Death by Dissertation (A Cassandra Sato Mystery Book 1)

by Kelly Brakenhoff

  Wait. Cassandra had heard little about drug use on campus since her arrival and doubted it was a widespread problem.

  “How do you know Austin fell? Were there any witnesses?” Rachel was wide awake now.

  “Not that—” Cassandra began but Bridget interrupted.

  “What if someone killed him and planted the body . . . like that Netflix series?”

  They’d veered off into gossip she didn’t have time for now, and Cassandra’s head started to ache. She raised her voice to get their attention. “Guys, the sheriff and campus security will figure it out. Don’t freak out, it will be ok.”

  “I am totally freaking out. There’s supposed to be a formal tonight.” Rachel’s hands flailed at her sides and her voice whined. “We’re going off campus to eat. Then to the VFW hall for a dance.”

  Devon warned in a deep voice, “Keep your eyes open for a mysterious stranger hiding behind the VFW.”

  Logan put an arm around Rachel’s shoulder. “Dial down the drama, Rach. Dr. Sato said it was an accident.”

  Rachel said, “I wonder if they’ll cancel.”

  A formal dance would be a much better distraction than sitting around replaying death scenarios from horror shows. Cassandra put on a reassuring smile. “Give me the dance chairperson’s phone number, and I’ll encourage them not to cancel. You folks can take off now. I just wanted you to hear the news in person.”

  Only Annie remained when the students picked up their backpacks and shuffled out of the office because she was still on the clock. She stared at Cassandra a few seconds until the ringing office phone interrupted the quiet. Cassandra blew out a big sigh and took two steps towards her office doorway. Reversing direction, she realized she didn’t want to sit in there, alone. She listened until Annie’s phone conversation showed that the call wasn’t for Cassandra, then walked downstairs towards the Special Student Services suite.

  She knocked once under the “ASL Interpreters” nameplate then slowly opened the door and peeked around. The red-headed woman seated in front of a flat TV monitor next to the desk conversed with a man using American Sign Language, but no voices. She glanced at the doorway and waved Cassandra ahead.

  Standing just inside the door, Cassandra waited a few minutes while the Skype-looking screen-within-a-screen conversation continued. A small window dimly lit the cramped space’s Spartan decor: two desks, an ugly black metal bookshelf, a printer stand and the table for the 24” TV screen. A large white board with a color-coded schedule filled the available wall.

  Margaret Mary O’Brien or “Meg” and Cassandra were co-workers seven years earlier at Oahu State College. Her husband, Connor, had been stationed at Bellows Air Force Base for two years before transferring to the mainland and settling in Connor’s home state. Cassandra had contacted Meg when she found out she was a finalist for the Vice President position, even staying with the O’Briens during the interviews. Cassandra had her choice of several Midwestern jobs, but decided on Morton College in part because of the opportunity to reconnect their close friendship.

  Meg remoted the screen off, spun around in her chair, and did a little hand salute. “Aloha!”

  Meg’s cheery smile made Cassandra feel a teensy bit better. Cassandra plopped down in the only empty chair. “Howzit!”

  Meg shrugged. “Pretty good. Just setting up interpreters for one of the deaf instructors’ night classes next month.”

  “Wow, your technology has really improved since our old days together.”

  Meg indicated the screen. “This is my video phone. I use it to talk to students or parents and instructors. Much easier than typing conversations on a TTY keyboard like before. Why are you slumming down here in my little kingdom?”

  Meg was taking the afternoon tragedy much better than Cassandra had anticipated. The cheap mismatched rolling chair squeaked as Cassandra leaned back and covered her face with her hands, massaging temples she’d just noticed were throbbing. “Seriously,” Cassandra’s hometown vernacular came out. “Dis Aloha Friday gone bad, sistah.”

  Meg was breezy and sarcastic. “Big surprise, Cass. Nielson leaves town for a week and you get to deal with all the Homecoming stuff while he’s gone. Has he asked you to water his plants, too? Whose bright idea was it to send that man to another continent anyway? Everyone he meets is going to have a warped idea of Americans in general and Nebraskans in particular. Are they hoping he’ll be separated from the tour group and get lost?”

