“No, Dr. Osborne, I was up.” Her voice sounded hoarse.
“Well, I wasn’t sure you’d remember. Last night we made plans to meet this morning.”
“Oh. Uh, yes.” The truth was she’d just as soon forget most of last night.
“I have a cancellation at nine,” Osborne reported. “How would that work for you?”
Sammy hesitated, considering all she had to do that morning. She planned to talk to Larry, then meet with the fire chief and Pappajohn. She owed it to Brian to find out what happened — and why. “I don’t know.”
“Sometimes our hardest task is to give to ourselves,” Osborne said, acknowledging her conflict.
If only I could, Sammy thought. A moment to unburden herself, to comfort herself, to rest. She checked the clock on the night-stand. It read 7:05. Still early. Perhaps —
“I guess I can make it.” She surprised herself by agreeing to the session. In fact, the Psych Department was just around the corner from Student Health. She could see the psychologist at nine and still make her ten o’clock appointment with Dr. Palmer.
Two hours later, Osborne ushered her into his office.
The room was pin neat, its decor surprisingly opulent. Definitely not university issue . Framed Impressionist paintings covered pale blue walls. Thick, plush carpeting softened her entering footsteps. Several rows of psychology reference books were organized by author in a rosewood bookcase behind a matching rosewood desk and credenza. No papers or files cluttered the desk’s polished wood surface — only a Mont Blanc pen and pencil set, letter opener, and letter tray, precisely arranged.
Sammy also noted the absence of the traditional family desk photos. Osborne probably wanted to keep his personal life separate from his professional world. That made sense.
“Please, have a seat.” Osborne waved at several chairs and a couch opposite his desk.
Sammy chose a comfortable armchair across from him.
Osborne settled into his own high-backed leather chair. Clasping his hands, he touched his fingers to his lips and smiled at Sammy. “So, how are you doing?”
Sammy exhaled slowly. “Physically, I’m okay.”
“And emotionally?”
“I’m fine,” Sammy said, though her lower lip trembled.
Osborne leaned forward and looked across at her. “What happened yesterday was horrible. I know you must be hurting terribly.”
Even as he spoke the words, Sammy could feel the ache rise within her, powerless to control it as her emotions took a free fall. “Yes,” she acknowledged, expelling a fresh gush of tears.
Osborne reached over to his credenza, pulled a tissue from the box, handed it to her, and waited until she was composed again.
“Brian was a friend. A real friend.”
“They’re hard to find. And harder to lose. I know.” Osborne’s voice was almost a whisper.
Sammy looked at him. It seemed as if his eyes were glistening with unshed tears. Even therapists are human, she thought, realizing that he must have felt the same way about Conrad. “How do you stop feeling responsible?” she asked.
“Is that what you’re feeling?”
She nodded. “Last night, I had this dream.”
“What happened? Can you recall?”
Haltingly, she began to tell him what she couldn’t seem to share with Reed. She was at Professor Conrad’s home. “It was last Saturday morning,” she began, “but this time, instead of finding Conrad dead, he was alive — hurt, bleeding, from his head.” Sammy’s hand touched the bandage on her own forehead. “His hands were stretched toward me. He was pleading for help. But I turned away. For just a second. When I looked back again, his face belonged to Brian McKernan — burning, like a candle.”
She shut her eyes tight, hoping to erase the horrifying memory. “I started running toward him, but he just kept getting farther away. I kept running and running and finally, I was so tired.” Sammy’s voice cracked. “I couldn’t do anything.” She moved her finger up and down her forearm as if tracing an old scar. “I — it was my fault!”
“No, Sammy. Your mother was already dead when you found her. So was Professor Conrad and your friend at the station.” The psychologist’s voice was gentle, soothing. “You couldn’t have helped any of them.”
Sammy opened her eyes. There was a knot in her chest and she could barely swallow. “You’ve explained that, but —”
“But it will take time for your subconscious to accept what your conscious mind understands,” Osborne interpreted. “For you to accept here,” he tapped his breastbone, “what you understand here,” he touched his temple. “You’ve held in your feelings about your mother’s passing for close to fifteen years. That’s a long time to build up walls, defenses.”
