Death by Dissertation (A Cassandra Sato Mystery Book 1)

by Kelly Brakenhoff

  She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes and nose on her shirt sleeve. The first time she tried to speak, her voice got stuck on the lump in her throat. Finally she got herself together. “I’m not hurt, Andy.”

  Although she wasn’t physically hurt, her stomach ached. Words came tumbling out in a nonstop torrent. “I don’t think anyone is still in the house. I looked in all the rooms already. I don’t know when this happened. I was gone all day until about 7:30 tonight.”

  She stood on wobbly legs and led him inside where he checked the rooms again. Under the kitchen sink, he retrieved a garbage bag and carefully collected the plant, pot and dirt from her driveway. Back in her kitchen, he washed his hands in the sink. “I’ll write a report on your break-in. I’ll take this plant to the sheriff’s office for evidence.”

  She stood stiffly against the counter, the arms of her sweatshirt pulled down over her fists. “Do you think this has something to do with Halloween? Someone smashed a pumpkin against the house a few days ago, but I just assumed it was kid stuff. This is crazy. Someone was inside my house. I don’t think I left the door unlocked, but I guess it’s possible.”

  Giving her a gentle brotherly hug, Andy shrugged slightly. “I’m just glad you weren’t hurt. None of your electronics or valuables were stolen; luckily it was just a plant. I’ll talk to Sheriff Hart tomorrow, and see if he wants to ask you more questions. Are you ok to stay alone tonight?”

  After another big breath, she managed a weak smile. “I’m fine. I appreciate your help.”

  She watched him drive off, then double locked the doors and tested every window to ensure they were locked tight, too. She slipped into her darkened bedroom and curled into the corner armchair, the moonlight from the window casting a soft light across her legs. Reaching over into the bedside table drawer, she pulled out a framed 5x7 photo of her with a dark haired young man wearing a green and white aloha shirt; her, a modern royal blue fitted muumuu. A long green ti leaf lei was draped around his neck, while Cassandra wore a shorter version intertwined with white orchids. The photographer had caught them both mid-laugh, mouths partially open, eyes shining with happiness on the evening they had celebrated their engagement. Soul mates forever. She rested her pony-tailed head against the side of the chair and closed her eyes, not bothering to wipe the wetness from her cheeks. Tucking the frame against her chest, she eventually fell into a fitful sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Cassandra hustled into the office at 7:15 a.m.—late by her standards—to the sound of a ringing phone. No one else was there, so she automatically picked up the handset. “Student Affairs office, Cassandra Sato speaking.” Dropping her large tote bag on the floor, she massaged her aching back from dozing in the armchair half the night.

  A friendly male voice was chipper despite the early hour. “Just the person I wanted to reach! This is Derek Swanson from the Omaha Daily News. We spoke a few days ago. Listen, I noticed that there was a break-in last night reported at your personal residence. Is that correct?”

  The chill that settled on her was worse than waking in bed earlier, her legs tangled in a fleece blanket, frozen toes exposed to the cold morning air. Stuttering noises came out of her mouth while she marshaled a response. Cassandra had heard of news traveling fast in small towns, but Swanson’s awareness of overnight police reports was unsettling. Thinking as quickly as possible she replied, “Just some vandalism. A broken plant. No need to worry, Mr. Swanson.”

  Andy wouldn’t have leaked it, so the reporter must have a source in the sheriff’s office. Swanson started to ask more, but Cassandra said, “I’m late to a meeting,” and hung up.

  Cassandra planned to use the euphemistic “meeting” excuse all morning to carve out time for the many unchecked task boxes in her daily journal. Starting right after she downed an ocean’s worth of strong Kona coffee. A sharp stabbing in her temple reminded her she hadn’t eaten or drank since the night before, and she rummaged in the top desk drawer until she found ibuprofen. The week’s constant interruptions were frustrating, and she felt control slipping away.

