“Understand?”
“How things happen, why they happen.”
“And what things happened to you that you haven’t been able to understand?”
Sammy’s throat closed. The words came slowly. “I, uh. My mother’s death. She killed herself. I was seven.” Sammy swallowed a burning lump. “The truth is, I thought I was over it — I hadn’t had the nightmares for years and then these suicides on campus brought it all back. I never understood why she did it.”
“And why you survived?”
Sammy was stunned. “Yeah. Silly, huh?”
Osborne’s eyes were full of sympathy, his voice gentle. “Not silly at all. It’s only natural to feel that way. We call it ‘survivors’ guilt.’ ” He explained how family left behind often blame themselves for staying alive when their loved one chose to die. “But that’s the point, Sammy. They chose to die. Ultimately it was their decision, not yours.”
“I hear you, but it’s still hard to accept.” She found herself recounting her visit that afternoon with Karen Conrad and the surprising news of reconciliation.
The information seemed to astonish Osborne as well. “Perhaps she was engaging in a bit of wishful thinking,” he offered.
“I don’t think so. But then it doesn’t all make sense.” She presented her theory that the professor couldn’t have killed himself because he didn’t fit the typical profile.
“Typical profile. You sound like one of my grad students.” Osborne’s smile was tolerant. “Psychology, I’m afraid, is not an exact science. Despite all our attempts to categorize and profile individuals, they are just that — individuals — each with a unique set of needs and motivations. I think I knew Connie as well as anyone and, much as I hate to admit it, my efforts to pull him out of his depression failed.”
Rodolfo appeared again, this time with a tray of desserts. Osborne selected the tiramisu. Sammy declined the sweets. They both ordered cappuccino.
Sammy waited for the coffees before asking, “So the fact that his tenure wasn’t decided yet wouldn’t have precluded his killing himself?”
Osborne shook his head. “Fear of failure is sometimes more frightening than failure itself. Connie set very high standards for himself.”
“And those around him, I hear.”
“Yes. And he was very unforgiving. Especially to himself. Unfortunately, the Connie I knew had a self-destructive personality.” Osborne took a bite of his tiramisu. “Look, Sammy, it’s not unusual for someone who has experienced suicide in a close relative or friend to feel obsessed with the need to explain the act in others as well. It’s a way of working through those feelings of guilt I was talking about before.”
She considered his words, reluctantly acknowledging their truth. There was guilt inside her, so buried, so denied, that she could not or would not face all these years. “You think I need a shrink?”
Osborne’s laugh was warm. “A little counseling couldn’t hurt.” He finished the tiramisu in one final forkful. “I’d be happy to make myself available, if you’d like.”
“That’s very kind.”
“Not at all. It’s my job. I have regular hours at Student Counseling.” He motioned Rudolfo over for the check and paid the bill.
“If you’re serious, I might just take you up on your offer.”
“Fine,” Osborne said, getting up. “I’ll tell my scheduling clerk to expect your call.”
7:00 P.M.
“Yeah?” A well-endowed blonde in a tight T-shirt and cutoffs answered Pappajohn’s knock. He recognized her as a member of the Ellsford cheerleading squad.
“Sergeant Pappajohn, campus police.” He held out his badge. She didn’t bother to inspect it.
“You have a peephole and a chain.” He stepped into the spacious living room. “You ought to be more careful about opening that door to strangers.” How these college kids could be so oblivious to potential danger was a constant amazement to the ex-street cop.
The blonde ignored his warning, leaving the door unlatched behind him.
“This Bud Stanton’s place?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he in?” Pappajohn scanned the room. The girl seemed to be alone. From where he stood, he could see a bedroom off to one side, a small kitchen and dining area off to the other. Not your typical dorm accommodation. Obviously one of the perks of a basketball star.
“He’s out with the team.” She smiled, displaying two rows of perfect white teeth. “You know — partying.”
“Partying?”