  Among all the challenges in moving to Nebraska, Meg’s humor and friendship was a beacon of light. However . . . she should’ve been very upset right now. Cassandra sat up fast, planted her feet on the ground and looked closely at Meg’s face. “Wait . . . haven’t you heard what happened this afternoon?”

  Meg’s hands casually rearranged her long, wavy red hair into a high, messy bun. She expertly twisted, tied and fluffed until only a few stray tendrils framed her freckled face, making her appear younger than her thirty-three years. “Uh, no . . . what are you talking about?” When Cassandra didn’t respond right away, Meg’s light brown eyes focused, a question on her incongruently dark eyebrows.

  Cassandra’s eyes welled up. “You know Austin Price? He . . . was found dead a couple hours ago over by the Edgerton Center. I’m hiding from my ringing telephone and trying to regroup . . . How have you not heard about this?”

  Meg’s face paled and her mouth formed a silent Oh! “I was in a Chem Lab all afternoon; I had no idea. I’m sorry I was so sarcastic just now.” She frowned and shook her head in disbelief, “Why didn’t you text me? You can’t be right. I just interpreted a Geography class for him this morning.”

  Regret swamped Cassandra for not thinking of Meg right away. She said, “I’ve been a little busy . . . Well the sheriff is going to want to speak to you, too. They’re trying to go over everything that happened today to figure out the time of death.”

  Meg was one of the last people to see Austin alive. Her voice broke, “I don’t even know what to say. That never happens.” Cassandra watched helplessly as Meg’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve only known him a little over a year but . . . wow. What happened?”

  Seeing Meg’s reaction released the floodgates Cassandra had held back. Her eyes spilled over too, wetting her cheeks. Cassandra said, “I don’t know. It looked like he fell down the stairs, somehow. There wasn’t a lot of blood. I’m waiting to hear more from the sheriff.”

  Cassandra leaned forward and fiddled with her necklace. “When I left, they were waiting for Lincoln’s forensic team to arrive. Dr. Nielson contacted Austin’s family. You had him in Geography. Did he seem ok this morning?”

  Meg groped around in a desk drawer until she came up with a box of tissues. They both mopped up their cheeks and eyes. “We just had a short review and a quiz in Geography this morning. We left class early. Austin barely said anything to me. He’d showered before class—his hair was wet—and he walked in with a cardboard coffee cup from the cafeteria. I told him have a good weekend as we walked out of class, and he said you too. That was about 12:30. I never saw him after that.”

  Your basic college student’s Friday morning. Cassandra wiped her runny nose. “Did he normally talk to you much?”

  Meg dabbed at her eyes. “Not more than politely nodding hello and goodbye to me. He avoided calling extra attention to himself. Some deaf kids like him would rather just be an anonymous face in a lecture hall. Hard to fade into the crowd when everyone in class notices your sign language interpreter on the first day, standing in front of the room by the professor, every word and facial expression played out on her hands and face.” Meg shrugged. “Usually the other students lose interest by the third class, but it’s still hard to blend in when you converse in sign before class starts or to participate in discussion.”

  She’d never thought about that. A twinge of guilt pricked Cassandra’s chest as she realized how little she knew about Meg’s job and the deaf students’ experiences. “I j
ust assumed a close relationship develops because of how much time you spend with the deaf students.”

  Meg wiped the mascara that had smudged under her eyes. “It’s hard enough to be 20, away from home, and navigating the emotional rollercoaster college scene. Others stare in fascination at a language they’ve rarely seen, and a person they are uncomfortable communicating with directly. I let the students lead the way on how close-by they want me. I don’t want them to feel harassed.” Cassandra scooted her chair nearer, reached around and squeezed Meg’s shoulders in a consoling hug.

  It was time to get back to work. Cassandra checked her watch: 4:45 p.m. “I already met with the student workers that were still on campus, but next I’m meeting with the admin staff. Can you stick around and interpret for Lance Erickson? He’s in class until 5:30 and might not know about Austin yet.”

