Authors: Jean Lorrah
“Yeah—but that's something children get,” Brandy remembered. “And it doesn't happen in a few hours! Everett Land appeared normal in his Friday classes."
“Find out if he lied about his age,” suggested Church.
From the Personnel Office in the University Administration Building, Brandy was directed to the Dean's Office of the College of Humanities, in Callahan Hall.
Land's Curriculum Vitae included transcripts from graduate school, tear sheets of publications, and recommendations describing him as an avid scholar and a caring teacher. His sixteen-year record at JPSU was exemplary: he had published a book and been granted tenure, served as department representative to the faculty senate, supervised master's theses, continued to do scholarship, and three years ago a sabbatical had resulted in a second book. Meanwhile he had helped organize a program for JPSU students in Italy, teaching in the program twice himself.
Brandy sifted through the papers. “What about a birth certificate?” she asked.
“That will be filed at the Kentucky Teacher's Retirement System office in Frankfort,” the secretary who had provided the folder told her.
Brandy groaned inwardly. She would have to go to the computer for Land's other records. She regularly used the police computer to pull up criminal records, but when it came to employment, credit records, property ownership, investments, or other sources of clues, she was hopeless.
Brandy was coming out of the dean's office when Dan Martin emerged from the computer lab down the hall. A student followed, a striking red-haired girl who said worshipfully, “I never thought I'd understand java script, but you made it so clear, Dr. Martin!"
“You do those homework exercises,” he told her, “and if everything works tomorrow, you'll know you've got it."
“I'll be in the lab tonight,” the girl said, but Martin had turned away from her, his eyes meeting Brandy's. The student persisted, “Will you be in your office this evening, Dr. Martin? In case I need help?"
Martin returned his attention to his student long enough to say, “Bill Harris is running the lab tonight. If you're still having trouble tomorrow, stop in during my office hours.” And he left the girl there, calling, “Brandy!” as he strode down the hall.
The unexpected meeting produced a feeling Brandy thought she had left ten years in the past: an adolescent leap of the heart, so that it seemed for a moment as if she would fly away—or get sick.
“What are you doing here?” Martin was asking. “Is there news about Rett's death?"
Brandy quickly regained her professional equilibrium. “How did you know the body was Everett Land's, when I just found out this morning?"
“When you left the Administration Building, the news started spreading. The students were buzzing about it in my last class. It's true, isn't it?"
“Yes, it's true,” said Brandy. “I'm checking Dr. Land's records. He has no next of kin, and only the minimum life insurance the university provides, with the Red Cross as the beneficiary.” Brandy took refuge in professional mode. “You said you were colleagues but not close friends?"
“That's right,” said Martin. “I don't know anything about his personal life."
“Who were his friends?"
“I don't know. The closest contact I had with Rett was when I set up his computer. Purely a professional relationship. I'm sorry I can't be of more help."
“But you can,” said Brandy. “After I interview everyone who knew Dr. Land—"
“Everyone who knew him!” exclaimed Martin. “That's thousands of students over the years."
“No, we're looking for people who knew him well."
“Why are you still investigating? Was he murdered?"
“If he was,” said Brandy, “it was not by any means I know. But the cause of death makes no sense—old age in a man in his forties? Until we solve that mystery, we can't rule out murder. It could be poison,” she suggested, “or radiation. The coroner's sending tissue samples to the state lab. Meanwhile, we see if Land had any enemies."
“Every teacher has enemies,” Martin observed. “Jealous colleagues, dissatisfied students—they all gripe and growl, but there are always an unbalanced few. Students generally attack with hate letters, or 2:00am phone calls, though. Or charges of harassment these days. Only one in a million tries to gun down the teacher."
“But it does happen,” said Brandy. “If this is murder, it's certainly more subtle than using a gun!"
Martin shuddered. “Is there a poison that causes a person to die of old age in a few hours?"
“Not that I know of, but I can't rule out the possibility that someone's invented one. What genetic experiments are going on on campus?"
“None. Purchase is a regional university, not a research institution—at least not at that level."
