A Murder of Crows (16 page)

Yslan had just expressed her disgust with the sculptor and her affair, and Yvgeny Smukler nodded sagely—everything about him was sagely. Then he said, “How very unfortunate.”

For a moment Decker thought he was going to launch into a discussion of the mistake that Ancaster College made when it went co-ed in the early 1970s. But he didn't.

“You must understand that institutions, like Ancaster College, are stuck in aspic.”

Yslan looked to Decker for clarification.

Decker enjoyed not offering any.

Finally Yslan asked, “Aspic? Can you explain that?”

“Certainly.”

Unfortunately for Yslan, Yvgeny Smukler was enjoying his momentary notoriety.

Like the old woman who lied in
Twelve Angry Men, Decker thought.

Yvgeny Smukler shifted his long body and grimaced. With a smile he explained, “A disk in my back.”

“Aspic, Mr. Smukler?” Yslan prompted.

“Yes. These institutions are hermetically sealed. A tenured professor has to be caught in flagrante with a pregnant Chihuahua selling term papers in a stolen car before he or she can even be considered for dismissal.” The man smiled, crinkling the already crinkly skin of his face—he was clearly pleased with his turn of phrase. “But, and here's the big but, they're not paid well. They often have in excess of nine or ten years of postsecondary education but they make less than an autoworker makes, in some cases less than a kindergarten teacher. The only happy ones are the professors who make more money outside the college than in.”

“As so many did.”

“They were the fortunate ones who the military found to be of value.”

Substantial understatement there. Professors at Ancaster College had been called on as experts in things ranging from the nuclear threat in Iran to the actual functioning of drone aircraft, which they in private called sneakers. Well, they could call them whatever they wanted because they'd invented much of the technology that allowed the things to do their deadly work.

“And was there much jealously over their successes?”

Yvgeny Smukler smiled. “Does the pope wear a dress? Yes—some of their less successful colleagues were not pleased.”

“More anticapitalist nonsense?”

The older man shrugged his sloping shoulders. “I'd prefer to keep politics out of our conversation, but I think it true to say that many of those at places like Ancaster College who can't get outside work turn inward. To them perks become everything.”

“And sleeping with students is a perk?”

“To some of them. To others it's the vacation time—better than fighting over closet space.”

Decker saw that Yslan was losing patience and asked, “Could you elaborate?”

“Certainly. When there's nowhere up to grow, stupid things like having a closet in your office—or a window overlooking a courtyard—become the be-all and end-all.”

“Things become that trite?” Yslan asked.

“And of course, academia can also become self-protective and incestuous.”

“Swell,” she said.

“Despite all that, Special Agent Yslan Hicks, they also sometimes manage to produce the most important of all resources.”

“And what are those?”

“You know what they are. Special people. Gifted people. Folks with the brainpower to keep this country strong—and in a science and math place like this, to keep the country's military might such that the homeland is safe.”

* * *

Back on the campus, Yslan turned to Decker and said, “So tell me what else I don't know about places like this.”

“Let me count the ways.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Have you read le Carré's book
A Murder of Quality
?”

“The one you bought at the Johannesburg airport?”

“The very one.”

“No. Why?”

“Well, he talks about discontent in small-town universities. In that case it led to a murder.”

“In this case to a terrorist act? Are you out of your mind or are you just making a really bad joke?”

“Fine. I thought you wanted me to—”

“Okay—so tell me.”

“There's lot of discontent in places like this.”

“Enough to—”

“There are science labs here, aren't there? So there are the chemicals in those labs—and certainly the know-how necessary to make a bomb. Right?”

“Yes, so?”

“Well, who has access to those chemicals?”

Yslan nodded.

“Check on lower-level faculty members. Places like this shamelessly use nontenured teachers. They hire them on what they call CLAs—contractually limited agreements. And they pay them peanuts. Year after year they dangle the possibility of turning their one- or two-year contracts into fully tenured positions. They seldom if ever come through. It keeps these folks on a string—it also allows this place to offer the education they do without breaking the bank.” Decker waited for a response but got none so he added, “That would piss me off; wouldn't it piss you off?”

“Not enough to do that,” she said, pointing in the vague direction of the blast site.

“Yeah. Well, you have a future ahead of you. You don't feel the world is using you. You don't look around every day and see your peers quadrupling your year's salary in a month or that almost all of the students you teach have trust funds greater than your potential lifetime earnings.”

Yslan looked to Mr. T, who nodded and headed out of the room—to collect a list of the Ancaster College's CLA workers, Decker presumed.

“What else?” Yslan demanded.

“The academic journals in which everyone has to publish are nests of vipers. The government in Kabul could learn things about corruption and kickbacks from these folks.”

“How do you—”

“Everyone has to publish, right?”

“Yeah, publish or perish—yeah, I know that.”

“And the only place to publish is in these journals—all of which are supposedly juried.”

“What does ‘juried' mean?”

“A panel of your peers is supposed to read your submission and okay it for publication.”

“So the folks on these juries have a lot of power.”

“Literally over hiring and firing. No publish—no job.”

“So who gets on these juries?”

“They're appointed.”

“By whom?”

“It's where the corruption comes in. Academics get on the juries by doing favours for powerful academics—sometimes agreeing to nix an article of an enemy, sometimes agreeing to allow a friend's article to go to publication when the work is dubious at best.”

Yslan thought about that for a moment then asked, “Who juries the juries?”

“Now there's a good question. Who juries the juries? No one.”

“Swell.”

“See who on the senior faculty at Ancaster College sat on the juries. Who they've said no to. Who now hates them.”

“Hates them enough to—”

“Having someone stand in your way—blocking your progress—can be a powerful motive.”

“But to kill all those people?”

