Death by Dissertation (A Cassandra Sato Mystery Book 1)

by Kelly Brakenhoff

  People had advised her for years that if she wanted to advance her academic career, the surest path was to go out into the world and work at other institutions. She needed exposure to new experiences and to branch out from the people who had supported her through her schooling. That longing tug: to do something bigger and move up the career ladder had seemed like a great reason to move 3,000 miles away, but she had completely miscalculated the depth of loneliness she would feel.

  What a stupid idea this was. Because of her job title, she had naively expected people would embrace her instantly. She’d underestimated how tiresome cultivating new student and faculty relationships would be. People she never saw evaluated her every move.

  Local Hawaiian style could feel like a small town sometimes where everyone knew each other, your family and your business. But that was nothing compared to small town life here. In Carson, people did know your intimate details: when you went to the store, out to eat, what you ordered, whether you paid your bills on time, what time your car left and arrived. People back home noticed their neighbors’ habits, but it wasn’t a source of conversation at work or the grocery store.

  She loved Hawai’i with all her heart. Her family was everything to her. Some people imagine that living your whole life on an island with the same group of colleagues, friends, and relatives would be constraining. To Cassandra—the comfort, reliability, and pride she felt at knowing that her family had moved to the islands over one hundred years ago with nothing; working and sacrificing to get to where she was now—was worth the occasional claustrophobia of a life lived in close proximity to a large family. She pictured her parents’ faces, middle-aged, slightly wrinkled, yet always gazing at her and her siblings with love and pride.

  Cassandra would’ve happily remained at home as Dean of Students forever. But when this opportunity had appeared, her father took her into the backyard one afternoon. Resting under the wooden trellis interwoven with bright pink bougainvillea, the fragrant blossoms were so heady she could smell them even in her memory.

  He’d grasped her palms between his warm, callused hands. “Cassandra, your mother and I plan to be around for a long time. You need to have your time, your adventures. We’ll still be here when you get back. You can take care of us in our old age. But we don’t need you to be here for us every day, yet. We’ll take care of Gran and your brother and sisters. You’d make us very proud if you go to the mainland. You will carry our culture, our lifestyle, our spirit with you always, wherever you live.”

  At that moment, she knew she would leave Oahu, for a while. She’d return someday armed with her many accomplishments.

  * * *

  Cassandra rubbed away the crusty salt crystals in the corner of her eyes, momentarily disoriented to find herself drooling on a couch cushion, potato chip crumbs on her shirt front and an enthusiastic cleaning commercial blaring from the television. Shaking her head, she realized this day was not a dream. Teetering on the edge of fitting into this place or losing everything made her realize how much she liked Morton and Carson.

  Admittedly, the last few weeks contained few brag-worthy moments. Warm heat burned her cheeks while she ticked off her recent failings: the awkward photo, Austin’s death, the break-ins, the students getting sick, and now her own suspension. Suspension! In her long student history, she’d never earned even one demerit, let alone a suspension. Now she was precariously employed, in the middle of nowhere, being stalked by a thug.

  Brushing off her shirt, she cleaned up her spot and moved to the desk with her laptop and phone. Morton had to address the potential gossip about Dr. Schneider’s personal dirty laundry and his misguided attempt to help Austin Price. Would cutting ties with him be enough to repair the college’s reputation and save their NIH grant? She wanted a plan ready upon Nielson’s return.

  She could emphasize Schneider’s desire to cure a childhood disease or his mentoring relationship as Luke Peterson’s committee chair. First, she needed to know the extent of his involvement in the lab. His comments about deaf people being unqualified to work in science didn’t help either.

  Her eyes focused on the calendar notation for her Women of Tomorrow leadership group’s inaugural meeting next week. The whole point of becoming a female university president was to do better for more students. To salvage her career, she needed to work her contacts before the connections imploded. Her finger tapped the phone screen, and she listened for the line to open. When Swanson’s voice answered, she skipped the polite formalities. “Hi this is Cassandra. You seem to have a lot of local contacts. Do you have time to meet me for coffee this afternoon? . . . Is there somewhere nearby that people wouldn’t see us together?”

