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“It was indexed incorrectly, effectively rendering it nonexistent to searches. Take a look at the title.”
Corrie looked. “The Decline of the Galina Culture in the Badlands of the American Southwest.”
“See the misspelling of the wordGallina? Now look at the name.”
Corrie looked:Miranda F. Diver.
“Name misspelled, too. That prevented a hit on searches for either author name or title.”
“Deliberate?”
“It could have been a data-entry error… But you gotta wonder.”
“What’s in there someone would want to hide?”
Nora paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “It’s what’snotin it.”
Corrie raised her eyebrows as Nora hefted the dissertation, opened it to the table of contents, and turned it around for Corrie to see. “It looks normal, right?”
“As far as I can tell.” Corrie scanned the chapter titles. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“And the page numbering is all in order?”
“Seems so.”
Nora turned the page. “Now look at the table of figures.”
Corrie looked. Each entry gave the relevant chapter number, followed by a dash, then the figure number—a standard format.Again, this seemed normal. She scanned the table a second time. “Wait. Some of these figures are misnumbered.”
“Right.”
She looked up to see a broad smile on Nora’s face. “The last two chapters have been removed. Everything’s been readjusted, pagination and chapters renumbered, table of contents updated—except whoever did it forgot to renumber the figures.”
Corrie stared. “Nice detective work. So what do you think was in those chapters?”
“I don’t know. But even as I was reading the dissertation over, I felt that Driver was holding something back, as if lining up her evidence for a final, perhaps even unexpected, argument or theory. But then it never materialized. I think that theory was taken out at the last minute—probably in a rush—and a new, more banal conclusion substituted in its place.”
“By whom?”
“The most likely person would have been the dissertation advisor. And as you see from the title page, that was Oskarbi.” Nora paused. “But even so, we just might be able to find those missing chapters.”
“Really? How?”
“I wrote a dissertation myself. You end up going through ten, fifteen drafts before it’s done,” Nora said. “And you save every draft. If this material still exists—” she paused and smiled at Corrie—“I’ll bet her father has it. And, Miz FBI Agent,youneed to go get it.”
Late that afternoon, Corrie, a lump of stone-like dread in her gut, pulled into a parking space in front of Driver’s apartment building, got out, went up, and rang the doorbell. She hadn’t calledahead to make an appointment: she was worried he wouldn’t see her. She had an apology to make—and in addition, if she was going to get his help with the dissertation drafts, she hoped she might have a better chance at persuading him in person.
Another long wait, and then Driver opened the door, looking at her with a cool gaze. “Come in,” he said, stepping aside.
Corrie entered, feeling nervous and tentative although doing her best not to reveal it.
“Have a seat,” Driver said.
Corrie consciously chose a different chair to sit down in this time. “Mr. Driver,” she said, starting with the lines she’d rehearsed on the drive over, “I’m really sorry that I offended you when I first—”
Driver held up his hands. “Say no more. I don’t know what I was thinking at the time, and I hope that complaint didn’t get you into trouble.” He took in a deep breath. “It’s just… I’ve been so frustrated about the do-nothing police. It was obvious they didn’t give a damn from the jump—that they assumed she’d run away. I couldn’t help but think if she were a white girl, they’d have paid more attention. I let my temper get the better of me.”
This was not the response Corrie had expected. “I’m sorry for not being more… discreet in my opinions.”