking. But, they were quite close in their own way. Wise father and prodigal son. I recall once they were talking about individual rights versus family obligations. Barton was ever the cowboy, stridently in favor of a self-based ethical system. Yitashi argued about the moral virtues of family loyalty over individualism.”

  “Who won?”

  “We all did. It was a most stimulating evening.”

  “You sound as if you still —” Sammy searched for the right word and tense, “care about him.”

  “Life with Barton was always a challenge. An adventure.”

  “So what happened?”

  Karen gazed off in the corner. “When Dr. Nakamura died, Barton was devastated. As if he had lost his father all over again.” She looked back at Sammy. “Not long after that he began drinking. Barton needed a full-time nurse and mother more than he needed a wife and lover. I simply couldn’t do the job any longer.”

  Sammy asked, “How long have you been divorced?”

  “Separated, six months. I guess it’s not a secret. The EU grapevine is better than the tabloids. I had a brief . . . relationship . . . with a sociology professor.”

  The man with the Volvo, Sammy speculated.

  “The affair was over before it really began. Foolish,” Karen admitted. “I suppose it was my way of letting Barton know we had a problem. Otherwise he’d just bury himself in his work. He hated confrontation.” She paused a moment before adding, “at least with me.”

  “Uh, you’ll have to excuse me for this question, but did Professor Conrad ever seem like . . . did he ever talk about wanting to . . .” Sammy struggled, “to kill himself?”

  Karen took a long sip of her tea before answering. “Intentionally? No. Yes. Maybe. Not when he was sober.”

  “And when he wasn’t?”

  The pause was even longer until Karen whispered “Yes.” She forced a smile. “But, I never believed he’d truly do it. He was an angry man, but never the sort to give up.” She looked down at her empty teacup. “It’s funny. If anything, I would’ve thought he’d have something more to live for.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sammy could see the start of tears as Karen fumbled in her pocket for a tissue. “Sorry. It’s just that we’d been talking — seeing each other once in a while, now and then. Things were going well enough between us that we were planning a joint Thanksgiving holiday to —” Karen spoke between sniffles, “to see if we could get back together.”

  Pappajohn exited Dean Jeffries’s office and consulted his watch. He still had a few minutes to swing by the medical examiner’s office before lunch. Time to get a few answers. Unfortunately, the dean’s secretary flagged him down as he headed for the outer door.

  “Sergeant, wait.”

  He turned and she handed him a piece of paper.

  “Message from your office. There’s been a break-in.”

  Pappajohn frowned. “Where?”

  “Professor Conrad’s house. This morning.”

  Pappajohn swallowed a Greek oath. No chance he’d make it to the coroner’s now. Irritated, he walked back toward the secretary’s desk. “Can I use your phone?”

  “Try line three. They said the burglar was a young woman. With red hair.”

  Pappajohn groaned silently. Greene. There goes my lunch hour, too .

  • • •

  After leaving Karen Conrad, Sammy hurried toward midcampus, her mind in turmoil. The astonishing news of a possible reconciliation between the professor and his wife was an even stronger reason why suicide didn’t fit the picture. Conrad had kept his wife’s bedroom pristine — and ready. Why would a man who obviously still cared about her, who had a good chance of winning her back, go and throw it all away?

  He was an angry man, but never the sort to give up.

  Karen’s words. If she was right, suicide made even less sense.

  On the other hand, Conrad apparently hadn’t felt close enough to share his disturbing concerns about the university. Karen seemed genuinely surprised that her husband might have discovered some campus scandal, and she claimed to know nothing about a brown envelope.

  Sammy arrived at the musty campus police office and passed purposefully through the swinging gates to a large wood-paneled desk. On its polished surface was a brass placard that read INFORMATION. The twenty-something bleached blonde seated behind the desk was busy applying a second coat of red nail polish to claw-length acrylics as she chatted on the phone cradled between her neck and shoulder. Sammy couldn’t resist a furtive glance beyond her at the empty glass booth that was Pappajohn’s office. When the cat’s away — she cleared her throat.

  “Just a minute,” the blonde whispered into the phone. Placing the receiver on the desk, she tossed Sammy an irritated glare.

  Sammy’s voice exuded calm authority. “I’d like to see the file on Professor Barton Conrad.”

  The clerk lazily replaced her minipaint brush. “What?”

  Sammy enunciated very slowly. “Con-rad, Barton Conrad. He committed suicide a few days ago. I’d like to see the report on his death.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s public record, isn’t it?”

  “Well, now, I don’t know.” The woman stared at a nail as if
the answer might be found in the bright enamel.

