Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (28 page)

“Nope. He must’ve gone and told Taft everything. The next day, the Reverend’s lawyers threatened to sue the university. If the chancellor hadn’t smoothed things over, I’d be paying lawyers forever. Bad enough they took me off the air for the rest of the semester.”

“Sounds as if it’s wise to proceed with caution.”

Sammy nodded, reminded of Larry’s warning. “I don’t think the administration will be as understanding this time.”

Osborne sat up in his chair. “Tell you what. How about if I look into things a little? I might be able to open some doors without setting off fireworks. Meanwhile, don’t do anything for now. Let’s meet tomorrow morning and see where we go from here.” He looked at his spiral calendar book. “Nine o’clock is free.”

For the first time in days, Sammy felt a sense of release. Finally, there was someone she could trust who believed her. Rising, she took Osborne’s hand, then, catching sight of his wall clock reading 9:55, dashed from his office and down the hall to Student Health.

9:15 A.M.

“Do you send every kid with chickenpox home, Doctor?” Pappajohn asked.

“Not necessarily,” Palmer explained. “But the disease is highly contagious. If we don’t isolate students, we could have a campus-wide outbreak. Sending Miss Peters home to recuperate seemed the most prudent thing to do.” Closing the folder in his hands, he forced a smile.

“Why didn’t you contact her parents?”

The smile disappeared. “She is a legal adult. She said she wanted to call them herself,” Palmer said. “I did, however, tell her sorority sister and her boyfriend that she’d be leaving.”

Pappajohn pulled a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “Names?”

“Is there some problem, Sergeant?” Palmer asked.

“Lucy Peters never made it home.”

“Good Heavens.” Palmer seemed genuinely puzzled. “Where do you think she might be?”

“Frankly, doctor, I don’t have a clue. I was hoping you could shed some light on the matter.”

Palmer’s mouth compressed. “I wish I could, but I haven’t seen her since Monday. I suggested the train because in a private compartment, there’d be minimal risk of infecting others,” he explained. “She should’ve arrived by now.”

“Did you know which train she took?”

The doctor gave an impatient shake of the head. “I don’t have any idea. You could call Amtrak. There can’t be that many trains leaving for Iowa.”

“We’ll track it down,” Pappajohn stated. “Even so, that doesn’t explain why she never called her parents.”

“Now that doesn’t surprise me at all,” Palmer said. “The girl really wasn’t that sick. Maybe she decided to take off with her boyfriend for a few days and didn’t want to let Mom and Dad know. When you work with college kids —” The doctor held out his hands, appealing for understanding.

Pappajohn nodded. “I hear you, Doc. You know the boyfriend’s name?”

Palmer opened the file once again and skimmed through it briefly. “Here we are, Christopher Oken. The sorority sister’s Anne Sumner.”

Pappajohn wrote down the information. “Okay.” He looked at Palmer. “Is there anything else you remember that might be helpful? Anything she did or said?”

“I wish I could help you, Sergeant. But I’ve told you all I can.” With a brisk nod, Palmer turned his attention to the computer on his desk and began typing — a clear signal that the interview was over.

Taking his hint, Pappajohn moved toward the door, allowing himself a brief glance at the monitor. Palmer seemed to be entering rows of numbers from a yellow pad next to his keyboard. Arcane
medical data, Pappajohn figured. It was literally all Greek to him. Adding a polite “thank you,” he quietly left the room.

Finally alone, Palmer’s thoughts remained with Lucy Peters. That was a close call. He knew he was covered for the moment. Good thing he had the foresight to think of chickenpox. According to her medical history questionnaire, Lucy never had it as a child. He had to make sure no one found out she didn’t have it now.

Palmer picked up his telephone and began to dial.

Larry Dupree stared at the burned out shell of his radio station, conscious of the lump in his throat. Last night, he’d watched as flames swallowed most of the rickety wooden structure. With the devastating fire, his dreams of creating a dynamic campus communications center had literally gone up in smoke. All that remained was the concrete foundation. The campus facilities men were already demolishing the tottering remnants of the walls. Charred papers lay among a tangle of blackened studio equipment and melted records. The shade trees that still stood by the structure were heavily scorched. It was clear W-E-L-L was out of commission. Even setting up temporary new quarters would take several weeks.

