Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller)

by Deborah Shlian

  Another flashback — the campus cop pushing her down, saving her life. “Is he okay?”

  “A broken arm, some bruised ribs. The physical injuries aren’t bad, but he’s taken this pretty hard. Feels responsible for the one . . .” Reed hesitated, “the one who didn’t make it.”

  Sammy sat up quickly now — pain or no pain. “My God. Anybody —?”

  “A student. Katie Miller. Protesting with that born-again group.”

  “How can Pappajohn blame himself?”

  “I don’t know.” Reed shrugged. “But he wanted to leave the hospital and start tracking down the bad guys right away.”

  The six p.m. local news had just started with a camera pan of the Nitshi Day crowd, followed by a tight shot of Yoshi Ishida speaking. A moment later there was a jostled view of an explosion and the ensuing chaos.

  “Turn that up!” Sammy ordered.

  Reed clicked the remote.

  “Senator Joslin, you canceled your plans to attend today’s celebration at Ellsford University due to illness. Your constituents in Vermont are wondering if you could’ve been the target of the mad bomber.”

  “An unfortunate coincidence,” the senator responded. “But let me say that we will never condone this kind of violence anywhere in this great country. I’ve already conferred with the university chancellor who promises a full investigation.”

  “Senator, there’s a rumor circulating that you may have ties to Reverend Taft, that —”

  Sammy studied the Republican senator as the aristocratic-looking face changed from his usual on-camera Olympian expression to suppressed anger. Interesting and understandable . Six months ago the man had barely managed to squelch talk of philandering. Any new scandal could ruin his reelection plans.

  “I can only surmise that such rumors are politically motivated. I have never been involved with extremist groups.”

  Another picture of Nitshi Day flashed across the screen — this time the young Tafties marching toward the stage chanting “Let our values endure!” “USA for Americans!” and “Foreign interests go home.”

  “Meanwhile, the investigation into the bombing itself has led to speculation that Reverend Taft or at least some member of his right-wing group may be responsible, although the exact motive is unclear. Mr. Grant Stone, assistant director of the FBI was quoted as saying that his organization does plan to question the religious leader and his staff. A spokesman for the Reverend has vehemently denied any involvement in the incident.”

  “I don’t care what he denies.” Sammy declared. “It had to be Taft.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I knew he planned to disrupt Nitshi Day. I just never —” She grabbed the remote from Reed and clicked off the TV. “Damn him. If only I’d been able to stop him last year after the abortion rights demonstration, this would never have happened.”

  “Aren’t you taking on a little more responsibility than is fair?” Reed asked. “Besides, what could possibly be Taft’s motive?”

  “The man has always hated Nitshi. Don’t you remember the demonstrations he led before the research institute was built?”

  “Sure, but there’s still a long way from demonstrations to bombing.”

  Sammy shook her head. “I attended his Sunday sermon. You had to see the man on stage. It was as though he was —” she searched for the appropriate adjective, “possessed. He really believes he’s been ordained by God himself to lead mankind into the light.”

  These forces of evil seek to destroy the foundations of America and American greatness.

  “Nitshi represents everything he hates — a foreign corporation trying to control an American university.”

  “They don’t control Ellsford.”

  “But they do fund a significant amount of research here, don’t they?”

  “Well, it’s true that with so much federal funding gone, the university is becoming more dependent on private sources,” Reed conceded. “Big science costs big money.”

  Sammy nodded, reminded of the millions worth of grants awarded to Professors Nakamura and Conrad by corporate sponsors. “Taft sees himself as some holy crusader fighting the corrupting influence of this major foreign company.”

  Reed remained unconvinced. “Academics receive industry funding all the time, Sammy. It doesn’t necessarily bias their results. If anything, it may positively influence the direction of the work.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, more academics are doing applied research these days.”

  “Applied?”