“Yeah. They’re going to the playoffs now for sure.” The girl walked over to the cushioned sofa in the middle of the room and settled down on the pillows like a kitten marking off its territory. She’d been watching TV and now turned the volume back up — some insipid sitcom with a laugh track.
“I heard he was having trouble with bio,” Pappajohn said over the ersatz giggles.
Engaged in the boob tube, the girl didn’t reply.
“I heard he was headed for an F.”
Still no response.
Pappajohn saw the remote on the glass coffee table in front of the sofa and, reaching over, punched “Mute.”
“Hey!” she protested.
“As I was saying, I thought he was going to flunk.”
Irritated, she grabbed for the remote. “He’ll pass.” She searched the buttons to turn on the sound.
“Professor Conrad dying like that must have been a real lucky break for your boyfriend,” Pappajohn said casually.
The blonde lowered the remote to her lap and looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Pappajohn shrugged. “Nothing. I just heard Conrad wasn’t planning to give him a break. And then —” He smiled, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Her tone was unfriendly. “Is Bud in some kind of trouble?”
“Should he be?”
She didn’t answer for a few moments, then turned back to the TV with a shrug and flicked on the sound. “I don’t know. I only see him at the games and like on weekends.”
“You don’t live together?”
“Coach doesn’t allow it. Says it breaks an athlete’s concentration.”
“Coach ought to put a similar ban on TV,” Pappajohn muttered to himself. The raucous laughter from the show was enough to irritate anyone. “You know when he’s coming back?” he asked.
“Knowing Bud, it’ll probably be late.”
“Mind if I look around?”
“Suit yourself.” She clicked up the volume another notch.
Pappajohn moved toward the bedroom. He strolled through the suite, taking inventory, not sure what he was looking for — some clue as to whether Stanton had any involvement with Conrad’s death. He looked in the bedroom. There was a double bed, unmade, with white, Ellsford University-issue sheets. A walnut bureau, its drawers hanging open, revealed only rumpled socks, shirts, and underwear. Several tarnished trophies sat on its dusty surface amidst framed photos of Stanton alone and with other players. High school pictures, the sergeant surmised. There was less grit to Stanton’s cocky grin.
The large closet was crammed with T-shirts and jeans and at least a dozen brand-name athletic shoes of different styles. Pappajohn wondered how many were gifts from eager advertisers. The rest of the closet held assorted sports equipment, most of it well worn. In the back was a paper file box, unlabeled.
Pappajohn peeked inside and pulled out one torn piece of crumpled yellowed paper. He unfolded it, smoothing it out on his knee. A list of numbers from 78 to 84 with adjacent letters, ABBCEBD remained on the fragment. Probably an old test answer key. Pappajohn pocketed the fragment, shaking his head. Impossible to trace the exam by now, but it could be useful when he talked to the boy himself.
Sighing, he wandered into the kitchen area. The tiny cooking space, small refrigerator, and a chipped porcelain sink were luxurious by dorm standards. There was also a counter with two barstools that served as a table and opened into the living room. Except for some
leftover pizza, a half-finished carton of milk, and a six-pack of Coors, Pappajohn found the fridge empty — typical college diet. He scanned the notes and papers mounted on the refrigerator door next to the phone. A shopping list included chili dogs, fried chicken, beer, and more beer.
The other notes seemed to be reminders about this practice or that party. Nothing helpful. About to turn away, he noticed a folded sheet of paper held up by a basketball magnet and took a closer look. A few nondescript doodles along with several telephone numbers he recognized as campus exchanges filled corners of the page. Beside each number was a set of initials. He lifted the magnet, slid the paper from the fridge, and turned it over. It was a flyer announcing Reverend Taft’s sermon last Sunday. Now that was interesting.
He leaned over the counter and waved the paper a few times in the air to get the cheerleader’s attention. “What’s this?”
This time she turned down the volume herself. “Just other girls, you know. I mean we’re not monogamous or anything,” she reported. “He thinks I’ll be jealous. Like I care.” Her smile was candid. “I get around, too.”
