An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [77]
“What’s this about? A magic show?” he says.
I scan a page with the light to show him the stamps. “These are Special Collections materials. You know as well as I do that they’re not supposed to circulate outside of the Reading Room. They were in a warehouse not far from the city. What’s more intriguing is that the warehouse was willed to Francis Hickey by the late William Myrick who you know is–”
“Slow down. Where are you going with this? What do you expect me to do?”
“In the short term, someone needs to do an inventory of Special Collections. In the long term, we need a more robust, internal, computerised, security system that protects against patron theft and employee fraud. If you don’t act now this could turn into a major scandal for the library and for the university in general, a media field day where you’ll be eaten alive. On the other hand, we can make it appear strategic. as if, in your normal efficient process of checking on budgets, you detected inconsistencies. You contact the authorities. They’ll handle the messy part. In the end, one employee will be judged guilty and one administrator will be judged in control.”
He gazes off into space, calm, pensive. The hint of a smile emerges. It’s the reassurance I need. When I leave the office, he’s already on the telephone with the President. I congratulate myself.
I SH known better.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
the aspartame of librarians
THE CITY IS OPERATING IN slow motion. The parade of blizzards leaves roads virtually impassable and sidewalks invisible. The Weather Channel describes it as the biggest news story of the new millennium for Newfoundland. Over four hundred centimetres have fallen so far and it’s not yet the end of February. Snow banks line streets and bury parking lots. Two hundred tons of salt have been spread on city streets. The roof of a local shopping centre collapses, the number of car accidents rises. People are asked to venture out only if absolutely necessary. There’s talk of a potential state of emergency. The concrete vibrates with the energy of the ploughs and snow blowers. The weather tantrum buries my car in a mound of snow. I dig it out with the shovel, go indoors for a shower then come back out too late to stop the plough from burying it again. I call a cab. The news is playing in the car.
The RCMP released a bulletin today announcing
the seizure of a quantity of books and papers from a
property near the city. VOCM has learned that some of
the goods may be university property. An investigation
is ongoing. One person has been charged with
obstruction of justice as well as assault causing bodily
harm against an officer of the law. The individual was
released on bail pending a court hearing.
That afternoon, I make coffee in advance. It’s not like Henry to be late. I’m relieved when I hear his knock.
“I’m so thirsty, I could suck a mop.” He wipes his forehead then wobbles over to the stand. He tugs his shirt away from his body, reaches forward to pour coffee then stops to sniff under his arm. “Jesus, I’m roasted,” he says. “I just came across campus from the President’s office. I was prepared for the firing squad.” He places his hands at his side, lowers his head and frowns. “‘Henry Kelly. We find you guilty of being a luddite librarian.’ How was that performance, Carl? Bet you thought I was too much of a luddite to know what a luddite is, didn’t you?”
He wipes his forehead again then walks over to his chair. “I had my defence prepared and rehearsed. You wouldn’t understand it because you’re brainwashed, brain-dead, brain-challenged or whatever the politically correct term is this week. It was a brilliant but wasted speech. ‘How are you, Mr. Kelly? Can I get you anything?’ They didn’t call me there to reprimand me. Exactly the opposite. The Chief recommended that the President place me in charge of inspecting the materials confiscated by the police in the Crimson Hexagon.”
“Why you?”
“Are you doubting my abilities, Carl? In their wisdom, they chose the espresso, the orchid,