“Well, I'm not a medical expert, either,” said Brandy. “Land could have had some disease we've never heard of. If I start to think I know what happened I could ignore clues that don't fit the theory.
“Dan,” she continued, “you're a computer expert. I need to access Dr. Land's medical insurance files to locate doctors who may have treated him, tax files, previous employment and education records, friends or family—"
“Start with Rett's own computer,” said Martin. “His e-mail directory will tell you who he corresponds with, and the programs on his hard disk will tell you the things he's—he was—interested in. His correspondence file will give you his snail mail contacts. As campus postmaster, I can access outgoing or incoming mail still in the mainframe."
Land's office was as Brandy had left it, but when they turned on Land's computer they found that the hard drive was not functioning. “It's been formatted,” said Martin.
Brandy thought that that would destroy the data—but Martin said, “Not necessarily,” and went to his office for a boot disk and a program that would unformat the fixed disk. “If whoever formatted it either didn't know to replace the data with zeroes, or didn't have time, we'll get it back."
The utility program worked; soon Land's hard drive was back in working order.
Because Martin had set up Land's computer, he was familiar with the utilities. He quickly searched out every data file the man had stored. To Brandy's disappointment, nothing was of obvious value.
“You do know one thing,” said Martin.
“I do?” asked Brandy, staring at a directory of .EXM files, which turned out to be examinations.
“You know that what killed Rett wasn't radiation. Or if it was, it didn't happen in this room or anywhere nearby. Radiation would have wrecked his computer too thoroughly for us to restore the data."
Brandy smiled. “I don't seriously suspect radiation. We just can't rule out any possibility at this stage."
Land's correspondence files yielded letters in a number of languages, dealing with travel arrangements, scholarly conferences, and publications. To Brandy's surprise, Dan was able not only to outdo her limping Spanish, but to translate French and German as well. Neither of them could cope with Italian, Greek, or Hebrew, though, so they simply printed those letters out to be translated later.
“Professor Land would have been our source for Greek or Hebrew,” said Brandy. “I can send the Hebrew to a rabbi in Paducah, but I'm not sure who can help with the Greek."
“Let me use Rett's PC,” said Martin. “I'll e-mail the files to a friend at Columbia."
None of Land's outgoing e-mail was left in the mainframe, but they printed out letters other people had sent him. One concerned the business of some state academic assessment committee, and another was an enthusiastic response from a professor at Yale to a proposed section of papers for a national conference. The last piece said simply “Queen to Queen's Bishop 3."
“Chess?” asked Brandy.
“That's odd,” said Martin. “If Rett was enough of a chess enthusiast to play by mail, why didn't he join the university Chess Club? I never even knew he played."
“We should send his correspondents the bad news,” said Brandy. “Possibly Land's closest friends were at other institutions—after all, how many people do you find in Murphy, Kentucky, who speak six different languages?"
“Seven, at least,” Martin said abstractedly. At Brandy's curious look he said, “He had to know Latin, but he wouldn't correspond in it. But you're right—we may find people on the Internet who knew him better than anyone on campus. Create a form letter. We'll send it to all his e-mail correspondents, and fax it to everyone else."
“Good idea,” said Brandy. “Thanks."
She could type perfectly well, so once Martin called up the word processing program for her, Brandy soon had the message composed. “Put in your e-mail address,” Martin told her. “Most people will answer you by tomorrow."
“I don't have an e-mail address,” said Brandy. “I'll put in the department fax number."
“Okay,” said Martin, “but add my e-mail address, too. I'll send it from my account. Most people will e-mail rather than fax because it's easiest to hit ‘Reply.’ I'll pass any messages on to you—unless there's something you don't want me to see."
“I can't imagine what,” said Brandy. They sent the e-mail messages, then printed out a copy of the letter for Brandy to fax from the police station.
“I don't know what to look for next,” said Brandy.
“In that case, I can't help any more now,” said Martin. “I have another class in thirty-five minutes. What you should do is back up the hard drive, then take the computer to your department expert."
“What department expert?"
“Don't you have a—I guess you'd call it a forensic computer expert?"
