Nondisclosure Page 2

  By the time we reached the administration building, we were late as well as wet, and it was a few minutes after five thirty by the time we took the elevator up to the dean’s office on the fourth floor. An administrative assistant was watching for us and ushered us into the inner office, where the dean was waiting at the head of her conference table. Claire Houghton was an accomplished economist who’d spent the last fifteen or so years moving through the upper levels of university administration. Now in her early fifties, she was a master of academic politics and bore the mantle of her office as comfortably as she wore her navy blue business suit and gold tassel necklace. Ed Carlson, the college chief financial officer, sat on her right. Partially balding, with a thin face and long, hooked nose, he kept staring at the papers in front of him without acknowledging our presence—the image of an IRS examiner ready to conduct an audit.

  The office made mine feel cramped, and it seemed as if it took several minutes for Kristy and me to follow the administrative assistant across an oversize oriental rug to the conference table. We sat on the opposite side from Carlson, and the admin took a seat at the end of the table.

  The dean began by pointing out the obvious. “You’re late, and we don’t have much time. I have another meeting at six fifteen.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Unfortunately, there’s an emergency situation that just arose, and I’m going to need some time to talk to you about that in addition to our discussion of the budget.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? What kind of emergency?”

  “It’s serious, but I don’t think we should talk about it in front of the others. We need to save ten minutes at the end to deal with it.”

  She frowned to show me that she didn’t like having her meeting hijacked. But she knew me well enough to take what I said seriously. “All right, then, let’s get on with it.” She looked at her notes. “Your major budget request is close to three million dollars for equipment and renovations to develop a new facility in your department for proteomics, which I understand is the large-scale analysis of the proteins that are expressed by different kinds of cells.” She glanced down again at the paper in front of her. “You talk about a number of applications, like looking for differences between cancer cells and normal cells to find new targets for cancer therapy. That all sounds fine, but you’re asking for a heavy chunk of change. How will this new toy—a mass spectrometer, you call it—really benefit your department? After all, you science guys have already sequenced the whole human genome. Doesn’t that give you everything you need?”

  I started into my planned justification. This was science, ground I was comfortable with. And although the dean wasn’t a scientist, I knew she was an intelligent listener. “This technology, proteomics, gives us a lot more information than just the DNA sequence of the genome. You can think of the genome sequence as a blueprint. It has the plans for all of the possible things that a cell can do. But what a cell actually does is determined by which of the twenty thousand or so genes in the genome are expressed at a particular time. It’s differences in gene expression that make a liver cell different from a muscle cell, or a cancer cell different from a normal cell. And that’s what proteomics measures—differences in gene expression, not just the genes themselves.”

  She pursed her lips and nodded. “Okay, got it. And who in the department would make use of this?”

  “Quite a few of our faculty. Probably Mike Singer would be the biggest user. Fisher, Clements, and Dworkin would be others. My own lab would use it too.” Steve Upton would be another heavy user, but I wasn’t going to mention him, given what was to come.

  The dean pulled another piece of paper out of her file. “Mike Singer, huh? I guess that explains why I’ve already heard from the president, saying that he’s strongly supportive and will contribute to funding your request. Singer must’ve pulled one of his usual end arounds and gone over my head. Did you know about that?”

  I sighed and shook my head. “No, of course I didn’t know. You know that I respect your place in the chain of command. But I can’t say I’m surprised that Singer went over both of us.”

  She shrugged. “Oh well, I guess that means you get your new toy. Congratulations on an easy three million. Courtesy of Mike Singer and El Presidenté.”

  I didn’t like the fact that Singer had end-run me, but in this case, it was for a good cause. And he’d succeeded on behalf of the department, so who was I to complain?

  I started to thank the dean, but she held up a hand. “Let’s move on and give ourselves time to deal with your emergency.” Looking over at Carlson, she asked, “What else do we need to discuss?”

  Carlson’s mouth was tightly drawn. “They’re trying to hoodwink us with their annual report. There’s some twenty thousand dollars unaccounted for in their discretionary expenditures from last year, and I suspect all this rush is just a ruse to avoid our looking into it.”

  “No, I’m afraid the rush is real enough,” I said. “There’s no need to be hostile.”

  Kristy spoke up. “I know. I noticed the discrepancy too. I just saw it a couple of days ago, after we submitted our report, and I was hoping to have it tracked down by the time we met today.”

  “And do you?” Carlson asked.

  “I’m sorry, but I haven’t been able to figure it out yet. I think it’s buried somewhere in travel receipts. Don’t worry—I’ll keep working on it and get it straightened out.”

  Carlson looked down his nose and snorted. “It should have been straightened out before you submitted your report, let alone came to this meeting. We don’t have time to deal with nonsense like this in here. And we wouldn’t have to if you did your job the way it should be done.”

  Kristy paled, and I jumped in. “You’re being abusive, Carlson, and that’s uncalled for. She said we’ll figure it out, and we will. But twenty thousand dollars is peanuts in a major research university. Maybe you should get some perspective on what we’re doing here. We’re BTI, the Boston Technological Institute. Maybe we’re not in the same league as our Cambridge buddies across the river—Harvard and MIT—but we’re not some mom-and-pop liquor store either.”

