Thesis Defense

A Rico Rinaldi Mystery

The call came at 6:47 AM on Thursday, October 5th, 1995—a gray morning that promised nothing good. The radio in my car had been cycling between coverage of Pope John Paul II's visit to New Jersey and President Clinton's announcement of a ceasefire in Bosnia. The world was full of peace and hope that morning. Except in a psychology professor's office at the University of Chicago.

"Detective Rinaldi? We've got a body at the University of Chicago. Psychology building, third floor. Professor's office."

I grabbed my jacket and headed for the Hyde Park campus, Chicago's version of academic heaven, where they taught smart kids how to think they were smarter than everyone else. Fifteen minutes late,r I was standing outside Rosenwald Hall, watching uniformed cops keep curious students at bay while the coroner's van waited like a patient vulture.

Officer Martinez met me at the entrance. "Victim's Dr. Richard Brennan, age fifty-two. Behavioral psychology professor. The cleaning lady found him around six this morning."

"How'd she get in?"

"Master key. Says she always cleans his office early because he comes in before seven." Martinez checked his notes. The door was locked from the inside when she arrived. Had to unlock it herself."

We took the elevator to the third floor. The hallway smelled like industrial cleaner and old books. Dr. Brennan's office was at the end, corner position with a view of the quad. The kind of office that told you exactly where you stood in the academic food chain.

Brennan sat slumped over his desk, face down in a stack of research papers. No obvious wounds, no blood. It could've been a heart attack if not for the thin ligature mark around his neck and the computer cable lying on the floor beside his chair.

"Coroner's preliminary says strangulation," Martinez said. "Cable was disconnected from his computer."

I walked around the desk. Brennan wore an expensive suit, even at this hour. His office was immaculate—diplomas covering one wall, academic awards on another, shelves lined with psychology textbooks and research journals. The desk held neat stacks of papers, a coffee mug that read "World's Greatest Mentor," and a framed photo of Brennan with a brunette woman at some academic conference.

"Any signs of struggle?"

"Nothing obvious. Chair's still tucked under the desk. Papers aren't scattered. Looks like he was working when it happened."

I checked the window. Locked from inside, three stories up, no fire escape. The door was solid wood with a deadbolt. If someone killed Brennan and left through the door, they'd need a key to lock it behind them.

"Who has access?"

"Building security says professors get keys to their own offices. Cleaning staff have masters. Department secretary has a set for all faculty offices."

"Any security cameras?"

"Lobby only. Shows people coming and going, but not which floors they visit."

Margaret Kowalski, the cleaning lady who'd found the body, sat in the hallway looking shaky. She was maybe sixty, gray hair pulled back, the kind of woman who'd been invisible to professors for decades.

"I clean his office every morning at six," she told me in accented English. "Always locked, always dark. Today I open the door and there he is." She crossed herself. "Such a nice man. Always said good morning, asked about my grandchildren."

"You notice anything different this morning? Anyone hanging around?"

The building was empty. Always is that early. Just me and the security guard downstairs."

I walked back into Brennan's office and studied the scene. Something felt off, but I couldn't pinpoint what. The office was too perfect, like a museum display of Academic Success. Even dead, Brennan looked distinguished.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. A tall, gray-haired man in a three-piece suit stood in the hallway, radiating the kind of authority that comes with decades of telling people what to think.

"Detective, I'm Dr. Harold Whitman, chair of the Psychology Department. I need to speak with you about this... unfortunate situation."

Whitman had the bearing of someone who'd never been told no by anyone he considered important. Old money written in every line of his face, from his prep school posture to his Harvard accent.

"This is a crime scene, Dr. Whitman. We'll talk when I'm finished here."

"Detective..." He paused, looking at my name tag. "Rinaldi. Italian, I assume? I'm sure you're doing your best, but these academic environments can be quite complex for someone from your... background. Perhaps we could discuss having the university's security handle this matter?"

I stopped examining the desk and looked at him directly. "Someone murdered a professor in his locked office. That makes it Chicago PD business, not campus security."

"Murder? Surely you're being premature. Dr. Brennan had a demanding schedule, significant stress. Heart attack seems far more likely than..." He gestured vaguely at the office.

"Computer cable around his neck suggests otherwise."

Whitman's face tightened. "I see. Well, I'm sure we can resolve this quickly and quietly. Dr. Brennan was a distinguished scholar, a valuable member of our community. We can't have rumors affecting the department's reputation."

"I'm not investigating rumors, Dr. Whitman. I'm investigating a homicide."

"Of course, of course. I simply meant that academic disputes can sometimes seem more dramatic than they actually are. Dr. Brennan was well-respected, having published extensively and secured substantial research funding. I can't imagine anyone would want to harm him."

The way he said "research funding" told me everything I needed to know about what mattered most to Dr. Harold Whitman.

"We'll need to interview his students, colleagues, and anyone who worked closely with him."