The hardest blow of all was the loss of his young protégé. Brian
was
W-E-L-L. He lived and breathed the station — and kept it alive. Larry couldn’t begin to imagine how he would rebuild without the technical expertise and cheery optimism of his beloved engineer. Tragic irony that his fatigue — and those cursed cigarettes — would finally kill him.

“Find anything?” Larry flashed his station identification badge. “I was hoping we could salvage a few show tapes at least.”

“Ground zero so far,” the construction chief replied. “We’re still cleaning away ash and debris.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Not much could’ve made it through this one.”

Larry nodded, “Yeah. Ah know.” Even one of his favorite classic albums would be little consolation now.

“Look, we’ll call you if we come up with anything. But don’t hold your breath.”

Larry forced a wan smile. “Ah’m too old to believe in miracles.”

10:00 A.M.

“You’re not here for another story?” Nurse Matthews groaned when Sammy entered the Student Health Center. The nurse waved a hand around the crowded waiting room. What had been a deserted clinic the last time Sammy visited was now teeming with patients. “There’s no time to breathe today.”

“Probably healthier that way,” Sammy observed over the rasping coughs and loud sneezes of waiting students. “Actually, I’m here for a follow-up with Dr. Palmer.”

“Right, you’re on for this morning. Doctor said to squeeze you in.” The harried nurse focused on Sammy’s wounded head. “Terrible what happened yesterday. I’ve been on this campus nearly twenty-five years and I thought I’d seen everything. World’s going crazy.” Matthews touched the bandage on Sammy’s temple with a gentle hand. “Dr. Palmer will re-dress this.” She picked up a clipboard and paper and handed it to Sammy. “Have a seat over here.” She indicated a bank of chairs not far from her station, adding, “and fill out this questionnaire while I pull your chart.”

Sammy scanned the printed questions on the page. They seemed to cover everything from family history to sexual activity. “Is this form something new?”

Matthews shook her head. “Only for Dr. Palmer’s patients. I wish other doctors were as thorough, but then you don’t find many like Dr. P.” From the proprietary tone of her voice, it was evident that Nurse Matthews held the physician in high esteem.

“He takes the data and enters it into his computer so next time you come, he’s got it at his fingertips,” she went on to explain. “Wish we had time to do it for every student, but it’s hard enough to get some of our doctors to write legible notes.”

Sammy nodded, reminded of Reed’s chicken-scratch handwriting. “Oh, by the way,” she said, “as long as you’re off to the chart room, do you think you could bring Sergio Pinez’s medical record?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Well, I just wondered when Sergio was last seen.” Sammy related what Reed had said on the radio about people often seeing their doctors shortly before committing suicide.

The nurse shook her head. “First of all, the chart has been sent to Sergio’s family doctor in New York. Second, even if the chart were here, I couldn’t let you see it — not without the family’s permission. And third, I happen to know that Sergio hadn’t seen Dr. Palmer for at least a month.”

“Excuse me?” A willowy blonde leaned over the triage desk, vying for attention.

Matthews turned to her, efficiency personified. “Check in at station two, appointments at station three, then you come back here.”

Ignored, Sammy retreated to the bank of chairs and located a seat between a sneezer and a cougher. She tried not to turn in either’s direction, looking down instead, and concentrating on the questionnaire.

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t need to see anybody. I’m not sick,” Sammy heard the girl at the station say. “I’m just trying to find out about my friend.”

Nurse Matthews’s tone was brusque. “Sorry, I can’t release any medical information.”

“No, that’s okay,” the blonde interrupted. “I don’t want to know what she’s got. I’m trying to find out where she is. Lucy Peters. She came in to see Dr. Palmer last Monday. We haven’t seen her since.”

Hearing Dr. Palmer’s name, Sammy couldn’t help eavesdropping.

“Lucy Peters?” Matthews repeated. “We see so many students.”

“She’s a blonde too, about my height. A little plumper. Freshman,” Anne described her sorority sister. “She came in for a rash, it was chickenpox.”

“Chickenpox? You sure?” the nurse queried, her brows arched in
surprise. “I don’t remember sending a Health Department notification.” University policy required reporting contagious diseases, and Matthews was a stickler for following regulations.

“Dr. Palmer called me himself. Said he was sending Lucy home to recuperate.”

“Well, then I guess maybe that explains it,” Matthews replied. “He must have filled out the notification form.”

“But she never got there,” the girl replied.

“What?”

