The Invasive Species, page 10
part #4 of Professor Molly Mysteries Series
“So in other words, we have bupkis,” Emma said.
“What scares me is whoever did it is still out there,” I said. “And there’s no logic to it. No one’s claimed responsibility.”
“I’m not worried,” Emma said. “The police are on it, and better yet, so is Pat. If the Mahina PD don’t catch the guy right away, Island Confidential is gonna get to the bottom of it.”
“Please be careful, Pat,” I said.
“Sure.” Pat didn’t look at either of us.
“Pat?” Emma asked. “You’re going to follow this story, aren’t you? You’re not gonna let the murderers get away, are you?”
“You’re not doing the story?” I stared. “Did Detective Medeiros tell you to back off?”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with Medeiros.” Pat folded his arms and leaned back in the metal chair. “I’ve decided to take the job.”
“What do you mean take the job?” Emma demanded.
“With the Mahina State University marketing department.”
“Oy,” Emma exclaimed. “The marketing department yet. What a sellout.”
“What did they tempt you with?” I asked. “Immortality? Unimaginable wealth?”
“I’d be completely in charge of our social media strategy.”
“Listen to Mister Big Shot,” Emma scoffed. “Our social media strategy, he says.”
“Do they know about Island Confidential, with all of those scathing exposes about our university administration?” I asked. “Do they know it’s you?”
“Oh yeah. Your article about the library workers? If they ever find out you’re behind the story, you’re gonna be out on your tochas so fast.”
“They know about Island Confidential. They’re okay with it.”
“Who’s they exactly?” I asked. “To whom are you reporting?”
“Victor Santiago from Dixon’s office.”
“You’re working for Torquemada?” Emma crossed her arms. “You’re dead to me.”
“He said I’d done a great job of building Island Confidential’s brand. They wanted to infuse that edgy spirit into their social media outreach.”
“I thought you hated words like branding and edgy and infuse,” I said. “Anyway, are you sure you’ll have enough time for Island Confidential if you take this on?”
“Molly, I’m getting full health, vision, and dental. And five times what I’m making now teaching intro comp.”
“Well, when you put it that way,” Emma said. “I see your point. Pat, you should totally take the marketing job.”
“What about Island Confidential?” I persisted.
“Well, that’s the catch. I’ll have to suspend publication.”
“You have to stop publishing Island Confidential?” I exclaimed. “Pat, this is classic co-optation. That’s what this is about. The administration doesn’t want a social media manager. They want to shut down Island Confidential. They’ve decided that your investigative reporting is a threat. They’re neutralizing you.”
“That’s a great insight, Molly, coming from a well-compensated, tenure-track professor with a cushy benefits package and a nice pension.”
“I’m not saying you don’t deserve a living wage, Pat, but are you sure you want to—”
“Maybe they want to hire me because they think I’ll do a good job. Did that ever occur to you?”
“Of course you’d do a good job. You’d be great at it. But Pat, think about it. When has actual competence ever mattered to these people?”
“I have to go. I’m going to be late to class.” Pat stood and left.
“I didn’t mean to insult him,” I said to Emma.
“And yet, you managed to.”
“Emma, I think someone in the administration doesn’t want Pat looking into this murder.”
“You think it’s because of the murder?” She emptied her cup. “It’s not all he was working on, you know. What about his column on how our Student Retention Office is spending its Foundation grant? Or the series about the chancellor’s research trips to Cancun? Or that new campus network that redirects our private emails onto the scrolling LED display in the Compliance Office?”
“He wasn’t able to verify the thing about the scrolling display. But you just confirmed my point. The administration has a lot of reasons to shut him down.”
“I know you’ve seen all those emails from the chancellor,” Emma said, “About how we need to attract and retain more students to keep those tuition dollars coming in. Maybe the administration thinks this social media thing will help. And they know Pat will do a good job.”
“Of course he will. You’re right. Maybe I’m being too suspicious. It’s just sometimes I get the feeling that the administration is watching our every—”
My office phone rang.
“What is it?” Emma asked when I’d hung up.
“That was Marshall Dixon’s secretary. Vice President Marshall Dixon wants us to report to her office.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Vice President Marshall Dixon was located in the new Student Retention Office Complex, a gleaming edifice of glass and steel, as out of place on our shabby little campus as a spaceship. Emma and I made our way through the vast, chilly lobby, our footsteps ringing on the hard floor, to where the receptionist sat hunched against the cold.
She stood and pulled her puffy white sweater tight around her as we approached, and rubbed her arms for warmth.
“Right through here, Professors.” Her voice echoed off the glass walls and metal girders. She led us down a series of hallways to Marshall Dixon’s office, quickly announced us, and scurried away.
Vice President Marshall Dixon presided over a sleek, clutter-free koa desk. A separate conversation area featured a couch and two upholstered chairs arranged around a low coffee table. The decor was like Marshall Dixon’s outfits—expensive, beige, and understated to the point of being utterly forgettable. Coco Chanel would approve.
