Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (21 page)

“Blaming yourself?”

“I guess.”

“How could you have known what he was going to do? Did he say something was wrong?”

He didn’t have to
, Sammy thought as she recalled Conrad’s alcoholic indulgence that night. And the warning. Just the rambling of a depressed and paranoid mind? She was about to ask Osborne for his opinion when Rodolfo reappeared with the entrees and wine. The owner poured a small amount for Osborne who sniffed, then sipped the Chianti before declaring it “delicious.”

Rodolfo filled both glasses, then left them to “buon apetito.”

Osborne took a sip, leaned back and continued, “Sorry, you were saying?”

Conrad. She shook her head. She knew the answer. “I know there’s nothing I could’ve done. But I feel like I should have —” She left the sentence unfinished.

“ ‘Should’ is a word we learn not to use in psychology. It’s still a struggle. Even for me.”

“With all your training?”

“Psychotherapeutic training is an ongoing process. Inappropriate guilt isn’t limited to our patients,” Osborne said, focusing his attention on his main course.

They ate in silence, accompanied by “Al di la” from a ceiling-mounted stereo speaker. Sammy’s veal chop was very tender, the green peppers the perfect complement. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. Osborne made his way resolutely through a mountain of smooth textured, pork laced rice, ate most of the crudités, and refilled his wineglass twice. “Tell me,” he said finally, wiping his mouth, “how did you get interested in radio?”

Sammy pushed her plate aside. “Actually I want to be a journalist. Radio just happens to be today’s medium. It’s the best way to get information to the most people.”

“I see. And why journalism?”

Sammy thought for a moment. “I guess I’ve always felt the need to understand.”

“Understand?”

“How things happen, why they happen.”

“And what things happened to you that you haven’t been able to understand?”

Sammy’s throat closed. The words came slowly. “I, uh. My mother’s death. She killed herself. I was seven.” Sammy swallowed a burning lump. “The truth is, I thought I was over it — I hadn’t had the nightmares for years and then these suicides on campus brought it all back. I never understood why she did it.”

“And why you survived?”

Sammy was stunned. “Yeah. Silly, huh?”

Osborne’s eyes were full of sympathy, his voice gentle. “Not silly at all. It’s only natural to feel that way. We call it ‘survivors’ guilt.’ ” He explained how family left behind often blame themselves for staying alive when their loved one chose to die. “But that’s the point, Sammy.
They
chose to die. Ultimately it was their decision, not yours.”

“I hear you, but it’s still hard to accept.” She found herself recounting her visit that afternoon with Karen Conrad and the surprising news of reconciliation.

The information seemed to astonish Osborne as well. “Perhaps she was engaging in a bit of wishful thinking,” he offered.

“I don’t think so. But then it doesn’t all make sense.” She presented her theory that the professor couldn’t have killed himself because he didn’t fit the typical profile.

“Typical profile. You sound like one of my grad students.” Osborne’s smile was tolerant. “Psychology, I’m afraid, is not an exact science. Despite all our attempts to categorize and profile individuals, they are just that — individuals — each with a unique set of needs and motivations. I think I knew Connie as well as anyone and, much as I hate to admit it, my efforts to pull him out of his depression failed.”

Rodolfo appeared again, this time with a tray of desserts. Osborne selected the tiramisu. Sammy declined the sweets. They both ordered cappuccino.

Sammy waited for the coffees before asking, “So the fact that his tenure wasn’t decided yet wouldn’t have precluded his killing himself?”

Osborne shook his head. “Fear of failure is sometimes more frightening than failure itself. Connie set very high standards for himself.”

“And those around him, I hear.”

“Yes. And he was very unforgiving. Especially to himself. Unfortunately, the Connie I knew had a self-destructive personality.” Osborne took a bite of his tiramisu. “Look, Sammy, it’s not unusual for someone who has experienced suicide in a close relative or friend to feel obsessed with the need to explain the act in others as well. It’s a way of working through those feelings of guilt I was talking about before.”

She considered his words, reluctantly acknowledging their truth. There was guilt inside her, so buried, so denied, that she could not or would not face all these years. “You think I need a shrink?”