“In Frankfort. If we can't find out what we need, I guess we just have to pack up the computer and send it.” Brandy eyed the large but delicate machine doubtfully.
Martin chuckled again, that deep, soft sound he had made last night. It sent a thrill through Brandy, even though he was laughing at her ignorance. “You remove the hard disk and send that, back it up and send them the backup, or shoot them the contents via modem. But let me look first, okay? If it's not tampering with evidence?"
“That would be a huge help,” said Brandy, knowing the chief would not bother Frankfort unless he was sure that the Land case was murder. “Now,” she said, “can you help me access Land's state records?"
“Not from this computer. I can do it from my own with a couple of marginally legal hacker's tricks. But your computer has a perfectly legal police network program, and you have a police I.D. If you like, I can come down to the station after my last class and show you."
“You have no idea how much that would help,” Brandy admitted.
But she wasn't at the station at the agreed-upon time. Back downtown Brandy found notice of a parole hearing next week for one Rory Sanford, whom she had arrested a couple of years ago. She entered it on her desk and pocket calendars, and sat down to see what files she could clear off her desk.
“Lunch time!” announced Church. “Let's go over to Sturgeon's."
Sturgeon's was a favorite eating place of Murphy's police. In the morning it was a bakery, with the best doughnuts and pastries in town. At noon it became the place to get huge hamburgers and fries, heart attack heaven.
Brandy decided she could afford the calories. Tomorrow she'd try to eat at a place with a salad bar.
Sturgeon's was plain but clean, tucked into a strip mall between a supermarket and a furniture store. Its customers provided whatever atmosphere it boasted.
It was overlap time; the pastry case was down to the last lonely glazed barnyards and cake doughnuts, the apple fritters having sold out early. A few of the morning crowd still sat talking, crumbs of shattered white glaze revealing their recent indulgence. But the smell of hot grease was in the air, the sizzle of hamburgers sputtering on the grill.
The room was crowded with tables, the square Formica kind designed to seat four, which the customers moved about and joined together as they needed them. Men in jeans and cowboy boots occupied two tables, while women in the denim or polyester of housewives grouped at another. The sexes pretty much segregated themselves in the morning; at lunchtime more mixed groups arrived.
At the front, near the window, six men in business suits lingered over coffee. Every few minutes a roar of laughter erupted from their table.
Brandy doubted that whatever they had gathered to discuss was a laughing matter; it was simply impossible to get good ol’ boys to the point without the ritual of racist, sexist, and political jokes—the secret code of the white male power base. She knew all six of these men: the loan manager of the Bank of Murphy, the owner of the Century 21 real estate office, an investment counselor, two attorneys, and Judge L. J. Callahan.
Brandy wondered what they were plotting; the presence of the lawyers and the judge suggested potential connections with her work.
When the group broke up, the rest of the men left, but Judge Callahan began making the rounds of the rapidly filling tables. He was a big, imposing man—Brandy's mother admiringly compared him to Clint Eastwood—and politician through and through. He knew everyone's name, shook everyone's hand, and gave a big, insincere smile to one and all.
Callahan was somewhere close to sixty years old, but he had aged well. His hair was thick and iron gray, as were his eyes, which held no trace of warmth. He had a deep suntan, but few lines in his face. Brandy suspected he either had a tanning bed or wore makeup so he would always look good if caught by a camera. His suit was conservative but beautifully made, and he had the physique to show it: broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, flat of belly. His hands were big, strong, but uncalloused—only professional manicures could keep them so neat and perfect. His trademark Stetson hat hung nearby—this might not be cowboy country, but both the local rodeo tradition and the fact that Murphy lay between Nashville and Branson made such headgear common. Without a doubt Callahan knew the hat supported his John Wayne/Clint Eastwood/Harrison Ford image.
Callahan knew the law—Brandy had to give him that. He controlled his courtroom brilliantly, and his cases were rarely overturned on appeal.
Although he had not officially announced his candidacy for governor, Callahan's constant politicking had to mean something. He certainly didn't have to work to remain judge; the last two elections he had run unopposed.