Already seated in one of the chairs was a compact, wiry man, whom I recognized as Victor Santiago, the new marketing director. (His actual title was something else, much longer than “marketing director” and impossible for me to remember.).
Emma and I hovered uncertainly in front of the couch until Marshall nodded an invitation to seat ourselves. We sat down right next to each other, like two naughty little girls who were about to get a scolding.
“First of all, congratulations again to both of you on bringing in that grant,” Marshall said. “With our reduced appropriations from the legislature, returned overhead is crucial to our operations.”
Emma and I mumbled thanks. I was certain Marshall didn’t call an urgent meeting just to say nice things about our grant. There was a “but” on the way.
“But a sensitive issue has come up,” she continued. “Do you know Victor Santiago, our new Associate Vice President in Charge of Student Outreach and Community Relations?”
Santiago’s red aloha shirt with yellow hibiscus shapes looked similar to one Donnie had. It must have been from the same local designer. If the vivid pattern was intended to make the glowering Victor look any less menacing, it failed. The too-cheery colors made his island version of business casual look like an unconvincing disguise.
Emma and I exchanged handshakes and murmured nice-to-meet-yous with the Associate Vice President in Charge of Student Outreach and Community Relations. Victor Santiago’s stiff attempt at a smile only made him look more villainous.
“Are you the one who did the cash register ad?” Emma asked.
“Oh, I’ve seen that one,” I added. It was the nicest thing I could think of to say and still be truthful.
I had been watching the evening news with Donnie when the ad came on. MAHINA STATE: A GREAT VALUE. A crudely drawn cash register wearing a mortarboard cap danced on a white background as dollar signs popped out in sync with tacky music. A local radio announcer provided a voiceover trumpeting our bargain-basement tuition rates and Mahina’s low cost of living.
Donnie had thought the cheesy commercial was funny. I was mortified.
“We’ve discontinued the campaign.” Victor said it with such finality it sounded like the person responsible for it had been “discontinued” as well.
“Our research shows our target customer sees college as a luxury good. Like a designer handbag. Anyway, Marshall, should I go ahead with..?”
She nodded.
“So, as Marshall said, we appreciate you professors who bring in outside funding. We are very aware of the role your research plays in raising the profile of the university. Unfortunately, high visibility is a two-edged sword. The incident at Art Lam’s farm has become a concern.”
Emma winced at the phrase “two-edged sword.” I didn’t think it was the best choice of words either, under the circumstances.
“The victim was a student here,” Marshall said. “Harold Nordmann.”
“Harold?” Emma said.
“He sometimes went by Primo,” Marshall added.
“I thought they hadn’t released the name of the victim,” I said.
“Not publicly,” Victor said. “Molly, Harold Nordmann was enrolled in your business planning class. In the seventh week of the semester he filed, and later withdrew, a harassment complaint against you. Now you happen to be first on the scene when his body is discovered.”
“That wasn’t public knowledge either,” I protested.
“No one is accusing you of anything,” Marshall interjected. “But we do need to know any relevant information so we’re not blindsided. What can you tell us about the cheese incident?”
I stared at my folded hands. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Marshall Dixon and Victor Santiago were making me feel like a criminal.
“I’d missed lunch that day.” I heard a scratching sound and looked up to see Victor taking notes on a yellow pad. “It wasn’t even during my posted office hours. I usually leave my office door propped open for airflow, because the air conditioning doesn’t work well. So, Primo saw my open door, came in, saw me eating a piece of string cheese, and—”
“Freaked out,” Emma interrupted.
“He took it personally,” I interrupted back. “As if I were eating my cheese at him, when really I was just hungry.”
“How did you get him to withdraw the complaint?” Victor asked.
“I think someone in administration told him it wouldn’t go anywhere. It was when the owner of Malama Dairy was on our board of trustees.”
“He remained enrolled in your class,” Victor said. “And you gave him a passing grade in the end.”
“He earned a passing grade.”
“Did you have any other contact with him?” Victor asked.
“After he left Mahina State, I didn’t see him for a long time until I happened to run into him at the yoga studio in town.”
“Did he remember you?” Victor asked.
“Yes. And he was perfectly friendly. No hard feelings, apparently.”
“He was very friendly,” Emma said. “You should ask Molly’s husband about it.”
I glared at Emma, but fortunately, Marshall was already moving on.
“There’s another issue here,” Marshall said. “Harold, or Primo if you prefer, had become very active in the anti-biotech movement.”
“And you have a biotech grant,” Victor added.
“It’s a grant to investigate attitudes toward biotech,” Emma said. “We’re not taking a position on it.”
“But you understand this creates a perception issue,” Marshall said. “Especially with Mr. Nordmann’s high profile.”
“High profile?” I said.
“His blog,” Victor said.
“Now, no one is trying to tell either of you how to do your research,” Marshall said. “At Mahina State, academic freedom is sacrosanct.”