Osborne’s laugh was warm. “A little counseling couldn’t hurt.” He finished the tiramisu in one final forkful. “I’d be happy to make myself available, if you’d like.”

“That’s very kind.”

“Not at all. It’s my job. I have regular hours at Student Counseling.” He motioned Rudolfo over for the check and paid the bill.

“If you’re serious, I might just take you up on your offer.”

“Fine,” Osborne said, getting up. “I’ll tell my scheduling clerk to expect your call.”

7:00 P.M.

“Yeah?” A well-endowed blonde in a tight T-shirt and cutoffs answered Pappajohn’s knock. He recognized her as a member of the Ellsford cheerleading squad.

“Sergeant Pappajohn, campus police.” He held out his badge. She didn’t bother to inspect it.

“You have a peephole and a chain.” He stepped into the spacious
living room. “You ought to be more careful about opening that door to strangers.” How these college kids could be so oblivious to potential danger was a constant amazement to the ex-street cop.

The blonde ignored his warning, leaving the door unlatched behind him.

“This Bud Stanton’s place?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he in?” Pappajohn scanned the room. The girl seemed to be alone. From where he stood, he could see a bedroom off to one side, a small kitchen and dining area off to the other. Not your typical dorm accommodation. Obviously one of the perks of a basketball star.

“He’s out with the team.” She smiled, displaying two rows of perfect white teeth. “You know — partying.”

“Partying?”

“Yeah. They’re going to the playoffs now for sure.” The girl walked over to the cushioned sofa in the middle of the room and settled down on the pillows like a kitten marking off its territory. She’d been watching TV and now turned the volume back up — some insipid sitcom with a laugh track.

“I heard he was having trouble with bio,” Pappajohn said over the ersatz giggles.

Engaged in the boob tube, the girl didn’t reply.

“I heard he was headed for an F.”

Still no response.

Pappajohn saw the remote on the glass coffee table in front of the sofa and, reaching over, punched “Mute.”

“Hey!” she protested.

“As I was saying, I thought he was going to flunk.”

Irritated, she grabbed for the remote. “He’ll pass.” She searched the buttons to turn on the sound.

“Professor Conrad dying like that must have been a real lucky break for your boyfriend,” Pappajohn said casually.

The blonde lowered the remote to her lap and looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Pappajohn shrugged. “Nothing. I just heard Conrad wasn’t planning to give him a break. And then —” He smiled, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Her tone was unfriendly. “Is Bud in some kind of trouble?”

“Should he be?”

She didn’t answer for a few moments, then turned back to the TV with a shrug and flicked on the sound. “I don’t know. I only see him at the games and like on weekends.”

“You don’t live together?”

“Coach doesn’t allow it. Says it breaks an athlete’s concentration.”

“Coach ought to put a similar ban on TV,” Pappajohn muttered to himself. The raucous laughter from the show was enough to irritate anyone. “You know when he’s coming back?” he asked.

“Knowing Bud, it’ll probably be late.”

“Mind if I look around?”

“Suit yourself.” She clicked up the volume another notch.

Pappajohn moved toward the bedroom. He strolled through the suite, taking inventory, not sure what he was looking for — some clue as to whether Stanton had any involvement with Conrad’s death. He looked in the bedroom. There was a double bed, unmade, with white, Ellsford University-issue sheets. A walnut bureau, its drawers hanging open, revealed only rumpled socks, shirts, and underwear. Several tarnished trophies sat on its dusty surface amidst framed photos of Stanton alone and with other players. High school pictures, the sergeant surmised. There was less grit to Stanton’s cocky grin.

The large closet was crammed with T-shirts and jeans and at least a dozen brand-name athletic shoes of different styles. Pappajohn wondered how many were gifts from eager advertisers. The rest of the closet held assorted sports equipment, most of it well worn. In the back was a paper file box, unlabeled.

Pappajohn peeked inside and pulled out one torn piece of crumpled yellowed paper. He unfolded it, smoothing it out on his knee. A list of numbers from 78 to 84 with adjacent letters, ABBCEBD
remained on the fragment. Probably an old test answer key. Pappajohn pocketed the fragment, shaking his head. Impossible to trace the exam by now, but it could be useful when he talked to the boy himself.

