Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (8 page)

The man shrugged. “All I know is I gotta get her outta here.” He reached into the cage once again, but the primate bobbed and weaved against the bars. “Can you give me a hand?”

Reluctantly, the tech held out his arms. Without hesitation, the animal came forward, grasping the tech’s neck with human-like fingers.

“She really likes you.”

“Yeah.” The tech helped place the pigtail in a small portable cage. “What’s going to happen now?”

The man threw a canvas cover over the top of the pen, ignoring the monkey’s howls of terror. “That’s up to the boss.” His reply was deliberately noncommittal. Fact was, he had orders to dispose of the macaque before the day was done.

Outwardly, Sammy appeared calm.

She didn’t let her guard down until she was halfway across campus. She’d run the distance in record time, her legs pounding the frozen ground with angry determination, her mind chanting the mantra,
I’m in control, I’m in control
to the rhythm of her feet.

As she ran, she looked around. Everything was just the same, the sights and sounds of campus as familiar to her now as hours before. Perhaps nothing had happened. But, of course, it had. Out of breath, Sammy collapsed on the dewy grass under a grove of large oak trees.

Why did death always seem to follow her? From the day her mother had passed away, it had haunted her with memories and guilt. Now it was Conrad.

My fault.

Sure, Conrad had been depressed. Drunk and depressed. A lethal combination. It had nothing to do with her. Just a horrible
coincidence. Still, she couldn’t shake a feeling that the sessions with him yesterday had something to do with his passing.

Inner protests couldn’t ease her growing anxiety. She didn’t want to lose control again. Maybe the relaxation exercises she’d learned in psychology class would help. Students held hands and closed their eyes — tried to visualize a peaceful mountain spring. The trickling water, the lullaby of the gurgle.

She almost giggled at the memory. Struggling to picture what the group leader was suggesting, her senses kept coming back to the moist left hand of her neighbor to the right. The poor kid was so nervous, his hands drenched with perspiration. After class, she’d gone over to talk to him. A freshman, not quite used to “new age” teaching methods. She remembered his soft voice and shy smile. And his name.

She sat bolt upright. Sergio Pinez. His name was Sergio Pinez! The boy who killed himself.

She dropped her head to her hands. Again. Another soul she had touched was gone.

Pappajohn remained in the empty Conrad house for a long time after Sammy ran out. He walked from room to room just as she had done, making a cursory survey of the surroundings, orienting himself to the scene. He was convinced there was no mystery to the professor’s death, but he’d be damned if some college kid was going to tell the university honchos that he hadn’t done his job.

Satisfied, he went out to his car and returned with a forensic kit. Slipping on a new pair of latex gloves, he carefully placed the typed note and the gun in separate evidence bags. He selected several strands of brown hair he found on the sofa — no doubt belonging to the victim.

Then he dusted a few areas for prints, including the windowsill and the front door, discovering several partials, certain the lab would identify them as belonging to either Conrad or Greene. Good thing hers were on file — ever since he’d hauled her down to the station
after last year’s anti-abortion demonstrations. His stomach twisted, recalling the grief she’d caused him then.

Still gloved, he wandered over to the cluttered desk and sat down in front of the Macintosh. Pappajohn was a PC man, but he knew enough about computers to appreciate the elegance of the Apple operating system. He flipped the “on” switch and waited for the smiling face to appear on the screen, indicating that all was well with the hard disk.

He double clicked the icon to view the computer’s contents. Under applications he found “E-net,” an online network that allowed Ellsford University computer users to talk to each other. Pappajohn could access the system on his own PC. It enabled him to work at home and download information from anywhere on campus through his modem.

After staring at the screen for a few minutes, Pappajohn began searching files. Within minutes he located the access log for the past month, still intact in the E-net folder. Several entries dated back to the beginning of November, but only one to last night. Exactly three minutes after eleven. That must have been just before Conrad died. Pappajohn double clicked, expecting an answer to his question, but a message appeared: “This document requires the proper access. Continue or Quit?”

Pappajohn frowned. Without the correct access code, he couldn’t review the log. Fortunately, all campus-linked E-net codes were recorded in the registrar’s office. As campus police chief, he could insist on a copy. He’d just have to wait until Monday when the bureaucrats were back at work.

