Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller)

by Deborah Shlian

  “We won’t know anything about anything until the fire chief completes his investigation,” Pappajohn said. He turned to Sammy. “I want to see you in my office, Greene.”

  Osborne draped an arm around Sammy’s shoulder and tossed Pappajohn a pointed look. “She’s been through enough for one day. Sergeant.”

  “We all have,” Pappajohn conceded.

  “She should be in the hospital,” Reed added. “She’s had a severe concussion.”

  “Come on, Sergeant,” Osborne suggested. “I’m sure that under the circumstances you could postpone your interview.”

  Pappajohn gave a grudging assent.

  “I’ll see that Ms. Greene makes it safely home,” Osborne promised.

  “And I’ll see that she stays there,” Reed said firmly. “I’m off duty now.” There was nothing more he could do for Brian. The ambulance driver would take the body to the morgue.

  “That settles it then,” Osborne replied. “I’ll drop you both off.”

  Like most parents of Ellsford students who’d seen the Nitshi Day bombing on the evening news, the Peters turned off their TV set and immediately called their daughter’s sorority. They prayed that she was not among the students injured. Or worse. But with so many calls flooding the switchboard, Lucy’s father didn’t get through until almost nine p.m.

  Anne Sumner finally picked up the phone. She greeted him warmly. “Hi, Mr. Peters, how’s Lucy?”

  Frank Peters was stunned. “She’s not there?”

  “Here? No. I thought Dr. Palmer sent her home,” Anne explained. “I haven’t seen her since Monday.”

  “Oh my God,” Lucy’s father said, his heart pounding as he realized the implications of Anne’s response. “Dr. Palmer?”

  “What’s happened, Frank? Tell me what’s happened.” A woman’s voice in the background, high, tremulous with fear.

  Lucy wasn’t home, Anne realized. Well then, where was she?

  A few seconds later, Frank Peters came back on the line. His voice, though calm, betrayed profound anxiety. “Why did she go to the doctor? What happened?”

  “Well, we didn’t think it was anything serious,” Anne said. “Just a rash. She went to Student Health on Monday, that’s all. Dr. Palmer said it was chickenpox, and he didn’t want anyone else to catch it, so he told her to go home for a couple of weeks.”

  “Did she say when she was coming? What flight she was on?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t see her before she left.”

  “We’re snowed in here since yesterday. But a few flights must’ve gotten in on Monday. Look, I’m going to call the campus police and report Lucy missing. As soon as the airport reopens, I’ll catch the first available plane out. Meantime, can you call us the minute you have news? Any time, day or night, it doesn’t matter. Okay?”

  “For sure, Mr. Peters.”

  After he hung up, Frank Peters turned an agonized gaze on his wife’s tear-stained face. She could barely whisper the words, “My baby.”

  “Don’t worry,” Lucy’s father forced himself to say. “I’m sure she’s okay. She must have missed the flight Monday and got caught in the snow. She’s probably someplace like Chicago waiting ’til the weather clears.”

  “Then why didn’t she call?”

  Frank searched for a reason. “Obviously, she thought we’d worry, and she didn’t want to upset us.” He put one arm around his wife, giving her shoulders a squeeze of reassurance. With his other hand he dialed Vermont directory assistance. The answers didn’t seem obvious at all. “Operator, in St. Charlesbury, can I have the number for Ellsford University’s Campus Police.”

  Sammy was strangely subdued on the ride home. When the Lexus finally stopped in front of her building, Osborne suggested she see him in his office the next morning. “I’ll call with a time.”

  Sammy merely nodded as she and Reed stepped out of the car.

  “Take care of her,” Osborne called to Reed before waving goodbye.

  Sammy walked to the entrance trancelike as she fumbled in her purse.

  “Here,” Reed said, coming up behind her. “Use this.” He stuck his spare key in the lock and opened the door, then followed her upstairs and once again used his key to let her into her apartment.