Sighing, he wandered into the kitchen area. The tiny cooking space, small refrigerator, and a chipped porcelain sink were luxurious by dorm standards. There was also a counter with two barstools that served as a table and opened into the living room. Except for some leftover pizza, a half-finished carton of milk, and a six-pack of Coors, Pappajohn found the fridge empty — typical college diet. He scanned the notes and papers mounted on the refrigerator door next to the phone. A shopping list included chili dogs, fried chicken, beer, and more beer.

The other notes seemed to be reminders about this practice or that party. Nothing helpful. About to turn away, he noticed a folded sheet of paper held up by a basketball magnet and took a closer look. A few nondescript doodles along with several telephone numbers he recognized as campus exchanges filled corners of the page. Beside each number was a set of initials. He lifted the magnet, slid the paper from the fridge, and turned it over. It was a flyer announcing Reverend Taft’s sermon last Sunday. Now that was interesting.

He leaned over the counter and waved the paper a few times in the air to get the cheerleader’s attention. “What’s this?”

This time she turned down the volume herself. “Just other girls, you know. I mean we’re not monogamous or anything,” she reported. “He thinks I’ll be jealous. Like I care.” Her smile was candid. “I get around, too.”

Great. Pappajohn grimaced. Hadn’t these kids heard about AIDS? Times certainly had changed, and from where he stood, it wasn’t a change for the better. He wondered how their parents would react if they knew their children played Russian roulette with their bodies. “Actually, I was interested in the other side of this flyer. It’s an announcement for one of Reverend Taft’s sermons. Is your, uh, boyfriend involved with Taft’s organization?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Our relationship isn’t exactly intellectual.”
The girl settled back on the sofa and returned to her TV.

Hopeless
, Pappajohn slipped the flyer into his pants pocket. Obviously if he wanted more information, he’d have to talk to Stanton himself. But not tonight. He still had to go over the security plans for Nitshi Day. He’d catch up with the kid in a day or two. If there was a Taft connection, it could wait.

“Don’t forget to put the chain on,” he said as he walked to the door.

“Sure.”

Pappajohn stood on the other side of the door and listened for a few moments. Nothing except the raucous laugh track. It was clear the girl had no intention of complying.

Hopeless
. He sighed.
Absolutely hopeless
.

9:00 P.M.

There were three messages waiting for Sammy when she returned to her apartment that evening.

One from Larry reminded her to be at the Nitshi demonstration by noon. Brian called to let her know that he’d just begun working on the tape — he’d get back to her later that week. The third message was from Reed. His voice sounded more tired than usual.

“Don’t call tonight. I just want to hit the sheets.” Sammy was about to click off the machine when Reed came back on. “Oh, and before I forget, I didn’t have time to check that pill bottle.”

Another beat and Reed added, “I did get the autopsy report on Conrad. The man definitely committed suicide. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Sammy rewound the machine, deleting the messages, then plopped onto the sofa, trying to digest the events of the day. What did it all mean? Yesterday, after the radio show, she’d doubted Conrad had killed himself. He hadn’t fit the suicide profile — not from what the dean had told her about his chances for tenure. Even his ex-wife had agreed. But now with Reed’s message, it seemed she was off base. She closed her eyes, running various scenarios through in
her mind. Maybe Dr. Osborne was right. Her own experience with suicide had robbed her of a certain objectivity.

Then there was Professor Nakamura. Another suicide. With the same gun. She thought about what she’d learned that afternoon at the police station. There’d been virtually no investigation. Pappajohn had been the cop on the case; he’d signed the report. Did the Japanese microbiologist really kill himself or had Pappajohn been too lazy to dig? The cop certainly hadn’t put himself out last year after the campus anti-abortion riot.

On the other hand, Sammy couldn’t forget Conrad’s expression when she’d questioned him about Nakamura or his cautioning her to be careful. Not to mention Pappajohn himself warning her to steer clear.
This poker game’s out of your league
.

Clear of what? Suppose there really was more to all this? What if Pappajohn wasn’t simply a retired cop looking for a regular paycheck with little or no work? What if someone told him not to look too hard into Nakamura’s death? What if the deaths of Conrad and Nakamura were somehow related? That thought made her shiver.