Great. Pappajohn grimaced. Hadn’t these kids heard about AIDS? Times certainly had changed, and from where he stood, it wasn’t a change for the better. He wondered how their parents would react if they knew their children played Russian roulette with their bodies. “Actually, I was interested in the other side of this flyer. It’s an announcement for one of Reverend Taft’s sermons. Is your, uh, boyfriend involved with Taft’s organization?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Our relationship isn’t exactly intellectual.” The girl settled back on the sofa and returned to her TV.
Hopeless, Pappajohn slipped the flyer into his pants pocket. Obviously if he wanted more information, he’d have to talk to Stanton himself. But not tonight. He still had to go over the security plans for Nitshi Day. He’d catch up with the kid in a day or two. If there was a Taft connection, it could wait.
“Don’t forget to put the chain on,” he said as he walked to the door.
“Sure.”
Pappajohn stood on the other side of the door and listened for a few moments. Nothing except the raucous laugh track. It was clear the girl had no intention of complying.
Hopeless. He sighed. Absolutely hopeless .
9:00 P.M.
There were three messages waiting for Sammy when she returned to her apartment that evening.
One from Larry reminded her to be at the Nitshi demonstration by noon. Brian called to let her know that he’d just begun working on the tape — he’d get back to her later that week. The third message was from Reed. His voice sounded more tired than usual.
“Don’t call tonight. I just want to hit the sheets.” Sammy was about to click off the machine when Reed came back on. “Oh, and before I forget, I didn’t have time to check that pill bottle.”
Another beat and Reed added, “I did get the autopsy report on Conrad. The man definitely committed suicide. Talk to you tomorrow.”
Sammy rewound the machine, deleting the messages, then plopped onto the sofa, trying to digest the events of the day. What did it all mean? Yesterday, after the radio show, she’d doubted Conrad had killed himself. He hadn’t fit the suicide profile — not from what the dean had told her about his chances for tenure. Even his ex-wife had agreed. But now with Reed’s message, it seemed she was off base. She closed her eyes, running various scenarios through in her mind. Maybe Dr. Osborne was right. Her own experience with suicide had robbed her of a certain objectivity.
Then there was Professor Nakamura. Another suicide. With the same gun. She thought about what she’d learned that afternoon at the police station. There’d been virtually no investigation. Pappajohn had been the cop on the case; he’d signed the report. Did the Japanese microbiologist really kill himself or had Pappajohn been too lazy to dig? The cop certainly hadn’t put himself out last year after the campus anti-abortion riot.
On the other hand, Sammy couldn’t forget Conrad’s expression when she’d questioned him about Nakamura or his cautioning her to be careful. Not to mention Pappajohn himself warning her to steer clear. This poker game’s out of your league .
Clear of what? Suppose there really was more to all this? What if Pappajohn wasn’t simply a retired cop looking for a regular paycheck with little or no work? What if someone told him not to look too hard into Nakamura’s death? What if the deaths of Conrad and Nakamura were somehow related? That thought made her shiver.
Restless, she rose from the sofa, went into the bathroom, and washed her face. Her fatigue was visible in the reflection. She ran a finger through her frizzy copper-colored curls, shaking her head at its self-determination — no matter what, it would never be straight.
The phone’s shrill jangle brought her back into the living room. “Yes?” she asked, picking up the receiver on the third ring.
“Miss Greene, this is Mr. Brewster. Sorry to call so late.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay. What’s up?”
“Well, I was working in the darkroom this evening and darned if I didn’t find a few of the pictures you’d brought in.”
“That’s great!”
“Don’t get too excited. I’m afraid they’re pretty underdeveloped. That’s why I must’ve laid them aside. Probably got interrupted by one of your schoolmates coming in the store. Always in a hurry.”
Sammy smiled at the old man’s characteristic surliness.
“If you come by tomorrow, you can have them.”