  The dean interrupted before he could answer. “All right, guys, stop it. We don’t do abusive here.” She gave Carlson a hard look. “I’d like you to work with Kristy to figure this out. And if there’s nothing else, please give Brad and me the room.”

  When the others had left, she said, “Sorry about that. He can be an ass, but he’s good with numbers. Now, what’s up?”

  “Mike Singer barged into my office just before this meeting, accusing Steve Upton of sexually assaulting one of his students.”

  Her eyes widened. “Jesus! No wonder you wanted to get this on our agenda.” She picked up her notepad. “Okay, tell me.”

  I took her through Singer’s story. When I finished, she sat there for a minute, shaking her head. When she finally spoke, the look on her face was somewhere between sad and angry.

  “Unbelievable. How could anyone be such a bastard? Sounds to me like Upton drugged the student’s drink at dinner, planning all the time to take her back to her apartment and assault her. Is that your take on it?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid that’s what it sounds like. Although so far, we only have a third-person account from Singer. We need to hear what the student has to say and also give Upton a chance to tell his side of the story.”

  “Of course, but it seems clear enough. And we’re past the days when a big shot like Upton can explain something like this away as ‘he says, she says.’ You’ve heard of Me Too, right? I want the bastard’s head.”

  “If he’s guilty, I don’t disagree. But I do have trouble believing that Steve Upton would do this. We just need to follow through on Singer’s story and make sure we have all the facts.”

  She leaned back and nodded. “Of course. We need to investigate thoroughly and close any loopholes. I’m going to give this case to Karen Richmond. She’s our top investigator for handling Ti
tle IX complaints—everything involving sexual misconduct. Sharp as a tack. I think you’ll like working with her.”

  Working with her? That gave me a start. “What do you mean working with her? I’ll tell her my story, sure, but after that, I assume she’ll take over, no?”

  The dean gave a sarcastic snort. “You wish. No, I’m afraid we need you to play an active role in the investigation. It’s your department, and you know the people involved, both faculty and students. You’re going to have to work with Karen as her guide and coinvestigator while she plows her way through this. Given the stature of the accused—one of your top faculty members—the investigation has to be airtight and leave no room for any complaints afterward. So your job is to work hand in hand with Karen to be sure she gets all the information she needs. And that Upton gets his day in court, so he can’t say he was railroaded.”

  “Look, I’m a scientist, not a criminal investigator. This isn’t something I know how to do.”

  “You’re also department chair, Brad. And this falls solidly within your job description, whether you like it or not. Am I being clear?”

  I groaned inwardly but gave her a mock salute. Fortunately, we liked each other. “Okay, boss. Got it.”

  She snickered as I got up and left the office. On my way out, I ran into the group already assembled for her next meeting. It included Carlson, who glared daggers at me.

  I went back to the office to finish clearing my desk for the day and then walked home to my condo in Back Bay. It was a renovated Victorian in a three-story, 1870s brownstone on Commonwealth Avenue, just over a mile from my office, with plenty of stores and restaurants nearby. I took advantage of the location tonight by stopping at Capellini’s to pick up a meatball sub for an easy dinner—I was too preoccupied to cook.

  Despite the unease I felt about dealing with Upton’s case, my mood lightened when I was greeted at the door by an excited Rosie, jumping up and down and spinning in circles. Who could resist twenty pounds of unadulterated exuberance?

  I’d adopted her a couple of years ago, when I was dating a vet. Sarah brought the six-month-old pug puppy over to visit after she’d been surrendered to the clinic because her owner had suffered a stroke and could no longer take care of her. Sarah was convinced I needed a dog, and I didn’t disagree, being a longtime dog lover. The pup clinched the deal when I picked her up and she fell asleep happily in my arms, head on my shoulder. I named her Rosie, after Rosalind Franklin, the woman who’d done the experiments that Watson and Crick used to determine their famous structure of DNA in 1953. Watson and Crick received a Nobel Prize, whereas Franklin’s contribution was never properly recognized, so I made sure that Rosie received plenty of love and attention to compensate for her namesake’s neglect.

  We had a welcome-home cuddle, and Rosie followed me into the kitchen to get our evening treats. A beef jerky strip for her and a single-malt scotch for me. A note from Ellen, my twelve-year-old downstairs neighbor who took care of Rosie while I was out, was in its usual place on the kitchen counter, next to the bottle of scotch. She’d fed and walked Rosie around five, so Rosie was all set for a while. Ellen was a tremendous boon. She loved Rosie as much as I did and was thrilled to take care of her during the day. And just as happy to keep her downstairs overnight when I was traveling.

  I took my drink and sandwich over to the overstuffed chair in the living room, next to a window overlooking the mall, the tree-lined park in the middle of Commonwealth Avenue that ran through the city to the Public Garden. Rosie’s jerky strip was long since gone, but she was happy to jump into my lap and watch the people and dogs on the mall while I had my drink and dinner.