I nodded, thinking how much “academic freedom is sacrosanct” sounded like “people are our most important asset,” “we respect your privacy,” and similar corporate eyewash.
“However,” she continued, “what’s at stake is not just the reputation of the university. Your personal safety and the security of our physical plant are our immediate concerns.”
“Our personal safety?” I said.
“You think someone’s gonna try bomb my lab or what?” Emma said.
“We can’t rule it out,” Victor said. “There have been incidents at other institutions.”
Emma and I looked at each other.
“What should we do?” I asked.
“You don’t want us to give the grant back, do you?” Emma said.
Giving the money back didn’t seem like such a bad idea now. Not after all this talk of physical safety and lab bombings.
“Returning the grant won’t be necessary,” Marshall Dixon said.
“But we think both of you should keep a low profile for the time being,” Victor said. “With your permission, we’re going to announce you’ve suspended work on the grant for the time being out of respect for the deceased. Hopefully it’ll make you less of a target. We’ve just hired a new social media director, so he’ll start spreading the word right away.”
“I believe you know him,” Marshall said. “Patrick Flanagan. We’re excited about what he can bring to the table.”
“Now, in the meantime,” Victor said, “we don’t want you to go into hiding.”
“I don’t mind hiding,” I said.
“Our development office will be having a dinner for a few of our most important prospects,” Marshall said. “Some of them are very interested in getting to know our faculty. When we were working on our seating plans, both of your names came up. We trust you’ll make time in your busy schedules for this important event.”
“You are both assets to Mahina State at this point in time,” Victor said. “The fact that your research program has been halted by tragedy makes you both seem very relatable and sympathetic.”
“Seem?” Emma said.
“We’ll be there. At the donor dinner. No problem. Right Emma?”
As we left Marshall’s office, I caught a glimpse of Victor leaning over to Marshall and whispering into her ear. Emma saw it too. We waited until we were outside, in the hazy afternoon sunshine, before we dared to speak.
“Isn’t she married?” Emma asked. “Marshall Dixon?”
“I know she was married,” I said. “But I heard she’s divorced now. I think.”
“Interesting.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
My sunglasses fogged up the minute we stepped outside, so great was the difference between the refrigerated air of the Student Retention Office and the humid outdoors. I removed my temporarily opaque eyewear and shielded my eyes with my hand.
“So Marshall Dixon works for the Student Retention Office now?” Emma squinted at me. “I thought she was higher ranking.”
“It’s an administrative thing,” I said. “They keep moving positions into the SRO, so the SRO’s grant can cover the salaries. That’s one of the reasons they keep growing.”
“Have you ever noticed how the Student Retention Office Complex is mauka of the campus, above everyone else?” Emma said.
I turned and squinted back at the soaring glass and metal edifice looming over the squat, tin-roofed buildings below it.
“The symbolism is purely accidental, I’m sure.”
“They think they run the place,” Emma said.
“They do run the place. They decided the psych department’s required stats sequence was ‘discouraging’ students. Next thing you know, statistics is optional. Students complain history is boring. Boom. History’s no longer a graduation requirement. Oh, and remember what happened to our computer engineering major?”
“I keep forgetting we used to have a computer engineering major,” Emma said. “Hey, you have to be anywhere right now? I wanna go back to your office and check out Primo Nordmann’s blog.”
“I thought they didn’t want us doing any more research for the grant right now.”
“Nah, nah. They don’t want us doing it publicly, that’s all. We can go online an’ look stuff up. Who’s gonna know?”
We were coming up on the double glass doors of the library.
“Okay. But let’s do it here. Not in my office.”
“The library?” Emma asked.
“The library computers are open to everyone, so they can’t trace who’s using them. The computers in the library lab don’t require a login. Not to sound paranoid or anything, but they told us to back off, and I’m pretty sure they can see what we do on our office computers.”
“You mean you don’t wanna end up broken on the rack, which is probably what happened to that poor schlemiel who did that cash register commercial.”
“Exactly.”
The library’s glass door wheezed open to admit Emma and me to an architectural time capsule. The terrazzo floor, teak shelves, and avocado vinyl chairs with the chrome legs had been installed somewhere around the middle of the last century. The original plans had been drawn up before such a thing as a student computer lab existed, so the lab was an add-on afterthought, tucked behind the government documents collection. The lab looked sparsely populated, but it wasn’t for lack of student demand. It was because most of the available monitors were connected to nothing. Most of the computers had died and never been replaced.
Once Emma and I finally claimed a functioning computer, a quick search turned up Primo Nordmann online.
“Bananawrangler-dot-com,” Emma exclaimed. “His website is called Banana Wrangler?”
Emma’s voice echoed in the suddenly quiet computer lab. Two girls at the next station turned from their spreadsheet to stare at us.
“I think it’s supposed to be a reference to his diet,” I whispered. “Look. Tantric Zenmaster. Fruititarian Warrior.”
“Are you sure?” Emma said. “Cause he likes to eat fruit? Cause to me, banana wrangler sounds like a double entenuendo.”
