Chapter 4: What Was Waiting at the Department
The department secretary, a woman named Carol who had worked in that building for twenty-two years, met us at the door to the graduate office with an expression I had never seen on her face before.
"There's been a call," she said.
Professor Shaw stopped walking.
"What kind of call?"
"About an hour ago.
Someone contacted the department chair's office and said—" Carol glanced at me, then back at him.
"Said that the candidate had fabricated portions of her research data.
That the imaging model doesn't actually work.
That the pilot hospital discussions were invented to inflate the patent value."
The hallway was quiet.
"Who called?" Professor Shaw asked.
"She didn't give a name.
The chair's assistant said it was a woman.
Young.
She said she had documents."
I set my bag down on the bench beside the door.
"She doesn't have documents," I said.
"She has a read-only copy of the preliminary patent summary.
There is no data in that file.
There are no methodology files.
There are no results."
"I know that," Professor Shaw said.
"The committee will know that too, once we explain." He looked at Carol.
"Is the chair aware?"
"He's in his office.
He said he wants to speak with you before the defense starts."
"Of course he does." Professor Shaw straightened his jacket.
"Come with me," he said to me.
"Both of you."
Department Chair Dr.
Ellison was a careful man.
He had been chair for eleven years.
He did not panic, but he did not dismiss things either, which meant the next twenty minutes were going to require precision.
His office smelled like old paper and coffee.
He was standing when we came in, which was unusual.
"Adrian," he said.
Then: "Sit down, please."
We sat.
"I received a call this morning alleging research misconduct.
I want to hear your response before I make any decisions about today's schedule."
"The call was made by my candidate's sister," Professor Shaw said.
"The same individual who, this morning, destroyed her equipment, removed her phone, and whose personal device was used in two unauthorized access attempts on the university's secure archive.
Dr.
Voss from Research Integrity was present at the family home less than an hour ago and can confirm the situation."
Dr.
Ellison looked at me.
"Is that accurate?"
"Yes," I said.
"My sister learned that the research might have commercial value.
She wanted a share of it.
When I declined to discuss it, the interference began."
"Do you have documentation of the access attempts?"
"Dr.
Voss has the full log.
I also have archived message records showing a pattern of questions about patent ownership and licensing value going back four months.
The emergency protocol captured and timestamped everything."
Dr.
Ellison was quiet for a moment.
He picked up a pen, set it down.
"The allegation was that your data is fabricated."
"My committee has had access to my full methodology and raw data files for six weeks," I said.
"If there were concerns about fabrication, this would not be the first I was hearing of them."
He looked at Professor Shaw.
"The committee reviewed the full submission," Professor Shaw said.
"There were questions, as there always are.
None of them concerned data integrity."
Dr.
Ellison nodded slowly.
"All right." He stood.
"The defense proceeds as scheduled.
I'll note the call in the administrative record and refer it to Dr.
Voss's office as part of their existing inquiry."
He looked at me directly then, for the first time since we'd sat down.
"I'm sorry this was your morning," he said.
It was a small thing.
But I felt it.
We left his office at 9:41.
The defense was scheduled for 10:00.
I had nineteen minutes.
I went to the bathroom at the end of the hall, ran cold water over my wrists, and looked at myself in the mirror for a moment.
The borrowed glasses sat slightly crooked on my face.
I straightened them.
Then my phone — the department's loaner, which Carol had pressed into my hand on the way out — buzzed with a message from an unknown number.
I read it once.
Then I read it again.
It was from Lila.
She had found the number somehow.
And what she had written was not a threat, exactly.
May you like
It was worse than a threat.
It was an offer.
