Ishida nodded. “It’s your call.”
Sammy was stunned. Sergio Pinez, Seymour Hollis, and the others — all innocent victims who had gone to the psychologist for help. And he’d led them to their deaths. Now he planned to give her the virus — to murder her too. “What kind of monster are you?” she cried.
“It’s the natural characteristic of man to do everything he must to ensure his own survival,” Osborne said as he slipped off the plastic cap from the syringe, and, holding it up to the light, squeezed out the air bubble and a drop of the clear liquid. Then, he bent down and moved the syringe toward Sammy’s bound arm, about to prick the skin.
“Don’t anybody move!” Pappajohn yelled as he threw open the doorway. Reed stood right behind him.
Ishida pivoted and fired his semiautomatic at the campus cop, but the shot went wide, hitting the doorjamb. Pappajohn aimed and returned fire. Ishida grabbed at his right shoulder as he reeled backward and dropped to the floor.
“Help!”
Sammy’s scream startled Osborne, who jerked back with the syringe. Reed dove, grabbing Osborne’s arm, twisting it, and sending the syringe flying to the far corner. He kicked Osborne sharply in the groin at the same moment, driving the heel of his hand upward into the man’s nose. An expulsion of air, the snap of bone, and Osborne was groveling on the floor.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Pappajohn said, his gun aimed at Osborne.
Two St. Charlesbury policemen and three campus deputies ran in, armed with rifles. Behind them rushed the Nitshi guard and the two EMTs Sammy had seen last week at Conrad’s home. The medical technicians turned their attention to Ishida and Osborne while Reed rushed to unstrap Sammy.
“You all right?”
“I am now.” She lunged into his arms and clung tightly to him, as if she couldn’t hold him close enough.
“Ow!” At Reed’s cry, Sammy let go. His hand was already swollen and discolored.
“Guess I should brush up on my karate,” Reed said with a crooked smile.
Sammy gently kissed his injury. “I never knew you were such a hero.”
“There’s a lot you still don’t know about me.”
“I’d like to learn,” Sammy said as she melted back into his arms.
Four hours later, Sammy and Reed sat in the emergency room at Ells-ford General Hospital, expecting the ER doctor to return with results of Reed’s X-rays. Down the hall, in a curtained cubicle, two deputies guarded Osborne, who awaited admission for his injuries.
“Once I recognized Osborne in the Nitshi brochure, I knew you were in trouble,” Reed said, rubbing his sore hand. “How do I say I’m sorry for not believing your conspiracy theory?”
“The distrust was mutual,” Sammy admitted. “How did you figure out where I was?”
Reed pointed to Pappajohn, who approached them carrying a manila folder. “He hacked into Palmer’s computer.”
“Impressive,” Sammy said. “What made you suspect the good doctor?” she asked Pappajohn.
“I didn’t put it all together until I found that list you’d made,” Pappajohn confessed. “Every student who died had been a patient of Palmer’s. Actually, I’d been tracking Taft on this one.”
“That explains the “Taft” file on your computer,” Sammy said.
“Figured Taft was stirring up trouble with Nitshi. But I couldn’t tie him in with Conrad,” Pappajohn continued. “When you insisted your professor was murdered, I thought I’d nose around in Conrad’s files. Somehow he’d downloaded Palmer’s study data.”
“We know Conrad called Dean Jeffries the night he was killed. Probably wanted to tell him what he’d learned about Palmer’s work,” Sammy said.
“He also called Osborne. Obviously, he didn’t know his old buddy was on Ishida’s payroll.” Pappajohn produced the faxed pages he’d scanned a few hours earlier. “Pulled a few strings with my counterparts at Berkeley to get this confidential file. Seems Osborne was caught falsifying research data as a postdoc. The public story was that he left the university for personal reasons. It’s likely that’s all Conrad knew.”
“How did Osborne end up at Nitshi?” Sammy wondered aloud.
“Ishida must have dug up this dirt and blackmailed him,” Pappajohn said.
“So that car, those clothes —”
“Obviously not on a professor’s salary.” Reed finished Sammy’s thought
“In any case,” Pappajohn went on, “Osborne was in too deep to afford exposure. I suppose that’s why he shot Conrad.”