  A couple hours and 400 mg of caffeine later, Cassandra was feeling much better. She’d met with Media Relations staff in person to avoid any misunderstanding over wording for the website updates. The threatened headache had subsided to a dull fogginess. Next, she needed to follow up on the sick students at the health clinic. When Marcus Fischer had contacted her yesterday about putting a hold on the cafeterias serving the beef with the feed additive, she hadn’t asked why. The early morning ambush from Derek Swanson had reminded her the college’s image was at stake in addition to student safety.

  She texted Fischer mid-morning. “Call me please when you have time. Not emergency.”

  Two minutes later her cell buzzed. “Good morning, Marcus. Mahalo for calling me back.”

  His deep voice was quickly becoming familiar, although the slight stomach butterflies she felt were brushed off. Fischer said, “Hello boss, what can I do for you?” The way he drew out the word “boss” was like an endearment.

  She shook her head to clear the fanciful thoughts. “Can you tell me more about your decision to stop serving the Hopkin’s farm beef at our campus food service sites? Is something wrong with the feed additive?”

  “The health clinic told me the students who checked in yesterday tested negative for influenza. Of course they might have another stomach virus; we wouldn’t know that until more students get the same symptoms . . . or we’d have to do testing.”

  No one wanted a health clinic full of sick students. “I understand your caution.”

  Fischer said, “We know Price had elevated levels of the enzyme in his blood. I’m aware of no evidence that someone else in the lab pushed him down the stairs or hurt him. So what caused his death? I just don’t buy the falling part. If there’s any chance that enzyme is involved, we should quit serving the beef. I suggest collecting food service samples, the sick students’ blood samples, and syringes from the biology lab, and send them to an independent company for analysis.”

  Imagining the newspaper headlines, Cassandra said, “Let’s not jump to conclusions where we have no evidence. In a few days, we’ll know more about this virus. We’ll stop serving the beef, but let’s not do outside tests at this point.”

  He paused so long, she wondered if the connection had been lost. “It’s your call. Let me know if you change your mind.” The phone line clicked off.

  Disagreeing with coworkers gave her anxiety, but she had a job to do. Being the boss wasn’t easy.

  * * *

  When Cassandra finally got a breather at lunch time, she removed her shoes, sank into the couch, and caught up on emails. Hours had passed without broken office machinery or social media snafus with the students. Feeling content, she added Sesame Vinaigrette she stored in the mini-fridge to the cabbage, chicken, roasted veggies, and rice mixture she’d brought from home.

  For the second time in as many days, Lance knocked on her office door with Meg in tow. Cassandra glared at Meg, who gave her an “I don’t know what he’s going to say” look back.

  Lance signed, “I worked in the lab this morning and snooped around for Austin’s phone or anything else weird. In the storage room, I saw maybe 20 syringes in an Igloo cooler. The rest were in the large lab fridge. I asked one of the other grad assistants, but she said they weren’t hers. When I asked Peterson what to do with them, they weren’t for his project either.”

  Either Lance had great instincts or he was masterful at covering his own deceptions. Cassandra had never known him to be dishonest, so she chose to believe him. “This is probably going to get me fired, but we need to call Andy.”

  When she had summarized how Lance had saved a copy of Austin’s hard drive which contained a recommendation letter, had begun working in Luke Peterson’s lab, and had found a cooler full of syringes that the police had previously missed, Andy replied, “Yeah . . . I’ll call Tate. We’ll go check it out
.”

  He didn’t sound mad exactly but Cassandra still winced. “Should we meet you over there so Lance can show you where he found them?”

  Andy articulated his words very clearly. “No. You all have done quite enough. Stay away from the lab unless we tell you differently.” He hung up.

  Cassandra frowned at her phone. Geesh. Meg tried for a laugh, “After all we’ve done to help, he’s not even grateful?”

  Cassandra said, “I knew this would somehow backfire. Even when we do something good, it’s bad.”

  As Meg was leaving the office she said, “Let’s meet at The Home Team after work tonight.”