  “As opposed to basic research,” Reed explained. “Some might argue that in a perfect world, academic scientists should only do basic research — say, figuring out the cause of a specific disease — like AIDS — without concern for its treatment. The stark reality is that twelve years and ten billion taxpayers dollars into the AIDS epidemic, there’s no cure in sight. On the other hand, applied research could mean the development of a new genetically engineered drug therapy or even a vaccine. In fact, that’s what my preceptor, Dr. Palmer, is working on.”

  “A new drug?”

  “No, a vaccine. It’s really pretty exciting. He’s taking the basic research of people like Giorgi, Shearer, Nakamura and —”

  “Yitashi Nakamura?” Sammy interrupted.

  “How do you know about him?”

  She grabbed her purse that someone had placed on the night-stand by her bed and found the list of article titles she’d copied down that morning. “Take a look.” She handed him the paper. “I was doing background on Professor Conrad. According to Dean Jeffries, Nakamura brought Conrad here, so when I looked up his grants, I checked Nakamura’s as well. I thought maybe you could explain the research.”

  Reed examined the titles. “I’d have to see the original papers, but obviously Conrad and Nakamura worked together for a while. At some point it looks like Nakamura did groundbreaking work on cell-mediated immunity or CMI. He felt that the CMI arm of the immune system attacks cells already infected with certain viruses like HIV. That’s what led Palmer to his vaccine strategy. So far it’s been a success in monkeys, though human trials are still a few years away.”

  Sammy was half-listening, a thought beginning to churn. “And Conrad?”

  “These last published papers indicate that he kept at his original thesis that humoral immunity is the key to protection against the HIV virus. Since the humoral arm of the immune system produces the antibodies that latch onto free-floating viruses, Conrad felt that it should prevent them from infecting cells in the first place.”

  Although Sammy didn’t understand the science, her mind filled with vague connections: Nakamura and Conrad worked together on AIDS-related research, Taft abhorred homosexuality, it was likely a man like Taft would equate AIDS with being gay, and Taft hated Nitshi. “Tell me, does Nitshi fund any AIDS research?”

  “Sure. NuVax, Inc. is funding Dr. Palmer’s vaccine work. That’s why he has a lab in the Nitshi Building.”

  Sammy perked up at this new information. “NuVax is a Nitshi company?”

  “It’s one of their subsidiaries.”

  “What about Biotech Development Corporation and Virology Research Foundation?” Sammy asked, checking the grant sources she’d copied down that morning.

  “I’m pretty sure they’re Nitshi companies, too.”

  Could Taft have targeted people working on Nitshi-funded AIDS-related projects? Sammy wondered. Nakamura. Conrad. Could Taft have actually killed them? Reed was right — demonstrations were a far cry from murder. It was too farfetched. And yet, she was convinced that the Reverend was mad. He could certainly be behind the theft of her pictures from the photo shop and the attempt to run her down.

  If her theory was true, Dr. Palmer might be in danger. She had a fleeting notion to say something to Reed, but let it go. Right now she knew there was still a gaping hole in her hypothesis — like a smile with a missing tooth. Without proof, she was just speculating again. The tape. She ne
eded to contact Brian and find out what he’d learned. Sammy abruptly swung her legs off the bed. “I have to go.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s a story here. I’m a reporter. I need to investigate.”

  “Why not leave the investigating to the professionals?”

  “I am a professional.”

  “And so am I,” Reed asserted. “Just because you passed my neurological exam doesn’t mean you’re in the clear yet.” He stood implacably in front of her, a firm arm holding down each of her shoulders. “Any investigating will have to wait until tomorrow. That’s an order.”

  Sensing that arguing would be fruitless, Sammy acquiesced. “All right. You’re the doctor.”

  “Well, I’ll just go check on a couple of my other patients. I’m off duty in less than an hour. How about a dinner date? I’ve always wanted to taste what General serves its customers.”

  “And I thought it was my charm.”

  “Oh, that too.” He bent down to give her a gentle peck on the cheek.