"Naturally. Though I hope you'll be... discreet. These are sensitive people, not accustomed to police interrogation. Perhaps I could be present during your conversations?"

"That won't be necessary."

Whitman's smile never wavered, but his eyes went cold. "Detective Rinaldi, I want to be helpful. But I also have a responsibility to protect my faculty and students from unnecessary trauma. These young people are here to learn, not to be treated like criminals."

"Someone is a criminal, Dr. Whitman. I intend to find out who."

After he left, I spent another hour in Brennan's office. The computer was password protected. His appointment calendar showed a meeting scheduled for 6:00 PM the previous evening with "S. Chen - Thesis Discussion." No other appointments after normal business hours.

The desk drawers were locked, but Martinez had found keys in Brennan's jacket. The contents were unremarkable: office supplies, academic papers, a bottle of antacids, and a small digital recorder. I pocketed the recorder for later examination.

By noon, I'd a list of people to interview: Sarah Chen, the graduate student who had the evening appointment; Dr. Victoria Sterling, identified from the photo as Brennan's girlfriend; Michael Henderson, another graduate student who worked closely with Brennan; and, of course, Dr. Whitman himself.

I started with Sarah Chen.

I found her in the graduate student lounge, a cramped room with mismatched furniture and a coffee maker that had seen better days. She sat alone at a corner table, staring at an untouched cup of coffee and a stack of academic journals.

Sarah Chen was twenty-six, Chinese-American, with the kind of focused intensity that comes from carrying other people's dreams on your shoulders. She looked up when I approached, and I saw exhaustion in her dark eyes.

"Ms. Chen? I'm Detective Rinaldi, Chicago PD. I need to ask you some questions about Dr. Brennan."

Her hands trembled slightly as she set down her coffee cup. "I heard what happened. It's terrible."

"You had an appointment with him yesterday evening."

"Yes. Six o'clock. We discussed my thesis research."

"How long were you with him?"

"About an hour. Maybe a little less." She spoke carefully, measuring each word.

"What did you discuss?"

"My research methodology. Dr. Brennan had some concerns about my approach." She paused. "He could be... demanding. He wanted excellence from his students."

"How did the meeting end?"

"He said he needed to review my proposal more carefully. Asked me to come back next week with revisions."

"What time did you leave?"

"Around seven. I went straight home."

"Anyone see you leave? Roommate, neighbors?"

"I live alone. But I stopped at the library on my way home, returned some books. The circulation desk might have a record."

Sarah Chen answered my questions with the precision of someone who'd thought about them already. But there was something beneath the surface, a brittleness that suggested she was holding herself together through pure will.

"How would you describe your relationship with Dr. Brennan?"

"He was my advisor. I respected his expertise."

"Just your advisor?"

Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Dr. Brennan maintained very... professional relationships with his students. He believed in thorough mentoring."

The way she said "thorough mentoring" made my skin crawl.

"Ms. Chen, if Dr. Brennan ever made you uncomfortable, ever crossed professional boundaries, you can tell me."

For a moment, something flickered in her eyes—fear, anger, relief? Then the mask slipped back into place.

"Dr. Brennan was a distinguished professor. I was fortunate to work with him."

I left her my card and headed to find Michael Henderson. Unlike Sarah Chen, who seemed to be carrying the weight of the world, Henderson looked like someone for whom the world had always been a comfortable place. Tall, blonde, confident—the kind of guy who'd never had to wonder if he belonged somewhere.

I found him in one of the research labs, staring at computer printouts with red eyes that suggested he hadn't slept much.

"Mr. Henderson? Detective Rinaldi. I need to ask you about Dr. Brennan."

"This is insane," he said without looking up. "Who would want to hurt Dr. Brennan? He was brilliant, dedicated, and one of the best researchers in the field."

"You worked closely with him?"

"For two years. He was my advisor, my mentor. I learned more from him than all my other professors combined." Henderson finally looked at me. "You need to understand, Dr. Brennan wasn't just a professor. He was transforming our understanding of human behavior. His research could help thousands of people."

"Tell me about yesterday. When did you last see him?"

"Around four o'clock. I stopped by his office to drop off data analysis for our current project. He seemed normal, focused on work. We talked about presenting our findings at the annual conference."

"He mention any problems? Conflicts with anyone?"

Henderson's expression hardened. "Dr. Brennan had high standards. Some students couldn't handle that. They'd complain that he was too demanding, that his research methods were too intensive. But that's what made him great—he pushed people to excel."

"What kind of complaints?"

"The usual academic drama. Students who couldn't keep up, who wanted things handed to them instead of earning them." Henderson shook his head. "Dr. Brennan worked with a lot of female graduate students. Sometimes they'd get emotional about the academic pressure, misinterpret professional guidance as something inappropriate."

"You think students made false accusations against him?"

"I think some people don't understand what serious academic research requires. Dr. Brennan studied human sexuality and behavior. That means asking tough questions, exploring uncomfortable topics. Some students couldn't handle that level of intellectual honesty."