  Meg’s video phone flashed to signal an incoming call, and a phone number and name appeared on the screen. Meg wiped her nose one more time and turned toward her desk. “I’d better answer this. Should we walk to the AOO house and talk to Lance there? I’ll hang out here until you’re done with the directors.” She thumbed a remote and a face popped onto the screen. Meg waved goodbye while Cassandra returned to her wing.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Meg joined Cassandra in the administrative board room as the staff filed out. “Hey, Meg. Good timing.”

  Cassandra, Cinda Weller, the Counseling Center director, and Marcus Fischer, the Housing director, were still seated at the table after the meeting. Cassandra picked up her phone to leave but paused. Cinda and Fischer were the two directors closest to her own age among the administrative staff.

  Cinda Weller and Cassandra had hit it off quickly. Cassandra liked Cinda’s quirky sense of humor, no-drama personality, and willingness to reveal the unwritten rules of Morton’s academic climate. Also, she had great hair. Cassandra’s hair was nearly black and stick straight. Cinda’s was so blond, her thick, bouncy curls glowed white in the sunshine.

  Fischer’s quiet presence was versatile: from ironing out roommate conflicts to putting away equipment and cleaning up housing emergencies. She admired his habit of showing up to meetings with a brief report ready to go. None of the meandering recaps that less prepared members inflicted on the team.

  Cinda turned to Cassandra and Fischer, scrunching up her nose. “That went well.”

  Cassandra noticed Meg gave Fischer a slow, appreciative look from shoes to hair before she sat quietly next to him. Cassandra had heard other women comment that his wavy dark hair, and trimmed beard were hot. She wasn’t blind. But clearly her time in Nebraska was temporary, and she had enough complications to worry about without staring at his translucent baby blues all day.

  Cassandra still had a lot of work left in her Friday. She sighed at the growing to-do list in her Moleskine journal. “I wanted to tell the staff in person and get our facts straight.” Using her mechanical pencil, she added another note while talking. “Thanks for jumping in and reminding them to focus on the students, Cinda.”

  Cinda put her notepad into a leather portfolio and zipped it up. “Professors Gregory and Young can be such condescending chauvinists.” She held up a finger, “As though number one, you magically know what exactly happened, given that they just found Austin’s body a couple hours ago; and number two, you’re in some way responsible for a random event on campus. They look for any excuse to treat you like a twenty-year-old undergrad.”

  Cassandra still worried that the tragedy could have been prevented. She rubbed her temple; the ibuprofen she’d taken earlier hadn’t worked. “I get that administration is worried about public relations, but I’m worried about Austin’s friends and family. I want to know what caused this horrible thing.”

  Sitting forward in his chair with one arm resting on the conference table, Fischer looked ready for action. Once by mistake, she’d turned her swivel chair before a staff meeting and clipped her travel mug with her elbow, nearly knocking it to the floor. His quick reflexes had him leaning over, scooping it up, and refilling the (thankfully) empty cup from a nearby coffee carafe. For just a nanosecond, she’d lost herself in the reflection of those clear blue eyes. Then President Nielson had begun the meeting’s agenda, and the earth resumed spinning on its axis. Moment over.

  Fischer said, “We should send a reminder email telling students that areas of campus may be off-limits while the police work. I talked to Andy Summers earlier, and he’s called in some extra off-duty deputies. He wants them to patrol the campus and be available to walk students to their housing units or the parking lots if needed.”

  Cassandra asked, “Is it normal for a college security director to be so involved with the local law enforcement? Shouldn’t we just let them handle everything?”

  Cinda laughed, “This isn’t the big city with hundreds of police officers. Carson shares the deputies and sheriff with everyone in the county. Andy Summers actually worked there before he took his job at Morton, so he has a good relationship with their office.”

  “I worked at Oahu State College for four years. We had a couple of suicides and some assaults, but no random dead bodies.” There were so many differences between Honolulu and Carson. Cassandra stood, gathering her journal and mug while everyone else headed for the door. “I’ll look up his course schedule. The more we can help the police, the faster they’ll finish the investigation.”

  She’d have to delegate more of her list to get it all done tonight. She asked Fischer, “Can you find out more about Austin and his friends?”