  The combination of Rosie, food, and good scotch helped smooth out the day’s wrinkles. But I was still far from comfortable with all that had gone on. My new assignment seemed like another clash of my career with the Peter Principle—the dubious management approach of promoting people until they reach a position at which they are no longer competent.

  At an earlier stage of my professional life, I’d made my share of important discoveries in the field of cancer genetics. Those discoveries had been rewarded with a promotion to tenured professor, substantial grants for my research, invitations to deliver prestigious lectures, and other kinds of recognition bestowed on successful scientists.

  Then Dean Houghton screwed it all up by asking me to take on the position of department chair. I resisted at first, but the previous chair had been unceremoniously dismissed for hijacking department funds to support his own research, and several of my colleagues in the department urged me to accept, arguing that there weren’t any other plausible candidates. So at the age of forty-six, I accepted a position of major administrative responsibility. A job for which I had no qualifications, no training, and no experience. Not to mention, no desire.

  I guess I did okay, at least compared with the previous occupant of the office. But the administration and politics associated with being chair took me away from my research, leaving me without enough time to do what I was good at. And now I was going to add to this burden by taking on a sexual assault investigation.

  Still, I hated what had happened to Emily. If they needed me to help bring Steve Upton down for this, I’d step up. And try to protect the integrity of the science and the morale of the department in the process.

  Besides, it should be quick and easy. A couple of interviews with this investigator woman should do the trick. Talk to Emily, Carol, maybe Singer again. Then give Upton a chance to say his piece, and it would all be done. No reason to sweat it.

  3

  The office had an appealing smell of fresh coffee when I got in around eight fifteen the next morning. Kristy was at her desk in the outer office with a pastry box open in front of her. Raspberry scones from Yeast and Flour, a bakery near her house in Harvard Square.

  “What’s the occasion?” I asked.

  “A little thank-you for the way you stood up to that jerk Carlson yesterday.”

  I smiled at her. “No big deal. My pleasure, in fact.” I took a scone. “But I’m happy to accept one of these as a reward.”

  “You better hurry and enjoy them. Your visitor is already on her second one.”

  “Visitor?” I looked around the corner into the waiting room and saw a woman sitting on the couch, balancing a scone and coffee with her iPad. “Who is she?”

  “I’m sorry. She said you were expecting her. Karen Richmond from Dean Houghton’s office. She was here at eight when I got in, and she’s been munching on scones and coffee ever since.”

  “Guess she skipped breakfast to get here early. Yes, I am expecting her. Just wasn’t ready quite yet.”

  I went out to the waiting room and said, “Hi, I’m Brad Parker.”

  She got up from the couch, putting her iPad down to offer her hand. A slim blonde, maybe forty or so, dressed in a light, blue-and-white striped blouse and dark blue slacks. “I’m Karen Richmond. Nice to meet you.” She grinned and held up a half-eaten scone. “And thanks for your morning hospitality.”

  “No problem. A little reward from my administrative assistant for being a good boy yesterday.” She looked at me quizzically, but I didn’t bother explaining. Instead I said, “C’mon in and let’s talk.”

  I led her into my office and sat behind my desk, motioning her to one of the visitor chairs across from me. “I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon.”

  She shrugged. “The dean called last night and filled me in. I figured why wait. Maybe I could catch you early. This is clearly a matter we want to deal with as quickly as possible.”

  “I agree. The sooner we can clear this up, the better. I’ll free up whatever time you need.”

  “Good, thank you. If you don’t mind, let’s start by having you tell me about your meeting with Mike Singer. The dean briefed me, but I’d like to hear the story directly from you.” She took out a cell phone. “You don’t mind if I record it, do you?”

  “Of course not.” I got my notes and took her thr
ough what I knew.

  When I finished, she nodded and said, “Right, that’s pretty much what the dean told me. Sounds awful, but as she said you already pointed out, it’s all thirdhand at this point. We have some work ahead of us.”

  “Where do you want to start?” I asked. “Should I get Singer in here so you can talk to him directly?”

  “Not yet. I’ll want to talk to him later, but before that, I’d like to get a firsthand account from the victim. Emily.”

  “She’s in Chicago now.”

  “I know. We’ll have to make a trip out there to interview her. These things are really done much better in person than over the phone. Are you free to get away in the next couple of days?”

  “Both of us need to go?” I asked. She certainly moved fast.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. I want someone besides myself at all of these interviews, and I need your background knowledge of the people involved to work effectively.” She smiled. “So we’re going to be joined at the hip until we figure this out. Can you handle it?”

  I returned the smile. She seemed pleasant enough, as well as efficient. Maybe working with her wouldn’t be so bad. “What happened to Emily is intolerable,” I said. “I’ll do whatever you need to help.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your cooperation. The question now is how to approach Emily. I don’t think we should just fly out there cold. We need to call her first and tell her we’d like to come out and talk to her.”