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
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
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