  Fischer’s lean, athletic frame filled the doorway. He was more than a head taller than her. “Sure, I’ll check around. When the police have taken what they need from Austin’s room, I can send in a couple guys from my office to box up his personal effects for his family. We’ll probably need his roommate’s assistance in figuring out who belongs to which items.”

  Cassandra said, “Hopefully the extra security will help students feel calm until we have more news. However sad they might be, it is a Friday night.”

  When Fischer had left the conference room, Cinda fanned her face and blew a sigh at Meg. Like seventh grade. Cinda’s head tilted towards the now vacant hall. “If I wasn’t married, I’d let Fischer move into my office—for security, you know. That’s the way to go, Cassandra.”

  Meg sputtered a laugh at the random comment. Cinda had a gift for breaking tension, but Cassandra’s face flushed. “Shh . . . I can imagine the HR harassment complaint already. I don’t need a wingman, Cinda. I need to do a good job.”

  “Yessir, Ma’am. All business, fine. I’m going to meet with my staff and set up the grief counselors in the Student Center. I’ll put a message on social media about the hours available tonight and tomorrow.” Cinda gave a mock salute and turned away towards her office.

  Meg followed Cassandra down the hall. “It’s cooling off outside. You might need a sweater on the way to the fraternity.”

  Chapter Five

  Local Nebraskans apparently prepared for drastic temperature shifts by keeping multiple clothing layers handy. The lowering sun gave the bands of clouds an orange glow as Cassandra shivered in the twilight and groused, “I should have asked the actual temperature instead of just grabbing my sweater like you advised. I need a parka, not this flimsy little cardigan.”

  Meg nodded sympathetically, “Stick around here long enough, and your warm blood will get used to it.”

  She couldn’t imagine how long would be “long enough” for that. Fallen amber leaves crunched under Cassandra’s 3-inch heels as she and Meg walked toward the Alpha Omicron Omicron house. While some older students lived off campus, most of the 4,000 Morton College undergrads lived on school grounds. Cassandra focused on the unpleasant task at hand. “Tell me more about Lance and Austin. Lance works in my office part-time, but I don’t know much about him personally. We only really talk when you’re there to interpret.”

  “They went to high s
chool together at a residential school for deaf students in Council Bluffs, Iowa. They’re both sophomores: Austin was majoring in Psychology and Lance in Computer Science.”

  Turning between two brick buildings and crossing the street onto Greek Row, Cassandra gestured towards the stately, ivy-covered structures where small groups of students lounged outside on balconies and front porches. “I’m impressed by their bravery coming to Morton and joining a fraternity.” Mainland students were much more independent than young adults in Hawai’i who lived with their parents into their 30s. Moving hundreds of miles from home to sleep in a fancy dorm and doing their own laundry would be a completely foreign thought. “It can’t be easy for the deaf guys.”

  “It was a bit rough their first year with only twenty deaf students on campus, but the fraternity guys have figured out how to communicate with them by gesturing, texting and writing notes. We send interpreters for the weekly house meetings, but most of the time they’re on their own. Lance is probably more studious; Austin was better at flirting with the girls.” Meg’s voice caught. “They were a good team. Lance is going to be devastated when he finds out.”

  Home to 30 young men, AOO was the oldest fraternity on campus. Its whitewashed picket fence bordered a lush, green front lawn with clusters of switchgrass, Russian sage and orange coneflower along the sidewalk and identical manicured boxwoods under symmetrical white windows. The ladies turned up the front walkway to the recently swept brick steps leading to the wooden front door. An eager member opened it promptly upon Cassandra’s knock, said good evening and ushered them inside. “Who can I get for you?” he asked.

  Cassandra glanced around the community room full of overstuffed, brown leather couches and coffee tables arranged in conversational groupings adjacent to a dark brick fireplace. “We’re here for Lance Erickson, please.”

  Handsomely framed composite photos of the Alpha Omicron Omicron brothers by year lined the walls. On the left side, a large wooden staircase wound towards the second floor. On the far right, a hallway led towards the back of the house where clinking dishware indicated the direction of the kitchen and dining areas.