  Cassandra wasn’t much of a drinker usually, but after the past couple of days a large margarita sounded appealing. She resumed her seat on the couch, eating salad while triaging emails on her tablet. Andy was right to be mad. They’d all hidden information from him. Although their karmic intentions had been positive, Cassandra suspected she’d reap the results of these actions for a long time.

  Gary Nielson’s name amid the list of unread emails made her cringe. Putting her salad on the table, she sat up straight and opened the message from Hangzhou.

  Nielson wrote: “Cassandra, our trip has been successful. Planning to announce a new partnership agreement upon my return. FYI, Schneider has been fielding complaints from donors and faculty. The Omaha article was in my inbox this morning. I would have increased security just as you’ve done, but my hands are tied here. Someone is bad-mouthing you, telling them your incompetence as a leader is going to lose us the science grant. That can’t happen. I know you can see this through. Stay on the sheriff to get answers. Play nice with Schneider. Listen, I’ve known him since we were high schoolers battling it out on the football field. He’s gritty and tough. If Schneider believes he’s helping the college, he won’t back down. It would be worse if another student were to get hurt.”

  That last line sent a chill down her spine. Of course she didn’t want anyone else to get hurt! That was the reason for the security, stopping the beef use, and investigating the lab. What else did these people think she should be doing? She hadn’t even had time to tell anyone about the break-in at her house. Nielson was worried about the NIH grant? That was the least of her current worries.

  * * *

  Upon returning from the Graduate Faculty Council meeting, Cassandra was on the couch critiquing one of her thesis student’s proposals. Her shoes were again off, her feet propped up on the table. The iHome’s quiet, ocean wave background noises couldn’t completely relax her, but her mood had improved.

  The ringing phone broke her concentration, and her eyes widened when she read Andy Summers’ name on the display. Without waiting for her to say hello after she picked up, he barked, “Drop what you’re doing. No one was hurt. There’s been an incident at the lab, and you need to come here now.”

  Learning her lesson from last time, she took thirty seconds to change into the flat shoes she kept in a bottom desk drawer with extra sweaters, socks and other personal items.

  Jogging over to Edgerton, Cassandra heard sirens approaching and felt a cold panic in her chest. When she crossed paths with the street preacher, she swore the woman nodded at her as if to say “I told you so.”

  Chapter Thirty

  By the time Cassandra joined the group at The Home Team, the table was already littered with napkins, mugs and an empty beer pitcher. Cinda, Meg, and Fischer were sharing a sloppy mountain of nachos, and the nearest TV was tuned to an Omaha news station doing a report about the Morton College lab incident.

  The video showed Andy’s campus security car and two county sheriff cars parked outside the Edgerton Center for the second time in a week. A fire truck and ambulance bustled with activity as workers in full gear and gas masks shuttled into and out of the building. The story headline on the screen said Explosion in Carson. Cassandra slid into the booth next to Meg. “Calling it an explosion is going too far. More like a leak.”

  Fischer’s eyebrows raised and his transparent blue eyes fixed on hers. “I’d say a liquid nitrogen tank malfunction is as close to an explosion as we ever want to get around here. We’re lucky that Peterson’s quick-thinking averted a disaster. How many students were in there when that thing went off? Cassandra, they could’ve all died.”

  Yes, she knew. Tate’s grim expression when she’d arrived on the scene had clued her in to how serious the incident could have been. Apparently, the cylinder’s pressure relief valve had popped off and shot across the workroom releasing liquid nitrogen into the air where Peterson and two other students had been working. Peterson had immediately recognized that in less than a minute or two, the leaking nitrogen gas would displace all the oxygen in the room and they would asphyxiate. The students had thrown the vent hood open, flipped the fire alarm, and escaped outside before anyone had been hurt.

  Cinda asked, “Sorry, I majored in Political Science. What’s the liquid nitrogen used for?”

  Fischer answered, “When the rat studies are completed, they use liquid nitrogen to euthanize them and flash freeze brain sections for examination under microscopes.”