“It still hurts. Here.” She pointed to her chest. “I should be over that by now.”
Osborne shook his head. “There’s no schedule for survivors. And seeing a student your age and then a professor you knew take their own lives brings it all back again.” Then he patiently went over the same ground he’d covered the other night at dinner. “You still have a great deal of unresolved guilt. You’ve survived, they haven’t. You have to keep telling yourself that it’s not your fault. Your mother, Sergio, and Connie all made a choice — their choice. There’s nothing you could or should have done.”
“I wish I could say that about Brian.”
Osborne frowned. “The Fire Department feels his death was an accident. How could you have helped? The poor young man was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Sammy chewed on her lower lip, struggling to articulate the conflict within her. “But he wouldn’t have been there if it hadn’t been for me.”
“Sounds like magical thinking, Sammy,” Osborne said.
“What’s that?”
“Very common among youngsters. You feel as though everything that happens is under your control — that you’re directly responsible for other people’s actions — and what happens to them. As adults, we know that’s not true. We have little control over —”
“I just need to make sense of it all.”
“Sometimes it all makes no sense.”
“You think I’m off base to want other explanations?”
“Not if finding the answers will finally put your doubts to rest,” Osborne assured her. “I am curious, though. I thought after we talked on Tuesday, you were comfortable that Dr. Conrad’s death was a suicide.”
Sammy took a deep breath. “Yes, but there’s a lot I didn’t tell you then, and a lot that’s happened since.”
“Can you tell me now?” he asked.
Sammy hesitated, then sensed that Osborne was the only one she could unburden herself to — a best friend who would understand — who could be a valuable ally in helping to bring Conrad’s killers to justice. He would believe what Reed and Larry and Pappajohn passed off as “magical thinking.”
“I don’t have any proof,” she began slowly. “Brian didn’t get a chance to tell me what he discovered. But it’s just putting everything together.” Relieved to have someone to confide in, she quickly reported her near hit-and-run, the man with the mustache, the stolen photographs, the missing brown envelope, her primitive analysis of the static-filled tape. Describing her research trip to the office of Contracts and Grants, she laid out her theory about Taft and the Nitshi Corporation. “Brian discovered something on the tape I gave him that would have proven Professor Conrad was killed that night. And now,” she shuddered at the thought, “now Brian’s dead, too.”
“Well, that’s quite a story.” Osborne leaned back in his chair. “Have you shared any of this with the police?”
“No, I — You’ll probably think I’m really paranoid, but I’m not sure Pappajohn isn’t part of a cover-up. Last year I researched Taft’s organization. After the anti-abortion riots.”
“I remember that well,” Osborne commented. “A volatile concentration of antisocial impulses.”
“Taft instig
ated the violence,” Sammy said. “I was there.” Her eyes narrowed. “Did you know that the one hundred fifty thousand dollars of property damage was amortized by a gift from several alumni — all members of Taft’s congregation? And the OB nurse who got hurt and ended up in the ICU? I learned that someone from Taft’s Traditional Values Coalition paid her medical bill.”
“You don’t say?”
“Uh-huh. You never heard about that, did you?”
Osborne shook his head.
“Neither did anyone else. I told Pappajohn about the connection. You’d think he would’ve tracked down my lead and blown Taft’s machine sky-high.”
“And he didn’t?”
“Nope. He must’ve gone and told Taft everything. The next day, the Reverend’s lawyers threatened to sue the university. If the chancellor hadn’t smoothed things over, I’d be paying lawyers forever. Bad enough they took me off the air for the rest of the semester.”
“Sounds as if it’s wise to proceed with caution.”
Sammy nodded, reminded of Larry’s warning. “I don’t think the administration will be as understanding this time.”