  Sammy entered and stood, silently, in the middle of the living room. She veered numbly between belief and disbelief, between wanting to think about what was happening around her and wishing she could shut it all out.

  The pulsing beep of her answering machine intruded on these thoughts. She walked over to it and pushed “Play.”

  “Sammy, this is Brian. I’m so glad you’re okay. Listen. Some good news. I’m almost done with the tape. Call me tomorrow and we’ll go over it. You won’t believe what I found.”

  Beep.

  The second message was also from Brian. “Me again. I figured out that ‘ping’ at the end of the tape. It’s the sound of a computer being turned off.”

  Beep.

  That was it. Brian’s last words to her. So alive and yet — She closed her eyes, willing the horror of his death away.

  “Dr. Osborne is worried about you,” Reed said softly. “And so am I.” He came around to face her. “Sammy, I really care about you.”

  Sammy opened her eyes and stared at him for a long moment, her expression impassive. “But you don’t believe me.” Her words were spoken in a monotone.

  “Believe what?” Reed tried to keep his exasperation in check. “That there’s something diabolical happening around here? That Reverend Taft is killing professors and students — right under the noses of the university police?”

  “Brian’s death was no accident.”

  “You told me the guy was a chain smoker. The fireman said —”

  “I don’t care what the fireman said,” Sammy insisted. “And Conrad’s death was no suicide,” she added.

  “The medical examiner’s report confirmed a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

  “Couldn’t someone else have shot him?”

  “The paraffin test was positive.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he fired the gun.”

  Sammy mulled that over for a moment. There had to be another explanation. “Well, maybe the murderer put the gun in Conrad’s hand and forced him to shoot it,” she suggested.

  Reed groaned. “He wrote a suicide note for God’s sake.”

  “It was typed on his computer. Anybody could have done it.”

  “Why? For what possible motive?”

  “Listen to me, I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but after today’s bombing, I started thinking. What if Taft targeted Nitshi people because they fund AIDS-related research.”

  “Huh?” Reed shook his head. “That’s carrying homophobia a little far, don’t you think? Anyway, we don’t know Taft was responsible for the bombing.”

  “Well, I’m sure his nose is in there somewhere.”

  “Even if you’re right, what’s all this got to do with Conrad?”

  “Those articles I found. They had to do with DNA and virus infections. Couldn’t somebody use his research to help fight AIDS? Then Taft could —”

  “Sammy, molecular genetics is a huge field. Conrad’s work was really peripheral to AIDS.”

  “Well then, how about the list of grants I showed you? If Conrad took money from Nitshi — Taft’s latest campaign is ‘America First.’ ”

  “First of all,” Reed said, “so what? Protesting is one thing, but why in the world would they kill somebody over protectionism?”

  Sammy didn’t have an answer.

  “And secondly,” Reed continued, “Conrad’s most recent work was supported solely by government grants. U.S. government grants. I did a little research. He only accepted money from corporations while he was working with Nakamura.”

  “Well, now that you’ve brought up Nakamura, doesn’t it seem funny that both men died the same way — by ‘suicide’?”

  “A coincidence. You don’t know how dema
nding research work —”

  “But Reed, it was the same gun.”

  “I thought his wife explained that. He had the gun around. It makes sense.”

  Sammy threw up her hands. “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”

  Reed mollified his tone, diagnosing the shrillness in her voice as a sign of hysteria. “Sammy, I’m just worried about you.” He put his arms around her, but she resisted when he tried to pull her close. “You’ve been through one hell of a trauma today. I wanted you in the hospital to rest. Then you go sneaking out, and now there’s been another death.”

  Her temper was skidding dangerously out of control. “Are you going to suggest I had anything to do with it?”

  “Of course not!” Reed spread his hands in a gesture of mock helplessness. “I’m suggesting that you’re on overload. What happened to your friend Brian is tragic. A tragic accident. If you weren’t so exhausted, you’d see that.”

