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 days. Then, from his in-box, the file would have gone to the bottom of his to-do pile, accounting for the two-month lag before it fell into my hands.
I swivelled around in my chair to face the window. It was a spectacular northeastern autumn day with the sun bright and hot, the sky an expanse of cloudless blue. The “happy workers,” dressed in shirtsleeves, strolled along the sidewalk underneath my window, puffing on cigarettes and chatting in pairs. Only the maples aflame in orange and red were telling the truth: winter was almost upon us.
I’ve always held to the theory that it’s best to have friends in low places, since they’re the ones who do the work and actually know what’s going on. On impulse, I picked up the phone and called Lydia.
“Office of the Director General, Grants and Funding.”
I know Lydia well, and preliminaries aren’t required. “It’s me. I’m looking for the scuttlebutt on a file.”
“I see.” Her voice was polite but cold: professional. That meant that Patsy’s office was occupied and the adjoining door was open. You’d think a busy director general would have more to do with her time than eavesdrop on her executive assistant, but Patsy considered it part of her job description. Lydia continued in the same tone. “How may I help you?”
“International Network for Pacific Salmon Population Dynamics. Does that ring a bell?”
“Yes, I understand. But Ms. Middlemass is booked at that time. Would another time be possible?”
Well, well. Pay dirt. “Could you meet me on the path in fifteen?”
“That would be fine. I’ll book you in for then.”
I hung up the phone and smiled to myself. Lydia manages Patsy’s office like the captain of a well-run frigate. She knows every nuance of every file that enters or leaves the office, and she issues orders to her subordinates with an assurance based on infallible knowledge. Despite her command of Patsy’s dominion, she finds the whole thing — the work, the politics, the fretting, the constant jockeying for position — both tedious and silly. In short, Lydia has a life, something the Council tries hard to discourage.
With fifteen minutes to kill I did a rapid accounting of what I already knew, even after my brief look at the documents. The good news? Elaine was not involved. If she had been — if she’d been named as one of the researchers on the original grant request — then I’d have had a serious conflict of interest. Elaine was my secret weapon. She was not only my best friend from graduate school, but she had just recently escaped the post-doctoral mill for a professorship at Southern (as the University of Southern B.C. is known). She was honest, clear-headed, and would know most of the players. While she disapproved of the government interfering with science, we went back a long way, and I knew she could be convinced to help. Insider information could cut weeks off an investigation.
Now for the bad news. Dr. Madden Riesler was a big man on campus, and not just in Vancouver. He sat on funding committees, editorial boards, and government panels, which meant that he had connections — both political and scientific. That made investigating him problematic. It also made Dr. Edwards either very brave or very stupid, but it was too early in the game to know which.
I could hear Duncan moving things around on the other side of the wall, so I picked up the salmon file and scooted down the corridor to his office. Duncan and I had always worked as a team, helping each other follow up leads, covering home base when the other was in the field. I didn’t like to think about life around here without him. When I arrived at the door I stood for a minute, watching him load books into a cardboard box. Then I sighed.
“You bum,” I said, and walked through the door. He looked up from the box and smiled. Duncan is warm, gentle, and thoughtful. Exactly the kind of man I could never fall in love with. He moved the box off the chair and motioned for me to sit down.
“Hey,” I said, “I wouldn’t want to disrupt your packing.”
“Actually, I’ve been cleaning up all week, surreptitiously of course. This isn’t quite as sudden as it seems.”
Now that I thought of it, his office had looked awfully orderly this past week. I felt a little jab of hurt that Duncan hadn’t let me in on the secret, but I assumed he had his reasons. Duncan had perched himself on the edge of his desk and was looking casual, yet professional. Receptive, yet in control. Damn. He was perfect for the minister’s office. I took the file and slid it onto the desk beside him. He picked it up and fanned through the pages.
“I should thank you for that,” I said, nodding to the file. “But I think I’ll withhold judgment until the investigation is complete.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What’s up?” “The investigation has been restricted by the fifth floor and I haven’t even started.”
I could see him scanning a few pages. “Salmon. That makes it hot politically. We start a new round of negotiations next week, and if there’s no headway we’re going to have war on the Fraser.”
“I’ve thought of that. Keep everything under cover for political reasons. But there are other possibilities.”
“Like?”
“Ever heard of Riesler?”
“Big cheese. Does good work as far as I know.”
“But nothing juicy?”
He turned to stare out the window for a couple seconds, the wheels furiously grinding in his head. The guy has total recall for any investigation