I flipped to the front of the file, hoping to find something to explain the lack of background material. Normally, the first page in any file is NCST Internal Form 16-52-C, which covers financial codes and any special instructions or concerns related to a project. But instead of the usual form, there was a post-it note with a scrawled message attached to the first page. It was from our director general, Ms. Patricia Middlemass. Bob had scratched out his name and jotted in “Duncan.” The note from Patsy (she would behead me if that nickname ever slipped out in conversation) was surprisingly informal. Usually her missives arrive on official letterhead in triplicate and are written in a language that only a lawyer can understand. They are known around here as CYA (cover your ass) memos, and Patsy is gifted in her ability to produce them. Her instructions for this project, however, were terse.
Bob, Duncan Investigate financial impropriety only. Some documentation available here (see file) but onsite records needed. Extreme discretion. Security clearance required. Three days’ travel, more by my approval only. P.
Typical Patsy, to restrict travel time. She was in a fury of cost-cutting these days — a vital part of renewal, we’d been told — and travel must be the newest front for deficit reduction. I shook my head, pulled off the post-it note, crumpled it, and aimed for the garbage can; then I stopped. I flattened it out and read it again.
Patsy’s note really issued two distinct orders. The most obvious one was to investigate financial impropriety only, but by default, that implied a second directive: Keep your nose out of the science. Don’t touch the research. Now why, I wondered, would our busy director general be involving herself in the details of an inquiry? And why would she be giving her orders on untraceable scraps of paper? I carefully folded up the crumpled post-it note and tucked it between two pages near the front of my day book. I made a mental note to return to it when I was more familiar with the file.
With the note removed I could now read the top document; the last thing we had received relating to this project. It was a letter dated August 28, almost two months ago, written by a Dr. Jonathan Edwards at the University of Southern British Columbia. And he wasn’t happy.
Dear Sirs
I am sending this letter via registered mail to obtain proof that it has indeed been received by the Grants and Funding Branch of the National Council for Science and Technology (NCST). This is the third letter I have sent regarding an intolerable situation occurring in the International Network for Pacific Salmon Population Dynamics (INPSPD) project: I refer, of course, to the mismanagement and misuse of grant funding by the Canadian project leader, Dr. Madden Riesler.
I have provided you on two occasions with the background evidence required to launch an investigation and have heard nothing in reply. For this reason I have decided to take the only route open to me. 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