stood.
“I’m sure your other highly competent staff members can handle these… how did you describe them? Simple and straightforward investigations.” I glanced down at the new file and read the label: International Network for Pacific Salmon Population Dynamics. I almost laughed out loud.
“Perfect,” I said in Bob’s direction.
chapter two
Back in my office I took a few minutes to gloat. I imagined myself returning triumphant from Vancouver to a new fifth-floor corner office with a teak desk and credenza. I was just about to sink into my imaginary leatherette chair when my mind, unbidden, flew back to Vancouver and began to make its way down 12th Avenue toward the dismal east end. I could feel my stomach twitch as we hovered past the elementary school, the derelict yard, the swings dangling askew.
The house was down a side street, white clapboard and looking abandoned. As my mind pulled me toward it, willing me to open the door, to step inside, I felt myself numb. I hadn’t thought about my mother in months, and her intrusion into my life was unwelcome.
I jerked my chair forward and caught sight of the file sitting innocently on my desk. I grabbed for it, flipped it open, and focused all my attention on it, forcing the past to recede. Work, I have always found, is the most potent antidote to memory.
The first thing that caught my attention was the appearance of the file. It was way too trim and neat for a project with high security clearance, especially one involving Pacific salmon. Since these animals migrate across international borders, the Network had to involve research partners from Japan, Russia, and the United States. With that amount of bureaucracy the file should have been bloated with back-and-forth correspondence, directives, and memos, the foreplay of an investigation, but the only thing inside was a single, neatly bound sheaf of paper that was maybe a hundred pages long.
I picked it up and fanned through it. There were letters, some newspaper clippings, grant applications, curriculum vitae, and the printout of a very inadequate reference search, but no external correspondence with any other funding bodies, foreign governments, or research institutes. That meant that none of the other research partners had been notified of the investigation.
I flipped to the front of the file, hoping to find something to explain the lack of background material. Normally, the first page in any file is NCST Internal Form 16-52-C, which covers financial codes and any special instructions or concerns related to a project. But instead of the usual form, there was a post-it note with a scrawled message attached to the first page. It was from our director general, Ms. Patricia Middlemass. Bob had scratched out his name and jotted in “Duncan.” The note from Patsy (she would behead me if that nickname ever slipped out in conversation) was surprisingly informal. Usually her missives arrive on official letterhead in triplicate and are written in a language that only a lawyer can understand. They are known around here as CYA (cover your ass) memos, and Patsy is gifted in her ability to produce them. Her instructions for this project, however, were terse.
Bob, Duncan Investigate financial impropriety only. Some documentation available here (see file) but onsite records needed. Extreme discretion. Security clearance required. Three days’ travel, more by my approval only. P.
Typical Patsy, to restrict travel time. She was in a fury of cost-cutting these days — a vital part of renewal, we’d been told — and travel must be the newest front for deficit reduction. I shook my head, pulled off the post-it note, crumpled it, and aimed for the garbage can; then I stopped. I flattened it out and read it again.
Patsy’s note really issued two distinct orders. The most obvious one was to investigate financial impropriety only, but by default, that implied a second directive: Keep your nose out of the science. Don’t touch the research. Now why, I wondered, would our busy director general be involving herself in the details of an inquiry? And why would she be giving her orders on untraceable scraps of paper? I carefully folded up the crumpled post-it note and tucked it between two pages near the front of my day book. I made a mental note to return to it when I was more familiar with the file.
With the note removed I could now read the top document; the last thing we had received relating to this project. It was a letter dated August 28, almost two months ago, written by a Dr. Jonathan Edwards at the University of Southern British Columbia. And he wasn’t happy.
Dear Sirs
I am sending this letter via registered mail to obtain proof that it has indeed been received by the Grants and Funding Branch of the National Council for Science and Technology (NCST). This is the third letter I have sent regarding an intolerable situation occurring in the International Network for Pacific Salmon Population Dynamics (INPSPD) project: I refer, of course, to the mismanagement and misuse of grant funding by the Canadian project leader, Dr. Madden Riesler.
I have provided you on two occasions with the background evidence required to launch an investigation and have heard nothing in reply. For this reason I have decided to take the only route open to me. If I do not receive a reply from you forthwith, indicating that an investigation is in progress, I will take my complaint to the media.
I find your behaviour reprehensible and incompetent, and I will be discussing these concerns with my Member of Parliament.
Yours truly,
Dr. Jonathan Edwards
Assistant Professor,
Department of Zoology,
University of Southern British
Columbia,
Vancouver, BC, V6T 1D6
So much for client service. I briefly wondered how much time “forthwith” gave us, and decided that it was probably considerably less than the time that had already elapsed since his final letter. I reached for the telephone and was halfway through dialing his number when I realized that it was only 7:15 A.M. in Vancouver. Normally, I would have sworn loudly and banged down the phone, but for once the three-hour time lag was welcome. It gave me enough time to do a quick study of the file and at least have my excuses lined up when I finally managed to reach Edwards.
I worked methodically forward from the initial letter of complaint through to the final threat of going to the media, and I began to see why Edwards was so annoyed. As far as I could figure out from the dates of letters and submissions, the file had sat dormant for a period of ten months. His first letter of complaint, at the very bottom of the sheaf of papers, was received by us a little over a year ago. The letter had been stamped “Received: 6 Sept” and noted in the log of the file. A very cursory reference search was attached to the letter, but not mentioned in the log. Following this, there was nothing. No notes. No action. No follow-up.
Dr. Edwards had sent a second letter in June of the following year, almost ten months later. The request for an investigation was again made, and supporting documentation was supplied. This time there was a more substantive follow-up: past grant applications were acquired, some internal financial records were appended, and confidential documents relating to the Canada/US Pacific Salmon Treaty were attached, but no action was taken. In fact, it looked as though nothing was really done until the last registered letter was sent. Then, with the threat of media involvement, the file was sent on to Bob. Who of course didn’t read it, because he works on the government’s thirty-day rule: don’t even lay your fingers on a file until it has sat in your in-box for at least thirty