He keyed in “Quit” and shut down the computer. Slipping off the latex gloves, he gathered up his forensic kit, walked out the front door, and locked it behind him.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Startled, Sammy looked up, the blurry white form standing over her slowly coming into focus. “Oh, God. Reed. I’m sorry.”

Reed Wyndham was dressed in a stained hospital work uniform,
a grim reminder of the brutal battles beyond this oasis of grass and trees. Like Pappajohn, a soldier of misfortune, to whom death was no stranger. And like Pappajohn, angry with her.

Sammy stood up slowly. “You wouldn’t believe what happened.”

He held up a hand. “Don’t. No more excuses. I don’t want to hear it. It’s always some crisis or another. You seem to think I’m never busy, that I have no responsibilities.” He brushed back an unruly blond lock from his brow. “I’m a fourth year med student. I’m at the beck and call of everybody up the ladder from interns to residents to junior faculty to people like Marcus Palmer. They all expect me to be there when they snap their fingers.”

Sammy took a deep breath and interrupted with a firm voice. “Look, I know that, but if you’d just let me explain.” Surely he’d understand when he knew the facts. “I had to stop by Professor Conrad’s for —”

“I can’t afford to jump up and down for you anymore, Sammy.” He fixed her with a look of exasperation. “You knew I had rounds at eight. At seven thirty, I called your room. No answer. I figured you were on your way, so I waited. By the time I finally did get to the hospital, I was twenty minutes late and caught hell from Palmer. And you know what the worst part was?”

Sammy started to reply, but was steamrolled by Reed’s tirade.

“The worst part was that I was worried about you. Maybe you were mugged on your way to my place or —” he shook his head, “or you were in some kind of trouble, so I asked a buddy to cover for me and started running around campus like a goddammed chicken trying to find you.” He let out a long exhale. “And you, you were on some stupid story about some stupid teacher.”

Sammy fought to control her own temper, though her emerald green eyes radiated frustration. “If you’d only listen for a second, you’d —”

“Forget it. It’s not important.
I’m
not important. You broadcast that bulletin loud and clear.”

“That’s not fair!”

His tone shifted to a fatalistic calm. “So I think you should find
someone who is important, Sammy. For you. Maybe someone like that brilliant Professor Conrad.”

Sammy’s hands were shaking, her face red with anger.

Reed didn’t linger. “I’ve got to get back to the hospital. Patients are waiting. For
me
.”

She considered going after him, then acknowledged the futility, leaned back wearily onto the bark of the giant oak tree, and watched him disappear.

Once again, she was alone.

“Awesome.”

Lucy Peters turned to face her sorority sister. She’d been trying on clothes all morning, hoping to select just the right outfit for the Midterm Madness party that night. Right now she wore a turquoise tank top that accented her eyes and another pair of attributes. “Think so?”

Anne Sumner nodded. “Chris’ll be blown away.”

“I hope so.” Christopher Oken was a sophomore from Philadelphia, and probably the coolest guy Lucy had ever known. They’d been seeing each other every weekend since they’d met four months earlier. Compared to the revolving-door social life common among freshmen, theirs was considered a long-term relationship. Lucy hoped Anne would be lucky enough to find someone so special. “Who’re you bringing?”

“Mike’s got a chemistry exam on Monday, so I’m taking Ron. Of course, if I had a hunk like Chris, I’d go out on both.”

Lucy laughed as she stepped out of her jeans. “You sure like to take chances, don’t you?”

Anne flipped open her purse to show her sorority sister a color assortment of condoms. “Thirty-one flavors. AIDS isn’t in my game plan.”

Lucy nodded in agreement. “You’re telling me. You can’t be too careful.” She wound a gold choker around her neck and reached under her hair to latch it.

“Hey, what’s that?” Anne pointed to an elevated, quarter-sized pink circle on Lucy’s chest.

Lucy checked the mirror. The spot looked so big. “I don’t know.” She touched it gingerly with one finger.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Itch?”

“No.” Lucy rubbed the area. It didn’t change. “I never noticed it before.”

“Love bite?” Anne teased.

A sudden fear gripped Lucy. Could she have caught some venereal disease? That would be really rank!