  Sammy fell silent for a moment and drew a deep breath. “I guess you’re right,” she acknowledged in a whisper, the last of her energy drained by her outburst. “It has been one farkakte day.” Reaching forward, she pressed herself into Reed’s welcoming embrace.

  “Maybe a good night’s sleep will put things into perspective.”

  “Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced. “I just wish I knew what Brian learned from that tape.”

  “Maybe you don’t.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because if you are right, that kind of curiosity might have killed your professor.”

  Pappajohn’s broken arm made finding a comfortable sleeping position difficult. He had just closed his eyes when the on-duty clerk transferred the long distance call from Sioux City, Iowa, to his home.

  “Sergeant Pappajohn?”

  “Yeah.” Unbelievable. Now what?

  “I’m Frank Peters. My daughter Lucy is missing.”

  Pappajohn sat up, turned on his bedside lamp, and tried in vain to clear his head. “What did you say?”

  “My daughter, Lucy Peters. She’s a freshman. There at Ellsford.” Frank Peters quickly explained how he’d called Lucy’s sorority house after hearing news of the Nitshi bombing. “My wife and I wanted to know that she was okay. But,” the man’s voice cracked, “her sorority sister says she was sent home on Monday.”

  “Sent home? By whom?”

  “A Dr. Palmer. In your Student Health. She had the chickenpox.”

  Chickenpox. What the hell is this, a joke? Pappajohn looked at his bedside clock. Almost midnight. When was this day going to end? “I’m sorry, Mr. Uh —”

  “Peters.”

  “Mr. Peters. I don’t understand. What are you worried about again?”

  As Peters related what he knew about his daughter, Pappajohn grabbed a pen and wrote down all the particulars. After asking a few more questions, he tried to reassure the worried parents. “All right, Mr. Peters. I’ll check on this right away. It’s probably just some mixup. I’m sure she’s just fine.”

  Adding a few more encouraging words, he replaced the receiver, feeling anything but reassured himself. A stab of pain shot through his arm and his stomach burned. He shook out a couple of antacids from the bottle by his bed and chewed them as he stood and walked over to the window.

  Staring out into the clear, dark night, he experienced a disturbing sense of dread. Ellsford University was a quiet campus in a sleepy New England town where parents sent their beloved children, secure in the knowledge that nothing extraordinary was supposed to happen to them. Yet that serene image was being undermined by suicide, bombing, fire, and now, missing students.

  Why now?

  Why indeed.

  He turned away from the window knowing only one thing for sure. The possibility of sleep tonight was out of the question.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THURSDAY

  “Good morning.”

  Sammy opened her eyes. “Have you been sitting there all night?”

  Reed stretched, uncoiling his long legs from the uncomfortable wicker chair he’d pulled near the bed. “Most of it.”

  “My own private duty doctor.”

  “Almost doctor,” Reed leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I told you I was worried about you.”

  “Worried I’d try to escape, you mean.”

  Not sure she was joking, Reed simply said, “That too.”

  Sammy peered under the bedcovers and realized she’d slept in her clothes. “Well, at least I see you haven’t taken advantage of my vulnerable state.”

  “And I see the patient’s got her sense of humor back.” Reed smiled. “You were talking in your sleep.”

  Sammy’s face clouded. “It was — I guess it was a dream.” She shuddered at the memory, still vivid in her mind.

  “Want to share?”

  Sammy closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them again. “No, I don’t remember it.”

  Reed flicked his watch. The LCD digits read 6:45. “Jeez, I’d better get going. I’ve got to shower and change before rounds. Dr. Palmer’s a stickler for punctuality.” He was still wearing his white pants and jacket, now badly in need of a wash and press. As he stood, he stepped into his loafers and pushed back the chair. “By the way, he wants to see you in Student Health at ten.”

  “Palmer?”

  “He examined you in the emergency room yesterday.”

  “He was on duty?”

  “No, I called him. I —”

  “You were worried about me.”