  Loud laughter hurt her ear, and she held the phone’s speaker at arm’s length until the noise quieted. Listening briefly, she wrote an address on a scratchpad and hung up. A frown creased her forehead as her GPS app showed a location just outside of town on a gravel road.

  Time to stop wallowing. She was tired of being the mouse in this game.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Cassandra was chopping stir-fry vegetables for an early supper when Meg called. “Lance has a theory about the lab he wants to test out. Only Connor won’t let me go over there with him.”

  Pouring oil into a hot frying pan, Cassandra hit speaker phone so she could do hands-free. “Andy said we wouldn’t get the results back for a couple more days. What does Lance need to see over there in person?”

  “He’s been combing through Austin’s laptop database files. He sent me photos of the work notes. Something’s off.”

  Lance seemed to find more answers than the police. At least what she knew from the police anyway. A frisson of excitement formed in Cassandra’s stomach. “You know . . . I’ve always wondered why Austin asked Lance to hide his laptop. He must’ve known important files were on there, and trusted Lance to protect it. Andy told me the enzyme in the cooler syringes wasn’t the same as those in Peterson’s research study or the other studies there.”

  Meg said, “Lance told me the custodians leave by 9:00 p.m. He’ll sneak over there after hours to check it out. Connor told me I can’t go with him.”

  Her voice had a strange note to it that Cassandra couldn’t identify. She added diced chicken, peppers, onions, squash and cabbage to the pan, stirring quickly. “I can call Andy or Deputy Tate. They can go check out the lab with Lance.”

  “What if Lance is wrong? This is just his hunch. What if Austin was doing something illegal? Lance doesn’t want to make his friend look bad or dredge up old news. His parents would be crushed. I would go . . . but we live half an hour away.”

  It finally dawned on her where Meg was leading. She held up the wooden spoon she’d been using and frowned at her phone incredulously as though Meg could see her face. “You want me to go to Edgerton with Lance? Are you lolo? I’m already suspended. Why would I risk getting caught?”

  “It’s the only way! You could be the person who finds proof to solve this whole thing. You wouldn’t be suspended . . . you’d be the hero!”

  “I can’t believe you’d ask me that, Meg. I gotta eat . . . Wow.” Cassandra punched the hang-up button with her pinky and added soy sauce, ginger and spice into the pan. She flicked off the burner, dumped the mixture into a bowl over sticky rice and plopped into a chair. Her normally delicious meal tasted like chunky paste as she simmered in silence.

  What kind of respectable research lab had unused syringes stashed in a random cooler? Remembering the student workers’ substandard housekeeping, she wasn’t surprised Austin’s notes were unknown to the police. Dr. Schneider and the department chair weren’t involved enough in Luke Peterson’s work. The administration didn’t seem motivated to committing the resources to ensure their hallowed NIH grant’s success. The whole study was in jeopardy if they weren’t properly documenting all the data.

  Once the initial anger wore off, she replayed Meg’s appeal. “You could be the person who solves this who
le thing.”

  They’d hunted for any connection between the cafeteria’s enzyme enhanced beef and the donated blood enzymes used for the rat research. The police said the football player, the sick students, and Austin Price had elevated enzyme levels. Was that only from eating food service beef? Suppose they found a link between the sick students and the research lab? What if Swanson the reporter was right and there were human trials happening on campus?

  Surely No-Nonsense Nielson wasn’t involved in illegal human pharmaceutical testing. Assuming he didn’t know, it’d still be a huge scandal for Morton. If Lance found evidence proving the reporter’s theory, Cassandra had to speak up. Even if revealing the truth meant losing the government grant and administrative chaos. Her suspension would likely become permanent. Career-ending. No one hires a whistle-blower.

  The memory of Zorro’s masked face induced stomach-clenching dread. It’d be so easy to resign and move home. She’d grab her surfboard stored in Gran’s garage, paddle out off Diamond Head, and forget this nightmare.

