Chapter 4

  

I got up early the next morning, showered and washed my hair. I stood naked in front of the full-length mirror as I dried my hair. Long legs, full breasts, pale skin marked by a narrow cape of freckles on my shoulders. My hips seemed wider than the last time I had looked. I turned sideways. Another few pounds and my butt would be too big. But, on the whole, my body looked good. Except it felt empty. I was thirty-five and single. I was a virtual orphan. My mother was dead and my father so lost in senility he rarely recognized me. Sadie was right. I did need a man in my life. Particularly now that I had lost Henry, I needed a broad shoulder, arms around me, someone to cradle me in bed when I wept.

Thirty minutes later, I was still in my bedroom when the doorbell rang at exactly eight o’clock. I took one more look in the mirror before I went downstairs. I had tried on a black dress, but decided Henry would have hated me in black so I put on a red wool suit. Red was my best color. It set off my hair. Red was a positive color. And I didn’t want anyone —especially Joe Morgan—to see me looking washed out and dreary.

Joe stood on my doorstep in a heavy leather jacket, khakis creased so sharp I wondered if he had been military before joining the police force.

We sat in my living room drinking coffee. I told him I had to see President Lewis at ten but I would tell him everything I could before then.

“How does the journalism school fit into the university? I am more familiar with the term college than school,” said Joe.

“The journalism school is just like a college,” I said. “It’s an independent unit and the dean reports to the provost.”

“That’s Fred Stoddard, right?” Joe was writing notes. “So Henry Brooks reported to Stoddard and Stoddard reports to President Lewis?”

“Yes.”

“And you are the Associate Dean who reported to Brooks?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about your relationship with Brooks”

“Henry hired me, helped me get tenure, and then called me into his office a year ago and told me he wanted to groom me for administrative responsibility. I thought the senior faculty might resent me in that job. But Henry said I would be good and he needed me. There had been a lot of fighting among the faculty about the curriculum and he wanted someone objective. He was also...a wonderful friend.” I fended off tears.

“Did any of the faculty object to your promotion?”

“A few thought they should have been asked to vote on it, but Henry said he could exert the dean’s prerogative and promote his own choice. A few complained, but most of them went along. Some began to lobby me to get on their side of the dispute about what courses we should teach.”

“And did you take a side?” Joe’s eyes were as green as seawater and fixed on me.

“No, I didn’t. Henry’s decision to promote me to associate dean allowed me impartiality.”

Joe sat back in his armchair, turned the page in his notebook and looked at me for a long minute. “Tell me about the faculty, particularly the dean’s major opponents in this argument you all were having—those who would have been on his enemies list.”

I started with George Weinstein, a former editor whose family once owned a large metro newspaper. George taught advanced reporting, editorial writing, and editing courses. After college, he edited his family’s newspaper. After the paper was sold, he went to grad school. He inherited a great deal of money.

“So he doesn’t have to work?”

“I think he likes being in charge of a class. It reminds him of running a newsroom,” I said. George is a big man with broad shoulders and a loud voice. He hates to be interrupted but consistently interrupts others.

Next, Simon Gorshak, who taught news writing and loved traditional journalism and first amendment issues. Seventy-five years old but not inclined to retire. A perpetual grouch, Simon was once dean of the school years ago, long before Henry, long before Henry’s predecessor.

“What Simon never mentions is that he lost the confidence of his faculty and was forced to resign as dean.”

Joe looked up from his notebook. “Resign?” Green eyes widened. “If he resigned, why is he still here?”

“Because when a dean resigns he often just goes back into the faculty as a tenured full professor. He doesn’t have to leave the university, just the dean’s position.”

An ironic smile looked good on Joe’s strong face. “And how does that work out?”

“Sometimes the old dean can be a real pain in the ass, especially for the new dean.”

“I’ll bet,” said Joe, stretching his arms. “Okay. Who else?”

“Edwin Cartwell, whom you met last night. Edwin’s a journalism historian who teaches freshman and sophomore writing classes and a graduate class in journalism history. History is also his research subject. Yale graduate, wrote for a literary magazine, then got a PhD from Georgia.”

“Yeah, I heard a lot about Yale and the magazine last night at the station.”

“Edwin’s very proud of his eastern heritage,” I said. “Edwin’s also a snob. A traditionalist and a snob. Still disapproves of The New York Times going from black and white to color photos on the front page.”

“Hmm. I read the Times online edition every morning. It’s always been in color.”

How about that. A Nevada cop who read The New York Times.

“So, those are the three who fought with the dean,” said Joe, resuming his note taking. “Did Henry Brooks have any strong supporters besides you?”

“Oh yes,” I said, thinking fondly of Max Worthington. “Most of us actually supported the dean. Max Worthington and Phyllis Baker were very vocal at meetings.”

“And the rest of the faculty?”

“They mostly observed,” I said, noticing the clock read twenty past nine. “I could say more about them, but I think I should be leaving for my meeting with President Lewis.”

We stood up simultaneously and he reached out his hand. A warm, strong handshake. “Thank you, Red. I appreciate the background information.”

“Why are you so interested in the faculty dispute? Does it have anything to do with what happened to Henry?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Joe, reaching for his jacket. He stuffed his notebook into his pocket and turned toward the door. “But any accident resulting in death requires investigation.”

I felt a chill in spite of my warm wool suit. “Do the police think...?”

“The police don’t think anything yet, Red. Except for me. I personally think I’d like to know a lot more about the journalism school if you can tolerate my curiosity.”

“You’ll find I’m very tolerant, Detective Morgan.”

“Joe, please. We did meet at Elaine’s,” he said, this time with a broader smile. He walked into the hall to my front door. “May I call you?”

“Please do.”

Please do.