  Brian McKernan absentmindedly flicked an ash into his empty paper cup and glanced up at the clock on the wall of his tiny office in the W-E-L-L studio. Six fifteen. Just one more question to answer and he’d be done. Shame he’d have to wait until tomorrow to share the news with Sammy. Earlier he’d checked with the hospital and learned that she was fine, but would need to stay overnight. He’d left a message on her apartment answering machine to call the minute she got in.

  He savored a final drag from his cigarette and dropped the butt into the cup with a half dozen others.

  As he waited for Sammy’s tape to rewind, he heard a faint noise in the studio beyond his office.

  Tap, tap . . . tap, tap . . .

  Almost like soft footsteps.

  A cold sweat broke out on his scalp and along the back of his neck. “Who’s there?”

  He thought he heard the noise again, though this time he wasn’t certain.

  “Who is it?” His heart raced furiously. Everyone had gone home by five. “Larry is that you?”

  He rose, stepped carefully over the debris of soda cans, paper cups, and candy wrappers littering the floor around his chair and slowly opened his office door. The studio was empty, lit only by horizontal slats of moonlight through a jalousie window.

  He tiptoed in. “Anyone here?” Holding his breath, he listened for a minute.

  Tap, tap . . . tap, tap . . .

  His heart was thudding in his chest.

  Tap, tap . . . tap, tap . . .

  He located its source. Someone must have adjusted the window’s glass louvers for ventilation. Wind was pushing branches of the old elms outside against the slats. The sound came again.

  Tap, tap . . . tap, tap . . .

  This is crazy, he thought, walking over to the window. Jumping at strange noises, looking for creatures lurking in the shadows.

  Nothing there.

  Just tree branches.

  His imagination working overtime. Since the bombing that afternoon, he was, understandably, on edge. He readjusted the louvers and fastened the latch shut.

  As he listened a minute longer, his muscles gradually relaxed, his heart slowed to its normal pace. He returned to his office, chastising himself for being such a wimp.

  He lit a fresh cigarette, put on his earphones, and pressed the play button on the graphic equalizer. By now he was familiar with most of the tape’s content.

  I’ve learned that sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie. Stay as far away from this as you can.

  Fast forward.

  Who’s there?

  Silence, then: I said, who’s there?

  It’s me.

  A door opening.

  Wadda ya want?

  We need to talk and, after a few beats, the sound of the door slamming shut.

  What the hell is going on?

  Where is it?

  Give me the envelope and there won’t be trouble.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Here it is.

  Sounds of a struggle.

  I’m afraid this is good-bye, buddy.

  No!

  A barely audible pop. Then almost two minutes of dead air and —

  That strange sound again. It reminded Brian of something familiar. He backed up again and concentrated.

  Ping!

  One more time. Ping!

  “Of course! That’s it,” Brian laughed. “That’s it!”

  For a moment Sammy fought the impulse to just lie back and seek the refuge of sleep. But she knew she had to find the energy to get moving before Reed returned. Damn, why didn’t he understand? He had his work, she had hers.

  Another spasm of dizziness swept over her as she attempted to stand. Sammy sat back on the edge of the bed and tried several calming breaths until the episode passed. Then she took a few measured steps to the closet where her clothes were hanging. The jeans were fine, but her blouse and sweater were sprinkled with bloodstains.

  Running a nervous hand through her uncombed red curls, she stared at the somber image reflected in the closet door mirror. Dark smudges on the pale skin beneath her green eyes betrayed exhaustion, but there was more there than fatigue. Fear. That’s what she saw. The kind of fear that came with knowing she’d come so close to dying — the second time in three days.

  Maybe Reed was right. Maybe she should leave the investigating to the police. The face in the mirror considered his counsel, but just as quickly rejected it. Absolutely not! She would not give in to it. She was a journalist. She had to confront her fear, understand why this was happening, find the story within the story. And she had to do that herself.

  Grabbing her clothes and slamming the closet door shut, she began to dress. The process took longer than she’d expected. Her arms and legs felt as if they were moving through molasses, her vision cloudy with streaks of gray. Finally, she slipped into her pea-coat, staggered to the door, and opened it just a crack, peering up and down the hall for signs of her boyfriend.