“Lucy’s parents called me last night. They said Lucy never made it home.”

Abandoning her questionnaire, Sammy focused on the conversation at the nurses’ station. Yesterday, she’d heard Luther Abbott was missing. Now Lucy Peters. Both patients of Dr. Palmer. Perhaps just a coincidence, but the reporter in her was intrigued. She walked over to where Anne and Nurse Matthews stood. “Was your friend involved in Reverend Taft’s group?”

“Not that I know of,” the blonde responded. “Why?”

“Was she friendly with a student named Luther Abbott?”

Anne shook her head.

“You mean the young man bitten by the monkey?” Nurse Matthews intervened.

Sammy started in surprise. That’s right! Luther Abbott had been injured at the animal rights demo. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“Had a terrible reaction to that bite,” the nurse said. “My guess is he didn’t take the pills Dr. Palmer prescribed. Passed out during a midterm and ended up at Ellsford General.”

Not according to what Sammy overhead in the hospital elevator yesterday. “Do you know where he is now?” she asked.

Nurse Matthews shrugged.

“Look. I’m really sorry,” Anne broke in, “but I’m here to find out about my friend. Is there any way I can see Dr. Palmer?”

“Sorry, he’s booked tight this morning,” the nurse remarked. “He’s already running a half hour late for her appointment.”

Anne turned to Sammy. “You mind if I come in with you — just to ask him —”

“Sure,” Sammy agreed, thinking it might be a good way to find out what happened to the two missing students.

“That’s out of the question,” said Matthews. “We can’t allow —” Her desk phone buzzed, interrupting her in midsentence. As she listened to the caller, her benign expression became a worried frown. “Yes. Yes, doctor, but, what about —? I suppose. Yes, we could. At least six. All right. Yes, doctor. Yes. Bye.”

Hanging up, she turned back to the two girls. “Well, it seems that neither of you will be seeing Dr. Palmer this morning. He’s had a sudden emergency.” Nurse Matthews motioned to Sammy. “Let’s go to the recovery room. I’ll change your dressing.”

“What happened?” Palmer demanded.

“Grand mal. She’s out now. I don’t know what function’s coming back.”

The doctor began to share his nurse’s pessimism as she described Lucy Peters’s sudden turn for the worse.

“We pushed twenty milligrams IV valium before the seizures stopped. I paged you right away.”

Just like Luther Abbott, Palmer thought. A rapid downward course in a matter of days.

“I hung a Dilantin drip,” the nurse said. “Should we get an EEG?”

Palmer stared down at his patient. With her eyes closed and the respirator gently rocking her chest, Lucy appeared peacefully asleep. The relentless beep of the cardiac monitor, however, was like an intrusive funeral march, reminding the doctor that the prognosis for the poor girl was hopeless. “No,” he said slowly. “That won’t be necessary. At this point all we can do is make her comfortable.”

While Nurse Matthews re-dressed Sammy’s wound, the young reporter was figuratively scratching her head. Two students, both patients of Dr. Palmer, had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. And Sergio. Another Dr. Palmer patient. Could there be
some connection? Perhaps a visit with Palmer was just what the doctor ordered.

“It’s all over.”

“Huh?” Sammy looked up at Matthews.

“The wound looks pretty good. Should heal without much of a scar.”

“Oh. Great.” Sammy smiled. “Thanks.”

“Just keep it clean and dry. You can change the dressing yourself from now on.”

“Okay.” Sammy rubbed her temples. “How about my head? Shouldn’t I have Dr. Palmer check me?” she pressed.

“You look fine to me,” Nurse Matthews said, “but if you like, I’ll squeeze you in with Dr. Harris.”

“Dr. Palmer’s not coming back today?”

The nurse shook her head. “Some kind of emergency at Nitshi. I don’t expect him back ’til closing.”

Didn’t Reed say he was working at the institute today? Sammy checked her watch — quarter to eleven. By the time she reached North Campus it would be close to twelve. Maybe she could wangle a lunch date with Reed. She wasn’t so much hungry for food as for answers. And if Reed couldn’t answer her questions, perhaps she’d have a chance to meet the elusive Dr. Palmer himself.

“Do you want to see Dr. Harris?” the nurse asked.

“Uh, no, I don’t think so.” Sammy gave her a perky smile. “As a matter of fact, I’m meeting my boyfriend up at Nitshi. He’s a med student working in the lab —”