  Meg had been happily chewing nachos when she fully understood that they killed the rats after the experiment ended. She pushed her plate away. “Thanks, guys. I’m not hungry anymore. But please, keep talking . . .”

  Cassandra noticed Meg’s glass was filled with water, not beer. She was about to ask why, when she realized Meg still had a half hour drive home after leaving. She ordered a margarita and scooped nachos onto a small appetizer plate. Tuning out their chatter for a few minutes, she concentrated on getting food into her system and drinking water while she waited for her cocktail. The bar was about 2/3 full of students, faculty and staff (whose eye contact she avoided), plus the regular locals who came here for dinner several nights a week.

  Cinda pointed to the TV. A reporter was standing next to Cassandra on screen, and her name was displayed underneath: Cassandra Sato, Morton College Student Affairs. The captions showed their brief interview.

  Reporter: “I’m here with Cassandra Sato of Morton College. Can you tell us whether this incident is related to the death earlier this week of sophomore Austin Price right here in this same lab?”

  Cassandra: “The sheriff’s investigators will need time to determine that. Morton is doing everything possible to ensure the safety of students and visitors this week during classes and Homecoming events.” Without waiting for more questions, Cassandra turned and walked towards the ambulance where responders were crowded around two students wearing oxygen masks and being helped aboard for transport to the nearest hospital in Wahoo.

  When the news cut to a commercial, they all shifted gazes to Cassandra expectantly. Taking a large gulp of her margarita, she confessed, “There’s more. I haven’t had the chance to talk to you today. Last night when we came home from Lincoln, I discovered that someone had broken into my house yesterday and smashed my houseplant outside against my garage door.”

  Her eyes welled up with the memory. “Nothing was stolen that I can tell, but someone is definitely trying to get our attention.”

  Meg surprised Cassandra by reaching over and placing an arm around her back. She gave her a tender squeeze and whispered quietly, “I’m so sorry, Cass.” To the table Meg declared, “Enough. We have to figure out who is doing these things and why.”

  Fischer’s eyebrows knotted. “Are there enough off-duty deputies that one can be assigned to your house for a few days? Even if they just drive by every couple of hours, it might deter this person from coming back.”

  Before she could answer, her phone buzzed with a message from Andy. “Peterson and students released from hospital. I’m dropping him at home. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  After reading his text aloud, she realized there were others she’d missed during the commotion. One unknown caller had sent, “You don’t belong here. Go back to Japan.”

  She showed it to her friends. Cassandra
raised her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “I’m from Hawai’i not Japan, for Pele’s sake! Can’t they even get that part right?”

  Meg raised her water glass in a mock toast. “Unleash the Menehune on them! Maybe we should have a case of pineapple delivered to the next board meeting?”

  The others clinked glasses with Meg, trying to lighten the mood. Cinda wasn’t playing along. “How many of those texts have you gotten? They have your personal number.”

  Cassandra propped an elbow and rested her chin in her hand. Humorous diversion hadn’t convinced them to stop looking at her like they all planned to become her personal bodyguards. She fibbed. “Only a few. My name’s been in the newspaper and now on TV. Once they know my name, probably it’s easy to find my number. Comes with the job; it doesn’t bother me.”

  Cinda picked at the problem like a dog with a bone. “Who’s sending the messages? We know some of the board and donors are unhappy. Schneider is arrogant, clueless about deaf people, and kind of creepy, but he’s not a thug. Nielson’s in Zhejiang. Are there students you’ve disciplined that might want revenge? What else have you done the past week to piss off someone?”

  Meg added, “Even if someone is trying to force Cassandra’s resignation because of bad PR, don’t you agree something funky is going on in the lab? Maybe when the sheriffs test those other syringes from the cooler that Lance found, they’ll connect some dots.”

  After another round and some hot wings, Cinda and Fischer stood to leave. “I’ve got to get home before bath time if I want to keep my Supermom status.”

  Once she left Cassandra observed, “Cinda’s younger than us, but she’s so . . . settled.”