“Osborne shot him?” Sammy registered shock. “I thought it was Peter Lang. I mean, didn’t Osborne call Conrad from New York?”
“Maybe New Brighton or anywhere else within an hour or two of St. Charlesbury. Dave — Lt. Williams — found the rental car records for a John Darsee at La Guardia.”
“Darsee.” Sammy frowned. “Darsee and Somerville! I think I saw those names in the Osborne file on Conrad’s computer.”
“Darsee and Summerlin,” Reed corrected. “Two genetic researchers with stellar careers caught falsifying data. Ironic, he’d pick that name.”
“Ivris.” Pappajohn agreed. “Hubris in English. He drives up and kills Conrad on Friday night, back in New York by Saturday morning. We calculated the mileage from the odometer.”
“So Osborne confessed?” Sammy asked.
“Not yet. My men are still questioning Lang. Given that he’s facing a felony murder charge, I expect him to be very cooperative. If not, we have this.” Pappajohn pulled out a cassette tape.
Sammy jumped up. “My tape!”
“Larry Dupree dropped it off this morning after he didn’t hear from you. Your engineer friend saved it from the flames.”
“Poor Brian. He always came through.”
“We’ll have a voice expert from Boston identify Osborne and Lang as the two men with Conrad when he was killed. It should make for pretty convincing evidence.”
A deputy was waving for Pappajohn. “They’re ready to take Dr. Osborne upstairs.”
Pappajohn turned to Sammy and, smiling broadly, saluted her with the tape. “We made a good team,” he added as he walked off.
Sammy watched Pappajohn leave. The old man wasn’t so bad — all bulk and bluster.
Reed saw her look away. “Penny —?”
Sammy turned back, embarrassed. She gazed up at him. “Remember you said I was jinxing our relationship, that I was afraid you’d abandon me like my father did?”
Reed shook his head. “Amateur psychobabble. I was way off base.”
“No, you were right.“ Sammy insisted. “The trip to New York made me see that. I blamed myself for my father’s leaving. I thought any man who got close to me would leave, too. I know now I was wrong to feel that way. My parents made their own choices. I wasn’t responsible. Funny.” She peered off in the distance. The psychologist was being loaded onto a gurney for his trip to the locked ward. “For that insight I have to thank Dr. Osborne.”
The emergency room doctor walked over to them holding up X-rays of Reed’s hand. “Nothing’s broken. All it needs is some ice. Looks like you can still be a surgeon. Or an ER doc, if you’re up to the pressure.”
“Actually, I was looking for an easier specialty. Anything’s got to be less draining than research.” He reached out for Sammy and tousled her red hair. “But for the next week or so, I’m going to specialize in Sammy.”
EPILOGUE NEW BEGINNINGS
ELLSFORD UNIVERSITY
JANUARY 1996
It was a perfect day for a celebration — and new beginnings. One week after New Year’s, the afternoon had brought unseasonably warm weather and crystalline Vermont skies. Inside borrowed space in the new Ellsford Sports Center, twenty or so WELL staffers along with assorted faculty and friends crowded around a brimming potluck buffet table and caught up on what was now known on campus as “the Nitshi Disaster.”
Reed read the latest buzz from a copy of The Vermonter magazine. “Lang plea-bargain
ed murder one down to second degree in exchange for his testimony. Looks pretty bad for Osborne and Ishida. Lots of lawsuits down the road. Preliminary trial date is set for March.”
“There go spring midterms,” Sammy said.
“You don’t have to cover the trial,” teased Reed.
“Neither snow nor hail nor midterms —” Sammy retorted. Nothing could keep her from that story.
Pappajohn pointed to the eggplant casserole heaped up on his plate. “Not bad, Greene.”
“Thanks, you should try the tiropites.”
“Since she ate your sister’s food, Sammy’s really gotten into Greek cuisine,” Reed patted his stomach. “I’ve gained five pounds.”
Pappajohn brushed crumbs off of his own ample gut. “I didn’t get this from doughnuts.”
The ER doctor who’d treated Reed walked over to say hello. “By the way, regards from Bud Stanton.”
“I heard he’d withdrawn for the semester,” Sammy said. “Where’d you see him?”