“Maybe to cover the fact that it's only one of those people he was after.”

Yslan looked at him, then turned to Ted Knight. The man nodded and headed out.

Yslan's cell phone buzzed and she flipped it open. “When?” She evidently heard the answer and then hung up.

“When what?” Decker asked.

“When can you and Ms. Tripping go to the blast site.”

“And the answer is?”

“Not tonight. Forensics isn't anywhere near finished.”

“Okay. I want to see Viola.”

“You'll see her when I say you see her. Understood?”

“You speak a precise if oddly accented English—so, yeah, I understand.”

* * *

The marine shook him into waking. Decker rolled over and groaned, “Hey boss—what shakes?”

The marine left the room.

“Get up, Mr. Roberts.”

Yslan.

“What time is—”

“Time to go to work.”

She turned away from him to allow him some privacy as he dressed but didn't leave the room.

“Another field trip, Special Agent Hicks?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Outside the marine stepped aside to allow them out into the cold night air. She led Decker quickly across the campus to what looked like a classy cafeteria. It had the odd name of “Fred” emblazoned across the front portico.

Decker assumed it was a donor's last name, although he'd never heard of “Fred” as a last name. Nonetheless the students here were left with having to say “Let's eat at Fred” or “I'll meet you at Fred.” Sounded very odd to Decker's ear, but then again, this whole place was odd.

In the dimly lit cafeteria sat thirty or forty bleary-eyed people. Some were clearly in their late twenties or early thirties; many others were substantially older.

“What the—”

“Every CLA contract teacher who worked at Ancaster College in the last sixteen months.”

Decker turned to her. “How the hell did you find them so fast?”

“It took us three days.”

“But I just told you about them yester—” He stopped himself. “You already knew before I told you, didn't you?”

“You really ought to stop underestimating us, Mr. Roberts. It's really quite stupid on your part to think that we are dumb.”

One of the oldest of the CLAs, dressed in a sixties-style peasant dress, began to complain loudly that they had rights.

Decker watched as the others joined the chorus of complaint.

Then without warning, the lights in the place were snapped off and the sound of high-powered hoses filled the air—along with a few “What the fucks,” “this is Americas” and a whole stack of “stop its.”

The lights clicked back on and the two NSA officers holding the fire hoses turned them off.

A soggier group of loser academics Decker had never seen—but more, he was shocked at how little it took to cow these people. These folks surely knew their rights, yet no one reached for a cell phone to call a lawyer, no one put up anything that could even be called a fight.

Yslan stepped up on a cafeteria table and said, “I apologise—”

“Who are you?”

Yslan introduced herself then said, “This can take the three remaining hours before dawn or up to five days—it's totally up to you folks.”

One by one the CLA contract workers were led to a far end of Fred and sat across a table from Yslan and Decker.

After six hours of interrogation Decker had identified sixteen people who had not truthfully answered Yslan's carefully crafted series of questions: (1) What's your name?; (2) How long have you been on a CLA contract with Ancaster College?; (3) Was there ever an insinuation or outright promise that one day you'd be put on a fully tenure tracked contract?; (4) Were you resentful of not being given a tenure-track contract?; (5) Resentful enough to plot and/or execute the bombing at the graduation ceremony?

The sixteen people whom Decker identified as having prevaricated or at least failed to tell the truth did so on question 2 (seven, all older CLA workers; Decker assumed they were simply embarrassed that they had foolishly accepted CLA contracts for so long) and question 4 (where all sixteen claimed they were not resentful).

But all were telling the truth when saying no to question 5.

When the last of the CLA workers left their table, Yslan asked Decker, “You're sure?”

“Your question makes no sense.”

“Why?”

“Are you sure that the day follows the night?”

“Yeah but—”

“Well I'm that sure when someone tells the truth.”

She stared at him. “You're cold.” A statement, not a question.

Decker nodded.

“And what's that wiping your hands against your jeans thing about?”

Decker wasn't going to tell her about the approaching cold or the feeling of blood between his fingers when he lifted his head into the jet stream to do the truth-telling. So, he just shrugged and said, “A tick.”

Yslan didn't believe him but let it go and arranged for the release of all but the sixteen whom they'd interrogate further.

* * *

Decker waited by the exit of Fred; the marine whom he'd begun to think of as “his marine” had barred his exit.

When Yslan finally came up to him he said, “Breakfast. I need some fuel and this place is a cafeteria. They're bound to have a bun or a steak somewhere.”

“We'll get it on the road.”

“The road to where?”

“Lovely downtown Rochester, New York.”

ROCHESTER STRUCK DECKER AS A LOST CITY—ITS HEYDAY DUE TO
the Erie Canal and then Kodak now well in the past.

Border cities, especially in the northeast, always surprised Canadians, since Canadian wealth lived, huddled, along the U.S. border—directly opposite much of destitute America.

Yslan guided their car along a wide boulevard that no doubt used to house Kodak execs and pulled into a long driveway near the south end of the street.

“Care to tell me who lives here?” Decker asked.

“A professor—”

“From Ancaster College?”

Yslan nodded.

“Then why wasn't he—”

“At the graduation? Come meet him and you'll see why.”

They got out of the car, but Yslan stopped him. “Something else about him.”

“What?”

“He's the editor and publisher of three of the science journals you talked about.”

“Ah.” Decker said.

“Yeah—ah.”

* * *

An African-American maid in full uniform answered the door and led them through the grand old house to a room that was, no doubt, called the library. Full Professor Giuseppe Got awaited them there.

Despite the mild day outside, the radiators were on full blast, hissing merrily away. And in the middle of the room sat Professor Got in an old-fashioned wheelchair with a shawl over his thin shoulders and a heavy rug over his knees.