I flipped open another file. Same sort of thing: the component parts of single experiments being prepared for analysis and publication; definitely not for the garbage heap. I rooted around, separating the files from the scrap paper. As I pulled the last file toward me, a tattered Rite-in-the-Rain data book slipped from between the covers.
There was no label on the cover, no name and no dates, so I fanned through the pages. It contained field notes from this year’s season. The date, time, and weather conditions were noted at the top of each page, followed by an observation on the density of something per square metre. Following this there were five columns of numbers, each column headed by a code of some sort. The book was full, with the entry on the last page dated “14 October 1038 h.” A week ago Monday. It didn’t mean much to me, but with Cindy’s sudden absence Elaine might be needing this record to continue her experiments. I opened up my briefcase and popped it in.
Once the desk was clear enough to work on, the next order of business was calls: Sylvia, the hotel, and maybe Dr. Edwards, but I needed a phone book. There was nothing on the shelves, so that left the desk drawers. I braced myself and opened up the top right-hand drawer. It was even scarier than the surface of the desk. In addition to random pieces of paper — old data sheets, computer printouts, course notes — my hand came in contact with sticky, lint-covered cough candies, frayed Kleenex (looked used, but I didn’t investigate further), and an unhealthy supply of long, black hairs. I found a photo of, presumably, Cindy and her mother, with Cindy looking as disorganized as her office. Her hair needed a good trim, and although she was pleasant looking she would never be described as pretty, in part due to her teeth, which were crooked and overlapping in front. She wore a tatty South American poncho and was squinting at the camera, her arm around a matronly-looking blonde. Both women were smiling. I put the picture back where I found it: next to the half-eaten bagel.
I finally located the phone book buried in the bottom left-hand drawer. I excavated around it and managed to get enough of a hold to pull it out. As I did so, I heard a set of keys slide from between the pages. I put the book on the desk and rooted around in the drawer until I found them. The key chain was in the form of a salmon with You’re my Chum enamelled on the side. Cute. On the back it was stamped Campbell River, BC. There were Volkswagen keys, lots of official university keys stamped Dept. of Zoology, Do Not Duplicate, and several other keys that I couldn’t identify. These must be Cindy’s extra keys.
After a brief moral skirmish I shrugged and dropped the keys into my jacket pocket. As a graduate student, Cindy would have access to all sorts of interesting places, and I prefer legal access to break and enter. Anyway, it was the least she could do after making me clean up her office.
There was an urgent message from Bob waiting for me at the hotel. I was to call him ASAP. I ignored the message. Instead I called Sylvia to cancel lunch.
“Any more on who did that search?” I asked. “I don’t sleep here, you know.” She sounded a bit cranky this morning.
“So when will you know?”
“Tomorrow, maybe. I’ll give it a shot when Ottawa closes tonight, but it may take me a day or two to figure out how to hack my way in.
“Okay. Just keep me informed. Can you do another search in the meantime? This one’s urgent.”
Sylvia grunted, a vestigial response from her days as a man. “As usual.”
I ignored the comment. “Graham Connell.” I spelled it out. “And if you find anything —”
Just then I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked up to see Dinah lounging in the doorway.
She gave me a wry smile. “Stinks in here.”
I kicked myself for not being more careful, then continued in a normal voice, “ — leave a message at the hotel, or send me an e-mail. I’ll check in later.” And I hung up the phone.
If someone had told me that less than twenty minutes ago this woman had run from the room distraught, I wouldn’t have believed them. She was clear-eyed, confident, and in firm control of her emotions. She looked down at the floor, toed the cement, then looked back up at me. “Sorry about what happened back there. It was dumb. It affects my work, is all. She could have told me herself.”
“I get the impression she left in a hurry.” “Maybe.” She paused for a second and looked away. “And maybe not. Anyway…”
I waited, but she didn’t seem inclined to continue.
“Maybe you and I should start over.” I extended my hand. “Morgan O’Brien. A post-doc from Ottawa, but I’m also an old friend of Elaine’s. I’ll try to stay out of your way down here.”
After a moment’s hesitation she pushed herself off the door frame and took my hand. Her grip was firm, no damp dishrag here. “Dinah, Elaine’s technician. But you already know that.”
I smiled. As a technician, Dinah would be a font of valuable departmental gossip. “Elaine said you’d show me how to access the network, and she wants you to stick around. She’ll be down to see you before class.” I got out of my chair and came around behind it. “Maybe you could show me now.”
Dinah looked at the chair, then at me. “I’ll grab a chair.” And she disappeared down the hall. A minute later she was back, and she pulled a chair in next to mine. As she sat down, all I could think of was king crab: ninety percent legs. I knew I shouldn’t, but I had to ask.
“How tall are you, anyway?”
“Just over two metres. I used to hate it, but now I don’t mind.” She settled into her chair then turned and gave me the once-over with her eyes. “So,” she said after a minute, “how do you know Elaine?” I could see her watching my reaction as if I were a subject in a study on primate behaviour.
“Graduate school. We shared an apartment and we used to do our fieldwork together. It was less complicated than with the men. You know. Their wives got jealous, you always had to rent two motel rooms instead of one, and they had special restaurants they had to stop at, usually because there was a waitress with big tits.”
“And you weren’t into that.” Her voice was matter-of-fact.
I shrugged. “I tend to judge a restaurant by the cuisine.”
She nodded a response, as if that told her something she needed to know, but kept watching me with that odd, wolfish stare: curious and calculating. It was unnerving.
“So,” I finally continued, “have you been working for Elaine very long?”
“I came over with Cindy.”
I must have looked surprised. “From New Zealand?” She laughed. “From Madden’s lab. Elaine sort of inherited us from Madden. Cindy was having…” she hesitated.
I rearranged the expression on my face to one of warm concern. “Ah huh?” I said, with that upturned intonation at the end. I learned that in the RCMP too: Interrogation 101, another valuable skill. It works like a hot damn: you can keep even the most resistant interviewee disclosing for hours with the judicious use of a warm and inquiring smile and a carefully placed Ah huh followed by expectant silence. Like most people, Dinah felt compelled to fill the silence.
“She was having problems with someone in Madden’s lab. She needed to get out, and Elaine offered
