Leann Sweeney - The Cat, The Professor and the Poison

“Wow,” I said as we went inside. “This place is a hundred years old, and everything looks like it’s in perfect condition.”

We learned from a posted building map that the administration offices were housed on the third floor. I saw a sign with an arrow pointing right that said MAIN DINING FACILITIES but heard no voices. The place was pretty much deserted.

We walked through what had once been the huge foyer of the building. Couches, chairs and coffee tables made for a nice relaxing place for students to visit. But not a soul was around.

The two elevators beyond this area seemed far more modern than the building. I’d expected old-fashioned cage-like protecting doors to close before the main doors shut, but that didn’t happen.

President Johnson’s office, as another sign told us, was at the far end of the hall to our right. There was no secretary in his reception area. Candace went up to another lacquered and gleaming tall door with a PRESIDENT LAWRENCE JOHNSON plaque prominent, and I hurried to keep up. I had been lagging behind admiring the high ceilings and beautiful arched windows.

She knocked, and a deep voice told us to come in.

President Johnson sat behind his massive desk, a slew of papers in front of him. Two dark wooden armchairs with padded blue silk striped seats and backs sat in front of the desk facing the president.

He stood and nodded. “Deputy Carson.” Then he looked at me. I had left behind the jeans and T-shirt and had chosen a khaki linen skirt and blouse, but as nice as my outfit was, I in no way looked like a cop. His puzzled look was no surprise.

“Jillian Hart,” I said to the man, who had to be Harry Belafonte’s long-lost twin. The guy was gorgeous.

Candace quickly added, “She’s in the Citizen’s Police Academy. And she’s signed confidentiality documents. Ms. Hart’s learning how we do the people’s business in South Carolina.”

He’d been looking skeptical before she said “the people’s business,” but that phrase seemed to have worked, because he said, “Very well. Have a seat, ladies. This is an unpleasant business, something I certainly didn’t think I would have to revisit.”

“We know what happened with Professor VanKleet here at your college. All I’m looking for is corroboration. Let’s get right to it. Why did you fire Professor VanKleet?”

Lawrence Johnson sat back in his leather swivel chair and rested his intertwined fingers on his abdomen. Bet he had a six-pack under that starched white shirt. The man seemed to be in awesome shape, so much so that it was impossible to tell how old he was. Since his dark head was shaved and shiny, there was no gray hair to give away his age.

“Why did I fire Hubert?” Johnson said. “Let me first say, I did not like doing it. At one time he was one of the most brilliant minds on the faculty.”

“At one time?” Candace said.

“The man was ill.” Johnson tapped his temple. “Everyone knew that, but in higher education, eccentrics are common. Oftentimes it accompanies genius-and that was the case with him.”

“But he must have done a good job at some point,” Candace said.

“While he was married to Sarah, he did more than good. He brought an enormous amount of research money to this college. But he began to cross the line from peculiar to almost frightening right about the time their marriage fell apart. I know Sarah. She works for me now, and she did try her best, but when Hubert stopped taking his medication, things got very, very bad.”

“What’s very, very bad?” Candace said.

Was he making jars of red goop here, too? I wondered.

“Bad, in that students started to complain not only to this office but to their parents. He was behaving oddly in class, not lecturing, not following curriculum. We cannot have that here,” Johnson said, his dark eyes hardening for the first time.

And at what college could you have that? I thought.

“That’s why you fired him?” Candace said.

“No. His research was too valuable,” Johnson said.

Translation, I thought, he brought too much money to the college to let him go.

“I reprimanded him-in the kindest way I could, of course,” Johnson went on. “I did not wish to condemn the man for something he could not control-his mental illness. But I did put him on probation and took away his course load. He was to focus on his research until I saw that he was fit to return to the classroom.”

“Did he ever get back in the classroom?” Candace asked.

“Unfortunately, no,” he said. “He continued to deteriorate. I even offered to take him to a colleague, an abnormal-psychology professor who was still a practicing psychiatrist. Hubert refused.”

“So you did everything you could,” Candace said.

This brought a smile to Johnson’s lips. “I would do anything for the people at Denman-the students, the faculty, the families. It is what I must do to maintain our reputation.”

“But then VanKleet really went off the deep end, right?” Candace said.

Johnson closed his eyes, shook his head. “I could not believe what I saw in that laboratory.”

“Did you visit his lab often?” Candace asked.

She was trying to get information without giving away anything that she knew, and she was good at it. “No. That’s not my practice. The bright men and women who work here do not need the president looking over their shoulders. I only went because I was informed there was a problem.” His last sentence was terse.

“And who informed you?” Candace said.

“I don’t know. It was anonymous, a computer- generated letter placed on my administrative assistant’s desk.”

“Do you get anonymous letters often?” Candace said.

“More often than you might think,” he said. “One professor slipping information about a colleague he or she is still working with, students telling tales on their friends whom they’ve fallen out with; you name it, it’s happened. For the most part, I ignore this kind of thing.”

“But you didn’t ignore this anonymous tip?” she said.

“Hubert was already on probation, and the details in this letter were too serious to ignore. I had to see for myself if this was true. Sadly, it was. We do not do research using cats, but there they were, and though they didn’t seem to be in ill health, they shouldn’t have been here.”

“Did you save this letter?” she said.

“I did,” he said. “But unless you have a legal document such as subpoena, I don’t believe I’m obligated to share it with you. Just speaking with you is a favor to your chief of police. He is a friend of a friend.”

“The professor’s dead,” Candace said.

This was the first time I detected any of her usual impatience.

“But his family is not dead,” Johnson said. “His ex- wife still works here, and I have an obligation to keep unseemly information about her deceased husband away from those who might make life more difficult for her.”

Or for Denman College, I thought.

“Could your decision not to share this letter-which you have every right to do-have anything to do with another VanKleet who was sent packing?” Candace said. Her tone was tougher now.

She obviously was on to the fact that this man wanted all the secrets to stay in the Denman College closet.

“I should have expected that you would know about Evan.” Johnson smiled. “I underestimated you, Deputy Carson. My mistake. Forgive me if I was unprepared, but I wasn’t informed I had to talk about him.”

“You do,” she said. “My biggest question is why he was kicked out of school and the others weren’t.”

He tented his hands. “I believe I will decline to answer that. As I said, I am unprepared and should consult with the legal counsel who advises me on such things before I say anything.”