  Sammy pressed on. “You are familiar with the Freedom of Information Act?”

  “Listen, Tony, I better call you back.” The blonde hung up the receiver and turned to Sammy. “What are you, a law student?”

  “Concerned citizen.”

  The woman shrugged. “Everybody’s at lunch. I’ll have to ask one of the regulars. I’m just a temp.”

  Sammy took a chance. “I’m sure it’s just in the files.” She nodded at the large black file cabinets that lined the back wall of the anteroom. “I’ll save you the trouble.” She took a few steps toward her goal.

  “Maybe I should page Chief Pappajohn,” the clerk said, picking up the phone.

  Sammy froze and kept her voice even. “I wouldn’t. Not on Tuesdays. He’s lunching with the chancellor.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  Sammy examined her watch. “They should be starting on the lobster tails by now. So, knowing the chief as well as I do, I know he hates being disturbed when he’s,” she patted her stomach, “doing important business.”

  Sammy leaned closer and spoke conspiratorially. “All I want is a quick look at the report. I won’t even ask for a copy. And you won’t need to fill out a request.”

  That seemed to clinch it. The temp replaced the receiver. This was a woman who had better things to do with her time. “Oh, all right, but hurry up.” She waved her freshly manicured hand toward the back wall.

  Sammy scurried over to the cabinets and scanned for the “C” drawer. She opened one labeled “B-C” and started rifling through the files. Calley, Canteras, Connors, Conrad. Sammy pulled out a manila folder and spread it open atop the drawer. She caught a glimpse of the clerk’s reflection in the glass, relieved to see that the young woman had resumed her nail repair.

  The folder contained only a simple police report of the death, with segments of it still incomplete. Sammy pursed her lips in frustration as she skimmed the meager data: Barton Conrad, age 42, Professor. Found at home, 8:13 a.m. No sign of forced entry prior to discovery by Sammy Greene, Ellsford University student. Probable cause of death: self-inflicted gunshot wound.

  Pictures, fingerprints, and paraffin testing were pending. Okay. But no ballistics confirmation. Just a description of the weapon printed sloppily at the top of the second page: 22-caliber semiautomatic. The gun’s registration number 72674. Sammy’s eyes widened. What a horrible coincidence. 7-26-74 was the date of her birth. Shuddering, Sammy quickly closed the folder and replaced it alphabetically among the files.

  Her eyes fell on the adjacent drawer labeled “N-O.” The letters reminded her of another suicide — Dr. Nakamura. Sammy glanced back at the clerk who had now turned away to dry her nails at the window heater vent. Taking advantage of the woman’s distraction, Sammy opened the drawer. Finding the folder, she pulled it out and opened it to the first page.

  Sammy skimmed the death report, a standard printed form, dated September 6, her freshman year. Its edges were already yellowed. Most of the e ’s looked like o’s, Sammy noted, the n ’s like r ’s. The information must have been typed in by an inconsistent typewriter. Or typist.

  Decedent: Yitashi Nakamura

  Age: 67

  Occupation: Professor

  Circumstances of death: found in his campus office, 8:21 a.m., single .22-caliber bullet to the right temple

  Cause of death: Suicide (self-inflicted gunshot to head)

  Sammy stood there for a few moments, disappointed. Nothing she hadn’t already learned from the newspaper article. No witnesses. No doubts. Cut and dried. Case closed.

  Appended to the report were two pages. One listed Nakamura’s personal belongings, returned to his family. Nothing of note — a watch, his suit, underclothes, loose change.

  The other sheet was an official descriptive report of the suicide weapon: .22-caliber semiautomatic, registered to Nakamura. Sammy froze, staring numbly at the report. The serial number for the gun was also 72674. The same number as the gun that killed Conrad. Same gun?

  The jangling ring of the phone startled Sammy. She checked the clerk’s reflection in the glass.

  “Campus Police,” the woman answered wearily. After a brief pause, Sammy heard a brisker, “Uh-huh. Sure. I’ll hold.”

  The clerk’s staccato rhythm of nails clacked on her desk, echoing through the empty office. Sammy frowned. The call sounded official. Better not press her luck. She started to close the folder when her eyes caught the signature at the bottom of the page. The investigating officer on the case was Chief Costas Pappajohn. Very interesting.

  “Hello, Chief.”

  Uh-oh. The clerk’s voice jarred Sammy into action. She stuffed the file back into its place and pushed the drawer shut with one hand, then hurried toward the door.

  “Sure, right away. It’ll be ready.” The clerk’s phone demeanor was now all business.