  Lance believed in Austin enough to risk his standing at Morton. Could she enjoy the sun and surf back home if she abandoned Lance and more students got sick? Tempting, but not how her parents raised her. Ohana, first. The students were the closest thing to family she had here besides the O’Briens. University president had been a glamourous dream, but she’d rather be an entry-level academic advisor at an obscure island college and keep her dignity.

  She checked the weather app on her phone while considering this ridiculous idea. Rolling her eyes, she shook her head while she tapped a message to Meg. “I’m in. Give Lance my phone number. I’ll meet him over by Edgerton at 10 p.m. I hope they haven’t disabled my key card. Latahz.”

  Meg responded only a few minutes later. “I love you! Promise you’ll keep me posted. If I don’t hear from you by 11, I’m calling police.”

  Cassandra changed into black clothes and exchanged a few texts with Lance to get their game plan settled. She promised herself, “If I wipe-out on this job, I might as well make it epic.”

  * * *

  Cassandra crouched near the Edgerton center at 9:55 wearing a dark hoodie, a new stocking hat, and black gloves. Her hoodie pocket held folded up papers from her investigation file at home. The temperature had dipped into the low 50s and her cheeks were already chilled when Lance arrived five minutes later.

  She typed a note into her phone and showed it to Lance. “I don’t know if my key card is still authorized.” She shrugged and he nodded. She added, “If we get stopped by anyone, let’s say that you forgot your backpack in the lab and I’m helping you pick it up.”

  Lance tapped the side of his head in a “Good idea” gesture and gave her the thumbs up.

  They moved to the bottom floor door under the stairwell and quickly swiped her card. A green light flashed on the display and the door clicked unlocked. She heaved it open and they moved inside. He pointed towards the far steps and they climbed four flights up to the lab. Lance typed in the security code near the door and they entered the lab’s front room, their eyes adjusting to the dim lights.

  When she inhaled pungent disinfectant mixed with urine and wood chips, her nose crinkled reflexively. In the quiet back room, Lance pulled a sheaf of Austin’s printed data pages from a small backpack. He also fired up a laptop and logged on with Austin’s user name. Cassandra snooped in the storage and main workrooms, feeling excited after the afternoon’s gloom. Lance used a thumb drive to copy the suspicious files. She compared the numbers on the rat cages’ bar codes, the treatment syringes from the medical documents, and Austin’s data spreadsheet, counting as she went. Cassandra re-checked a row of cages that weren’t included in the official bar codes. There seemed to be more rats than the three studies had recorded. That might explain the extra syringes Tate had sent to Omaha for analysis.

  They’d been inside for maybe fifteen minutes when Cassandra heard buttons beeping outside on the door’s security keypad. She ran to Lance and poked him on the shoulder. Her frantic eyes urged him as she did a “Cut! Cut!” finger-across-her-neck gesture, grabbed his arm, and ran towards the storage room. He folded the laptop and followed her inside. They’d barely closed the door without latching it when the main lab door opened.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Cassandra peeked through the doorway crack at a tall man who carried a white Styrofoam cooler directly around to the back room. When he hit the overhead light switch, she recognized Dr. Schneider and her chest constricted. He set a small metal cylinder, his cooler, and some supplies on a steel work table then pulled a rat cage from the wall. Opening the Styrofoam cooler lid, a fog billowed out like the dry ice in haunted houses. She watched him use long metal tongs to fish out a rat and stick it in the cooler. Replacing the lid and waiting some seconds, he removed the rat, placed it on a metal tray, and dripped a liquid onto the stiff rat.

  Cassandra assumed he was using liquid nitrogen to euthanize them. He returned the rat to the Styrofoam cooler for a few more seconds, then dropped it into a zipper bag. He followed the same procedure, quite haphazardly, on several more rats. Repulsion hiccupped in her esophagus.

  Turning to Lance, she moved over so he could spy through the crack. She couldn’t decide whether to hide in safety or confront Schneider.