“Thanks. By the way, did you notice a man with a mustache in any of the shots?”
“Nope, can’t say that I did.”
“I appreciate your calling, Mr. Brewster. I’ll be there before noon.”
“Eh yup.”
Hanging up, Sammy walked over to the window and stared out at the velvety layers of darkness. A peaceful facade, but somewhere out there was a man who had tried to run her down. Yesterday, she was willing to consider her near miss an accident. Today, she was certain it was intentional. Why? Obviously the man had followed her to the photo shop and claimed her photos. There must be something — or someone — in the pictures of last week’s demonstration worth killing her for. My God . Could Reverend Taft be behind this? She always knew he was evil. But was he really capable of murder?
As she settled into bed, she acknowledged that without solid answers, no one would listen to her claims — not Larry Dupree, not Dean Jeffries, not Sergeant Pappajohn, not Reed, probably not even Professor Osborne. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by exhaustion. Tomorrow, she intended to really start digging.
It took her a long time to fall asleep and when she did, it was a restless slumber punctuated by bad dreams. In the middle of the night, she got up to check that the door and windows were locked.
CHAPTER SIX
WEDNESDAY
Harvey Barnes was hunched over his counter studying the St. Charlesbury Gazette and sipping steaming black coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The young pharmacist looked up when he saw Reed. “Jeez, I thought I’d have a few moments of solitude before the stampede.”
Reed smiled at his friend. “I’m the one who should complain. I’ve been up for more than twenty-four hours. You just spent the night in a nice warm bed — with a gorgeous lady, I might add.” Reed had been a guest at Harvey’s wedding two months earlier. Carolyn Barnes was indeed beautiful.
Harvey leaned back and grinned. “You could drop medicine for a saner profession, you know.” He waved his arm at the bright rows of organized medications behind him.
“Too late. I’m in the home stretch,” Reed took the pill bottle from his lab coat pocket and placed it on the counter.
“So, what’s this?”
“You tell me. My friend asked me to find out what’s in there.”
Harvey grabbed the vial, uncapped it, and shook out the two tablets into his palm. He held one up, turned it over and over, looking for some kind of telltale marking. “Well, it’s not anything on patent,” he sai
d. “Could be a generic. Anything specific you were thinking about?”
“Maybe an antidepressant. Something in the barbiturate family.”
“Hmm.” Harvey frowned at his hand.
Reed knew his friend well. He was smart and he was competitive. The two had taken organic chemistry together — a difficult course that Harvey had aced with ease. “I know you’re busy, if you want me to ask someone else —”
Harvey waved away the challenge, never taking his eyes from the mystery white tablets. “Interesting.”
“Appreciate your help.”
Aware that patients were beginning to push through the open doors, Harvey slid the tablets back into the bottle and stashed it under the counter. “Looks like the rush is on. I’ll get on this when my shift ends.”
“No hurry.”
“Hey, it’s fun doing a little research for a change. Counting out pills all day can be a drag,” the pharmacist admitted. “If it’s a simple ID, I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow. If I have to do a chemical analysis, it’ll be Friday at the earliest.”
“Popping those like candy today aren’t you?”
Pappajohn put down his almost empty roll of antacids, and bestowed a grumpy stare upon his gray-haired secretary who’d just returned from a two-week vacation. “Well, don’t count on resting now that you’re back. Nitshi is turning into a nightmare.”
“Don’t worry. The rent-a-cops will be here by eight.” The secretary pulled out a folded paper and smoothed it out on the desk. “Did you make any changes?”
“Some. I added two or three more stations. They’re in red.”
Edna frowned. “Don’t you think we should have at least four men around the podium?”
“I don’t have four men. I’m stretched to the limit already. We’ve got eight up at North Campus. We’re expecting up to two thousand at last count.”
The secretary’s eyebrows went up. “And the Nitshi Building?”
“They promised their own security. We’ll have to live with that.”
“The place is a fortress already.”
Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) Page 17