Osborne sat up in his chair. “Tell you what. How about if I look into things a little? I might be able to open some doors without setting off fireworks. Meanwhile, don’t do anything for now. Let’s meet tomorrow morning and see where we go from here.” He looked at his spiral calendar book. “Nine o’clock is free.”
For the first time in days, Sammy felt a sense of release. Finally, there was someone she could trust who believed her. Rising, she took Osborne’s hand, then, catching sight of his wall clock reading 9:55, dashed from his office and down the hall to Student Health.
9:15 A.M.
“Do you send every kid with chickenpox home, Doctor?” Pappajohn asked.
“Not necessarily,” Palmer explained. “But the disease is highly contagious. If we don’t isolate students, we could have a campus-wide outbreak. Sending Miss Peters home to recuperate seemed the most prudent thing to do.” Closing the folder in his hands, he forced a smile.
“Why didn’t you contact her parents?”
The smile disappeared. “She is a legal adult. She said she wanted to call them herself,” Palmer said. “I did, however, tell her sorority sister and her boyfriend that she’d be leaving.”
Pappajohn pulled a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “Names?”
“Is there some problem, Sergeant?” Palmer asked.
“Lucy Peters never made it home.”
“Good Heavens.” Palmer seemed genuinely puzzled. “Where do you think she might be?”
“Frankly, doctor, I don’t have a clue. I was hoping you could shed some light on the matter.”
Palmer’s mouth compressed. “I wish I could, but I haven’t seen her since Monday. I suggested the train because in a private compartment, there’d be minimal risk of infecting others,” he explained. “She should’ve arrived by now.”
“Did you know which train she took?”
The doctor gave an impatient shake of the head. “I don’t have any idea. You could call Amtrak. There can’t be that many trains leaving for Iowa.”
“We’ll track it down,” Pappajohn stated. “Even so, that doesn’t explain why she never called her parents.”
“Now that doesn’t surprise me at all,” Palmer said. “The girl really wasn’t that sick. Maybe she decided to take off with her boyfriend for a few days and didn’t want to let Mom and Dad know. When you work with college kids —” The doctor held out his hands, appealing for understanding.
Pappajohn nodded. “I hear you, Doc. You know the boyfriend’s name?”
Palmer opened the file once again and skimmed through it briefly. “Here we are, Christopher Oken. The sorority sister’s Anne Sumner.”
Pappajohn wrote down the information. “Okay.” He looked at Palmer. “Is there anything else you remember that might be helpful? Anything she did or said?”
“I wish I could help you, Sergeant. But I’ve told you all I can.” With a brisk nod, Palmer turned his attention to the computer on his desk and began typing — a clear signal that the interview was over.
Taking his hint, Pappajohn moved toward the door, allowing himself a brief glance at the monitor. Palmer seemed to be entering rows of numbers from a yellow pad next to his keyboard. Arcane medical data, Pappajohn figured. It was literally all Greek to him. Adding a polite “thank you,” he quietly left the room.
Finally alone, Palmer’s thoughts remained with Lucy Peters. That was a close call. He knew he was covered for the moment. Good thing he had the foresight to think of chickenpox. According to her medical history questionnaire, Lucy never had it as a child. He had to make sure no one found out she didn’t have it now.
Palmer picked up his telephone and began to dial.
Larry Dupree stared at the burned out shell of his radio station, conscious of the lump in his throat. Last night, he’d watched as flames swallowed most of the rickety wooden structure. With the devastating fire, his dreams of creating a dynamic campus communications center had literally gone up in smoke. All that remained was the concrete foundation. The campus facilities men were already demolishing the tottering remnants of the walls. Charred papers lay among a tangle of blackened studio equipment and melted records. The shade trees that still stood by the structure were heavily scorched. It was clear W-E-L-L was out of commission. Even setting up temporary new quarters would take several weeks.
The hardest blow of all was the loss of his young protégé. Brian was W-E-L-L. He lived and breathed the station — and kept it alive. Larry couldn’t begin to imagine how he would rebuild without the technical expertise and cheery optimism of his beloved engineer. Tragic irony that his fatigue — and those cursed cigarettes — would finally kill him.