  When Lance stepped aside, she poked her head out a little farther. The rats Schneider had frozen were from the same row of cages that didn’t belong to an official group. She mimed the question to Lance, “In here? Or out there? Which?”

  His finger jabbed towards the work area. “Out there!”

  Cassandra’s sweaty hand eased the door open. She and Lance emerged into the room as Schneider zipped a baggie containing a frozen rat.

  “You again!” he shouted. The other rats vocalized and scratched at their cages. With the lights, noises and dry ice in the air, they sensed a change. The bottom row of cages were nearly empty.

  Not a biology major, the whole process with the cooler didn’t make sense. Her heart still thumped from his surprise intrusion. “Dr. Schneider! Why are you freezing the rats?”

  He gathered up the remaining three rats from cages and dropped them into the cooler, his hands resting on the lid. In contrast to Cassandra, his voice was emotionless. “These test subjects aren’t necessary to the grant project.”

  He seemed much more involved in the daily research operations than he’d let on the day before. Cassandra challenged him. “This is Morton College property, not your personal workspace. Did the grad assistant ask you to remove these rats?”

  She stilled her trembling knees and edged closer. He aimed the nitrogen tank’s hose nozzle towards Cassandra and Lance. “That’s close enough. Stay there; it’d be a shame to hurt such a pretty face. I so enjoyed our ride together in the parade. Do you know what happens when liquid nitrogen is sprayed into a room?”

  Since the faulty valve incident on Thursday, yes she was perfectly aware what that would do. Cassandra slowly stepped closer and held up her hands. “Why are you doing all this?”

  “I’m saving the children from cancer. I may have gotten ahead of myself in the rush to bring the treatment to market more quickly, but I can fix that. These rats don’t exist.”

  Lance slowly turned his back towards Schneider and fingerspelled something down by his hip. By the time she realized what he was doing, she’d completely missed his message.

  She shook her head slightly in frustration. He moved his fingers again. Staring harder, she concentrated. “A-U-S-T-Austin H-A-V-E have.” Lance nodded once in affirmation. Then he twirled his index finger in a “Keep stalling” motion.

  Austin had something. She should keep Schneider talking while Lance finished downloading data. “We can’t let you take those rats. You said you’d ‘gotten ahead of yourself’? Maybe we can help. What have you done?”

  Just then the lab door lock pad beeped. Cassandra’s and Schneider’s heads turned while an unseen person punched in the
security code. Cassandra met Lance’s confused expression and pointed to the front door.

  Seconds later, Luke Peterson came around the wall and took in the scene with Dr. Schneider holding the other two at bay with the nitrogen canister. Luke’s head bobbed back and forth between them and Schneider. “What the fuck?”

  For the first time since Schneider had arrived, Cassandra had a flash of hope that she and Lance would survive unscathed. “Luke! Uh . . . why did you come here?”

  Peterson’s rumpled hair and stained t-shirt hinted that he’d recently been lying on a couch. He looked unfazed by the nitrogen canister threat. “You’re in the lab after-hours which set off an alarm on my phone. I came to see what was wrong.”

  Cassandra’s heart raced. What if Peterson had been lying the whole time? She didn’t think they could stop both of them.

  Schneider’s hands wobbled and his face shone with perspiration. “Sorry, Luke. I’m going away for a while. You’ll have to ask someone else to finish your doctoral committee work.”

  Shaking his head in denial, Luke’s forehead crinkled and his shoulders bunched up. “You’re totally screwing up my life!”

  Schneider’s eyes flitted between the cages, his cooler, and them. “I’m not going to be punished for something I didn’t do.”

  Cassandra thought of the newspaper reporter’s investigation into Schneider’s history and finances. “Punished for . . .?”

  “The subjects I’m taking were my own side project. Our third treatment was my synthetic version of the SOD enzyme in a higher concentration. Next time I make a new version, I’ll have to lower the concentration. It was too potent for humans.”

  Was that confirmation that he had performed unauthorized human trials? She needed more time to piece it all together.

  While Schneider fiddled with the cooler, Lance signed to her, “I’ll tackle him, you run. We’ll escape.”