  Sammy didn’t stop to listen. She waved a casual thanks to the woman, as she strode through the gate, trying to keep her pace even and relaxed. She was pushing open the exit door when she heard the clerk add, “By the way, there was somebody here who wanted to see one of your files. Connors or something.”

  Sammy didn’t stop to hear the rest of the conversation. She broke into a run the moment she stepped outside. The freezing wind led her to turtle into the upturned collar of her peacoat, a vain attempt to keep warm. Bundled and buried with her collar blinders, she missed the mustachioed man who came around the building corner and headed inside.

  • • •

  Sammy knocked on the thick door and eased it open. It gave a piercing screech as its lower edge scraped the uneven linoleum floor. With an apologetic “sorry,” she tiptoed into the smoky room.

  Brian flipped off his headphones and turned to her with a broad smile.

  “It’s my do-it-yourself alarm system,” he joked. “That way nobody catches me by surprise.”

  Sammy surveyed the shabby engineer’s studio. “And to think the Athletic Department just got a new gym.”

  Brian shrugged. “We don’t bring in millions of dollars in alumni donations.” He reached for a half-smoked cigarette and took a few quick puffs in succession. Tapping her cassette tape, which rested at the top of one of the many piles on his counter, he added. “Nothing yet. Haven’t had too much time.”

  “That’s okay,” Sammy said, her sincerity feigned.

  Brian wasn’t fooled. “The new wiring took a lot longer than I figured,” he explained. “Then Larry hit me up to do these promos. I promise I’ll get to it tonight. Okay?”

  Sammy produced her warmest smile, as she waved a good-bye. “Okay. Call me when you’re done.” Out the door, she stuck her head back in, and added, “Thanks.”

  Sammy walked down to her desk and plopped into her chair. Reaching for her pocket notebook, she opened it to a middle page where she found Karen Conrad’s phone number.

  The widow didn’t answer. Sammy left an urgent message for Karen to call her. Maybe she would know how Barton Conrad had gotten hold of Yitashi Nakamura’s gun.

  2:00 P.M.

  “Join us tomorrow on The Hot Line . This is Sammy Greene.” Sammy clicked off her microphone switch and leaned back on her stool. Her moment of rest was brief, as Larry entered the studio from the engineer’s booth.

  “Not bad. For a five thousand watt station.”

  Sammy smiled. “Damned by faint praise, eh?”

  Larry studied his hands for a moment.

  “Uh-oh. What’s up?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I know that tone. Evidently, I’ve done something I’m supposed to be sorry for.”

  Larry remained silent.

  “Really, I haven’t had time to get into mischief today. Unless you call attending a funeral a problem.” Of course, she didn’t mention breaking into the professor’s home and office, her scam at the campus police station, or her visit with Mrs. Conrad, but it was hardly possible he’d found out about any of that. Yet.


  Larry sighed. “Actually, it was yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Your conversation with Dean Jeffries.”

  What in the world? “I just asked for a few quotes about Professor Conrad. What’s wrong with that?”

  “You never said you planned to broadcast the fact that special interests influence academic decisions at Ellsford?”

  “Well, sure, I might have said something like that to his secretary,” Sammy acknowledged. “But she wouldn’t let me see him without an appointment, and I needed an in.”

  “That got you in, all right. In his craw. Last night ah had to listen to a twenty-minute lecture on our journalists making unsubstantiated allegations.”

  “You’d be surprised what’s going on.”

  Larry held up a hand. “Got the proof?”

  Sammy hesitated. Should she mention the tape?

  The lanky southerner sighed. “Ah have told y’all before, never leave your tookies flapping in the breeze.”

  “That’s toochas, and I’ll thank you not to cast aspersions on my body parts.”

  Larry threw up his hands and paced the room. “Look Sammy, you know as well as ah that this station is subsidized by the university. Why go out of your way to antagonize the hand that feeds us?”

  “Okay, so I was fishing a little yesterday. But the way Jeffries reacted, you know I must have touched a nerve.”

  He stopped pacing and faced Sammy once again. “All ah know is that you irritated a very important advocate. The dean’s always been on our side.”

  “Well, doesn’t that tell you something?”

  Larry’s expression was a mixture of pain and frustration.

  Sammy decided she should play some of her hand. “What if I told you that Conrad had placed a call to Jeffries the night he died? On the dean’s private line no less.”

  An eyebrow went up. “Where’d you learn that?”

  Not eager to add trespassing to her growing list of sins, she shook her head and merely said. “I’m protecting a source.”

  Larry appealed to the ceiling for relief. “Fine, okay, so he called the dean. What does that prove?”

  “You know Conrad was onto something, Larry, and it had to do with special interests right here. The last night I saw him, the man was afraid for his life.”