  Reed’s white coat was heading down the hall away from her. She saw him stop at a room on the far end. After a brief conversation with the two campus cops acting as guards, he was waved in, and disappeared behind the door. A moment later, Pappajohn emerged. His left arm was in a sling, but otherwise he seemed okay. He merely nodded to the guards, then exited via the stairway a few doors down. What was going on in there?

  Feigning control and nonchalance, Sammy entered the hall and walked down the tile-floored, pale gray corridor, hurrying past a visitors’ area where a woman and teenaged boy sat playing cards. Neither looked up. As she neared the guarded room, she saw two men, dressed in gray overcoats and business suits, approach the campus cops. They flashed some sort of ID, and were immediately admitted. Sammy strolled by the door, hoping to glean a clue about the room’s occupant, but the guards’ icy expressions discouraged lingering.

  She turned the corner and strode confidently past the nurses’ station nearest to the elevators. Skimming names listed on the admissions board, she recognized only one of the hospitalized patients. The occupant of the guarded room was Bud Stanton. How was he involved with Taft? Another lead to follow.

  “I’m sorry. He’s not here.” A blonde nurse spoke into the telephone as Sammy stood casually next to another nurse waiting by the elevator doors. “I don’t know, sir, you’ll have to talk to Dr. Palmer. Yes, sir, I know, but he’s gone. Yesterday. No, I don’t. Yes, thank you.”

  Sammy hit the elevator call button as the exasperated nurse hung up the phone. The elevator arrived and as she stepped on, she heard the blonde nurse shout, “Hold it!” Sammy froze, buttressing the door with her hip. Should she make a run for it?

  She heard rapid footsteps behind her as she prepared to bolt. The blonde nurse, panting, raced past her into the elevator with a breathless “Thanks!” and moved to the back near her brunette colleague. Sammy eased into the elevator and leaned against the wall to steady herself. That was cl
ose.

  “Did he call about Abbott again?” the brunette nurse asked her colleague as Sammy watched the floor numbers move downward from seven to two.

  The blonde nodded. “It’s not my job.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Once they go to Nitshi —” She shrugged. “I gave him Palmer’s number yesterday. He should’ve called.”

  “Yeah. Poor kid was looking pretty awful,” sighed the brunette.

  “They all do.” The blonde shook her head as the door opened on the second floor. “I hear the chili’s pretty good today,” she added. The two nurses stepped off the elevator toward the hospital cafeteria, leaving Sammy standing inside. The smell of cooking wafting into the car made her nauseated, though she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Taking a few slow, deep breaths to stave off the feeling, she punched the lobby button to close the door.

  An orderly transporting a young man on a gurney wheeled his load toward the half-open elevator. “Going up?”

  Sammy indicated “down” with her thumb.

  “I’ll wait,” he said as the doors snapped shut.

  Heart pounding, she rode the rest of the way down alone. What was going on? First Stanton, now Abbott? She wondered if the nurse had meant Luther Abbott. Come to think of it, Sammy didn’t recall seeing the young man at the protest today. Was he ill? If he saw Palmer, probably. But why would they send him to Nitshi? It was a research lab. Sammy shook her head. Another question to ask Reed. If he’d still talk to her, she’d wangle an escorted tour of the Nitshi Building tomorrow.

  A few seconds later the elevator stopped at the lobby with a slight bounce, the doors slid open, and Sammy stepped out, almost running headlong into Dr. Osborne. Dressed more casually than usual, he wore a red wool V-neck sweater over a button-down cotton shirt and gray wool slacks, his overcoat draped over his arm. “Just the person I wanted to see,” he declared.

  “Me?”

  “The dean asked me to talk with the students who’d been injured in the bombing — see if I could help ease some of the stress. Your name was on the list of patients admitted.”

  “I, uh, was just discharged.”

  “I’m certainly glad to see you’re on your feet.” Osborne slipped his coat back on. “Well, I guess I’m done here. Need a ride home?”