  Reed felt his face redden and turned away. “After you fell asleep last night I called and explained how you’d ‘checked out’ of the hospital. He suggested seeing you as a follow-up. Student Health has your medical records, and he has clinic this morning.”

  Sammy sat up in bed. “You really admire him, don’t you?”

  Reed shrugged. “Actually, I hardly know the man. He’s very private — serious. But I can tell you this. He’s a brilliant researcher and a great clinician. I’m lucky to have gotten this rotation with him. If I don’t screw up, I think I have a chance at the Mass. General residency.”

  Sammy smiled. “You? Screw up? Not a chance.”

  Reed sat down on the bed and gave her another gentle kiss — this time on the mouth.

  Sammy threw her arms around his neck, burying herself in his embrace. “Have I ever told you what a gitina shima you are?” she whispered.

  Reed sat back, wincing theatrically. “Why do I think that only means I’m a nice guy?”

  “So?”

  “So, I thought maybe after all this time, we could be more than ‘nice.’ ” He shook his head. “Sammy, not all men are going to abandon you — just ’cause your father did.”

  “Since when was psychiatry your specialty?”

  “Just trying to understand.”

  Sammy leveled serious green eyes at Reed. “Listen, I’m sorry I’m not — I can’t. I’m just so overwhelmed right now. I don’t know how I feel about us.” She knew it was a poor excuse for her inability — or unwillingness — to deal with where their relationship was going. “I guess what I’m saying is I could really just use a friend right now.”

  Reed hesitated for a moment, then squeezed her hand. “Count on it.” He rose from the bed.

  “Reed?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me Bud Stanton was one of the students injured yesterday?”

  “How did you — ?” Reed asked, then realizing the answer, said, “Well, of course, Ms. Super Sleuth. I should’ve posted a guard by your room.”

  “I would’ve climbed out the window,” she returned, “and you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I was advised by the FBI not to say anything,” he explained. “They’re investigating Stanton’s possible involvement in the bombing.”

  “Bud? I don’t think he was involved with the Taft people.”

  “Guess not.” Reed shrugged again. “At least, that’s what he told your friend Pappajohn.
”

  “Not my friend.” Sammy said. True, the man had saved her life and for that she was more than grateful. But it was hard to just put aside their frequent battles over the past two years. Sammy smiled to herself. If Pappajohn thought Stanton was part of this, she was sure he was barking up the wrong tree. She swung her legs over the bed and started to get up.

  “Take it slow,” Reed warned, watching her closely. “If you get up too fast, you’ll get lightheaded. You could pass out.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” Sammy was standing, though she had to admit, the floor seemed to be swaying gently beneath her feet. She was all right. She’d just been lying down too long. She raised and waggled her arms. “Look ma, no hands!”

  Reed shook his head. “Look ma, no sense.”

  Sammy ignored the remark, as she inched unsteadily toward her nightstand. She pulled open the drawer to retrieve the photos Mr. Brewster had given her yesterday. She held them out to Reed. “By the way, any of these people look familiar?”

  Reed shuffled through the pile, stopping at one. “That’s Katie Miller,” he said, handing it to Sammy. “She’s the student who was killed. I don’t know the guy standing behind her.”

  Sammy stared at the girl in the picture. “She’s the one who told me Taft planned to sabotage Nitshi Day.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Sammy nodded, stunned. So hard to believe Katie was now dead. Another person she’d touched, gone.

  Reed slipped the photo into his jacket pocket. “I’ll give this to the cops during rounds this morning.”

  “Sure.” Her voice was thin, remote.

  Reed glanced at his watch again. “Don’t forget your appointment at ten.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  At the door, he turned and added, “If you need me this afternoon, I’ll be at the Nitshi Building. Dr. Palmer’s asked me to check on one of his experiments.”

  Sammy waited until the door closed before allowing herself to cry.

  Sammy was rinsing her red eyes in the bathroom sink twenty minutes later when her telephone rang. Grabbing a towel, she rushed to answer it. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Bill Osborne here. Hope I didn’t wake you.”