I'd heard enough. Henderson was either completely clueless about what his mentor had been doing, or he was willfully blind because acknowledging the truth would destroy his comfortable worldview.

Dr. Victoria Sterling agreed to meet me in her office, which was smaller than Brennan's but decorated with the same academic trophies—diplomas, awards, and published papers. She was an attractive woman in her forties, composed in the way that comes from years of navigating male-dominated academic circles.

"This is devastating," she said, settling behind her desk. "Richard was a wonderful man, a brilliant researcher. We were together for three years."

"Living together?"

"For the past year, yes. We were discussing marriage." Her voice caught slightly. "I can't believe he's gone."

"Tell me about yesterday evening. What time did you last see Dr. Brennan?"

"Around five-thirty. I stopped by his office before heading home. He said he had a meeting with a graduate student, then planned to work late on a research proposal."

"Did he seem worried about anything? Mention any problems?"

“Richard was under some pressure lately. Budget cuts, administrative demands, and the usual academic politics. But nothing that would..." She gestured helplessly.

"What about his relationships with students? Any issues there?"

Dr. Sterling's expression sharpened. "Richard was a dedicated mentor. He gave enormous amounts of time and energy to his students, especially the promising ones. Sometimes they didn't appreciate how fortunate they were."

"What do you mean?"

"Graduate students can be immature, prone to drama. Richard worked intensively with his advisees, pushing them to achieve their potential. Some of them interpreted that as inappropriate attention rather than professional development."

"Did he ever mention specific concerns about students?"

"Richard believed in protecting his students' privacy. But yes, there were some who seemed to have difficulty maintaining appropriate boundaries. Young women who developed crushes, who misunderstood the nature of academic mentoring."

Her tone suggested she viewed Brennan's female students as rivals rather than victims. Dr. Victoria Sterling had chosen her side, and it wasn't with the women who'd trusted her boyfriend.

By late afternoon, a picture was forming, but it was still blurry around the edges. Sarah Chen's careful answers, the way she'd said "thorough mentoring" like the words tasted bitter. Michael Henderson's dismissive comments about "emotional" female students. Dr. Sterling's competitive edge when discussing Brennan's "promising" advisees. And Whitman's smooth deflection of anything that might threaten his golden boy's reputation.

Something was wrong here. The pieces didn't fit the picture of a beloved professor everyone claimed Brennan was. But suspicion wasn't evidence, and uncomfortable conversations weren't proof of murder.

I saved Dr. Whitman for last, meeting him in his office as the October sun disappeared behind the campus buildings. His office was bigger than Brennan's, with a view of the main quad and enough awards to wallpaper a small house.

"Have you completed your investigation, Detective?" Whitman asked, not inviting me to sit.

"Just getting started. I need to understand Dr. Brennan's position in the department, his relationships with colleagues and students."

"Richard was one of our most valued faculty members. Published extensively, brought in substantial research grants, and mentored numerous successful graduate students. His loss is devastating to our program."

"Any complaints about his behavior? Issues with students or staff?"

Whitman's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. "Detective, academic environments can be challenging for young people. Graduate school is stressful, competitive. Sometimes students who struggle academically look for external explanations for their difficulties."

"Are you saying students made complaints about Dr. Brennan?"

"I'm saying that in my fifteen years as department chair, I've learned to distinguish between legitimate concerns and academic drama. Dr. Brennan had high standards. Not everyone could meet them."

"What happens when students file complaints?"

"We take all concerns seriously, of course. But we also have a responsibility to protect faculty from frivolous accusations. Academic freedom requires a certain degree of trust between mentors and students."

"So complaints were filed?"

Whitman leaned back in his leather chair. "Detective, I think you may be misunderstanding the situation. This is an elite academic institution. Our faculty and students are sophisticated people working on complex psychological research. The kind of mentoring relationships necessary for advanced study might seem unusual to someone from... outside our community."

There it was again—the subtle reminder that I didn't belong in their world of important people doing important things.

"Dr. Whitman, someone strangled Dr. Brennan with a computer cable in his locked office. That's not academic drama—that's murder. And I intend to find out who did it and why."

"Of course. I simply want to ensure that your investigation doesn't unnecessarily damage the reputations of innocent people. Dr. Brennan can no longer defend himself against unfounded allegations."

"What about defending the students he abused?"

Whitman's mask slipped for just a moment, revealing something cold underneath. "Detective Rinaldi, I think this conversation is over. If you have further questions, please contact our legal counsel."

As I left the psychology building, I knew three things for certain: Dr. Richard Brennan hadn't been the beloved mentor everyone was trying to convince me he was. The department was more concerned with protecting reputations than with finding the truth. And someone had decided that whatever Brennan had been doing was worth killing him for.

The question was who, and whether the real crime was Brennan's murder or whatever had driven someone to commit it.

The case was just beginning, and I had a feeling the truth would be uglier than anyone wanted to admit.