Anne would know. She was so experienced. Lucy ventured, “You don’t think it’s something like, uh —?

“Like what?”

“Herpes,” Lucy whispered.

Anne laughed. “No way.”

“How do you know?”

“Let’s just say I’m from California.” Anne bestowed Lucy with an innocent smile. “Relax, it’s probably nothing. If you’re that worried, why not stop by Student Health?”

“I thought they were closed.”

“I mean Monday. Just cover it with a little foundation and it won’t even show.” Anne consulted her watch. “Shit, I’ve got to pick up my dress from the cleaners before noon. Catch you later.”

“Sure.” Lucy barely noticed her friend’s departure. She was still staring into the mirror with a worried frown. Anne was right. It was probably nothing. She touched the pink circle with disgust. Just something to make her look gross.

As she reached for her makeup, her eyes fell on a business card lying on her bureau. Should she give that nice doctor a call? Didn’t he say he was available any time for an emergency? Day or night?

And with a big date with Chris only hours away, this was an emergency.

• • •

The Student Health building stood deathly silent, the air still and heavily scented with disinfectant. An infirmary for ghosts, Sammy thought, as she tiptoed by the empty, darkened exam rooms, toward the nursing center. A single swatch of light came from the triage office where an on-duty nurse took student phone calls about medical problems when the clinic was closed.

“Hello.” Sammy stuck her head in the door.

Nurse Lorraine Matthews was busy on the phone. A doughy, gray-haired woman, one could easily imagine her gathering a frightened student to her ample-sized bosom to offer solace. The embodiment of
in loco parentis
, in the place of a parent, Sammy thought, smiling.

The nurse raised a finger in greeting and nodded at Sammy, mouthing the words “just a minute.” Sammy entered and took a seat near the bank of phones.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. Well, the Student Counseling Center has a support group. Yes, every Tuesday, depression. Uh-huh. That’s the number. Okay, and remember, call us if you think things are getting worse. Yeah, bye.”

The nurse put down the phone, shaking her head. “It’s been like that all morning.”

Sammy arched an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Nurse Matthews pointed to the lit lines. “The suicide. Students are really upset. I’ve referred at least ten over to the Counseling Center. Those are just the ones that called.”

“Well, then, maybe our show will help,” Sammy offered.

The nurse agreed. “We’ve got to reach out to these kids in the next few days.” She held up a finger again, as she turned to pick up another call. “Just a second. Student Health Service, Nurse Matthews. What can I do for you, Jeff? Uh-huh. It’s pretty rough, I know. No, you can’t blame yourself. Sure, uh-huh. It sounds like you tried.”

I tried to help her.

No one could help her.

“So what’re you planning to do on your show?” The nurse’s matter-of-fact voice, finally off the phone, brought Sammy back to the present.

“Sorry. We’re planning a memorial for the guy — for Sergio. We’ll have remembrances from his friends, teachers, classmates.” Sammy looked away for a moment. “And we’re thinking about getting a counselor to talk about suicide.”

“Sounds perfect,” the nurse said.

“Would you like to be on the air?”

“Monday afternoon? Impossible. Monday and Friday are our busiest days. I’m covering triage.” Nurse Matthews’s face brightened. “But, look, we’ve got somebody terrific we can send over — a med student working with us who’s got a great bedside manner — and he’s not that much older than the students. He’d be perfect.”

“Great. How do I contact him?”

“I’ll give you his number. Hold on.” The nurse nodded at the blinking phone lines and reached for one of the buttons as she picked up the phone.

“Student Health Service, Nurse Matthews. Yes, Lucy, uh-huh.” She scribbled the name down on the almost filled call-in log. “Where’s the rash? How long? Any fever? Well it’s probably nothing to worry about, we can see you on Monday. I’m sure it can wait. If you — Who? Dr. Palmer? Okay, just hold on a second, I’ll put you right through.”

Matthews quickly picked up the receiver of a red phone off to one side and dialed a number. When the party answered, she patched Lucy through, then returned to the next blinking line.

“Student Health Service, Nurse Matthews. Yes, uh, what can I do for you, Tim? Uh-huh. I know, it’s terrible, but talking helps.”