“He had a follow-up with our hand surgeon. Bud’s doing really well in rehab.”
“Think he’ll be able to play?” Reed wondered aloud.
“Probably not pro, but apparently he’s gotten into something new. He wants to be a physical therapist.”
“If only Reggie Ellsford could see his star forward now,” Sammy said. “The chancellor had been strong-arming Conrad to pass Stanton. Didn’t want to lose those generous alumni donations.”
“How do you know?” Reed asked.
Sammy gestured to Pappajohn who told them how he’d found Ellsford’s private phone number in Stanton’s apartment. “When I dialed, the chancellor answered. It didn’t take long for the old man to break.”
“Whoever thought the great-great-grandson of our university’s founder would resign in disgrace?” Sammy asked. “Though I hear Ellsford’s niece is a straight arrow.”
Pappajohn nodded. “The new chancellor has promised to clean house. Full disclosure from here on out. She’ll be working closely with the feds and the CDC on their investigations of the whole affair. The Nitshi Institute will become a university-owned-and-funded facility.”
“Not such an easy task,” Reed observed. “Good research costs big bucks.”
“Reginald Ellsford brought in millions from all kinds of questionable sources, including Nitshi,” Sammy said
“Think he knew what Ishida was up to?” the ER doctor asked.
“Not according to Lang’s sworn statement,” Pappajohn reported, “though Ellsford did admit to burning the brown envelope. Claims he had no idea Conrad had been murdered for it.”
Sammy shook her head. “At least Conrad’s message got through in the end.”
“Hey, did you see this?” Someone in the crowd held up a page of the magazine. “An ad for Taft’s Senate campaign.”
“I’ll bet Joslin’s pissed his old ally’s running against him,” another chuckled at the irony.
“Serves him right,” Sammy said. “Senator Joslin was playing both sides. He convinced Taft he opposed foreign investment, at the same time he collected huge campaign contributions from Nitshi.”
“Is it true Peter Lang used to be a Joslin staffer?” the ER doctor asked.
“That’s how Lang came to work for Ishida,” Pappajohn explained. “He was paid to keep tabs on the Reverend. Lang even set up the bombing. Tried to point the finger at the Traditional Values Coalition.”
“Taft running for Congress?” someone else piped up. “That should be a religious experience.”
Much of the humor rippling through the room was tempered by fear that the man might win.
“Seriously, if an actor can become president, why not a televangelist, senator?” Reed asked.
Sammy rolled her eyes. “Heaven forbid.”
“Good news!” A breathless Larry Dupree burst in with Dean Jeffries. “Ah just came from the new chancellor’s office. Looks like we’re going to get that new building.”
“To start off her tenure, Eunice Ellsford has earmarked construction funds for the new station,” Jeffries announced.
“All right!” Sammy punched her fist up in the air. “Not Nitshi money, I hope.”
Larry smiled. “Nope. These funds’ll come the traditional way. Rich, vain, alumni donations.” Even Dean Jeffries laughed.
Amidst the chuckles, Larry produced a serious look. “The building is going to be the cornerstone of a new communications program. And,” he paused, his voice cracking, “we’re going to name it after Brian.”
“Mazel tov.” Sammy’s eyes filled with tears.
“And,” Jeffries continued, “we wanted to let you know that we have established two scholarships remembering our students in the Departments of Music and Natural Sciences. The Sergio Pinez Performance Award will provide opportunities for students from underrepresented minorities to pursue studies in music, and the Lucille Peters Honors Grant will offer full tuition for an outstanding student in Biology.”
Sammy let the tears fall without restraint.
“All right, gang, it’s almost six,” Larry announced. “We gotta get on the air. Don’t want to be late for our grand reopening.” The entire crew followed him into another small room set up as a makeshift studio.
From one corner, Larry powered up the temporary transmitting equipment. Across the room, Sammy sat down in front of the microphone. As the clock struck six, the program director smiled and delivered Sammy’s cue. Sammy flipped on her mike switch, grinned at her studio audience, and began:
“Hello, I’m Sammy Greene. Corruption, Greed, Murder. Wall Street? Washington? No, right here at Ellsford University. That’s tonight’s topic — on The Hot Line .”
Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) Page 34