“Find anything?” Larry flashed his station identification badge. “I was hoping we could salvage a few show tapes at least.”
“Ground zero so far,” the construction chief replied. “We’re still cleaning away ash and debris.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Not much could’ve made it through this one.”
Larry nodded, “Yeah. Ah know.” Even one of his favorite classic albums would be little consolation now.
“Look, we’ll call you if we come up with anything. But don’t hold your breath.”
Larry forced a wan smile. “Ah’m too old to believe in miracles.”
10:00 A.M.
“You’re not here for another story?” Nurse Matthews groaned when Sammy entered the Student Health Center. The nurse waved a hand around the crowded waiting room. What had been a deserted clinic the last time Sammy visited was now teeming with patients. “There’s no time to breathe today.”
“Probably healthier that way,” Sammy observed over the rasping coughs and loud sneezes of waiting students. “Actually, I’m here for a follow-up with Dr. Palmer.”
“Right, you’re on for this morning. Doctor said to squeeze you in.” The harried nurse focused on Sammy’s wounded head. “Terrible what happened yesterday. I’ve been on this campus nearly twenty-five years and I thought I’d seen everything. World’s going crazy.” Matthews touched the bandage on Sammy’s temple with a gentle hand. “Dr. Palmer will re-dress this.” She picked up a clipboard and paper and handed it to Sammy. “Have a seat over here.” She indicated a bank of chairs not far from her station, adding, “and fill out this questionnaire while I pull your chart.”
Sammy scanned the printed questions on the page. They seemed to cover everything from family history to sexual activity. “Is this form something new?”
Matthews shook her head. “Only for Dr. Palmer’s patients. I wish other doctors were as thorough, but then you don’t find many like Dr. P.” From the proprietary tone of her voice, it was evident that Nurse Matthews held the physician in high esteem.
“He takes the data and enters it into his computer so next time you come, he’s got it at his fingertips,” she went on to explain. “Wish we had tim
e to do it for every student, but it’s hard enough to get some of our doctors to write legible notes.”
Sammy nodded, reminded of Reed’s chicken-scratch handwriting. “Oh, by the way,” she said, “as long as you’re off to the chart room, do you think you could bring Sergio Pinez’s medical record?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Well, I just wondered when Sergio was last seen.” Sammy related what Reed had said on the radio about people often seeing their doctors shortly before committing suicide.
The nurse shook her head. “First of all, the chart has been sent to Sergio’s family doctor in New York. Second, even if the chart were here, I couldn’t let you see it — not without the family’s permission. And third, I happen to know that Sergio hadn’t seen Dr. Palmer for at least a month.”
“Excuse me?” A willowy blonde leaned over the triage desk, vying for attention.
Matthews turned to her, efficiency personified. “Check in at station two, appointments at station three, then you come back here.”
Ignored, Sammy retreated to the bank of chairs and located a seat between a sneezer and a cougher. She tried not to turn in either’s direction, looking down instead, and concentrating on the questionnaire.
“No, you don’t understand. I don’t need to see anybody. I’m not sick,” Sammy heard the girl at the station say. “I’m just trying to find out about my friend.”
Nurse Matthews’s tone was brusque. “Sorry, I can’t release any medical information.”
“No, that’s okay,” the blonde interrupted. “I don’t want to know what she’s got. I’m trying to find out where she is. Lucy Peters. She came in to see Dr. Palmer last Monday. We haven’t seen her since.”
Hearing Dr. Palmer’s name, Sammy couldn’t help eavesdropping.
“Lucy Peters?” Matthews repeated. “We see so many students.”
“She’s a blonde too, about my height. A little plumper. Freshman,” Anne described her sorority sister. “She came in for a rash, it was chickenpox.”
“Chickenpox? You sure?” the nurse queried, her brows arched in surprise. “I don’t remember sending a Health Department notification.” University policy required reporting contagious diseases, and Matthews was a stickler for following regulations.
Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) Page 22