The dead student, p.21
The Dead Student, page 21
“So …”
“I hated that year and loved it, too. In retrospect, it’s a year that brings out the best and worst inside you. A defining year.”
“Did you take a course with Professor Jeremy Hogan?”
The psychiatrist hesitated again.
“Yes. His lecture course on forensic psychiatry. It had a great nickname: Reading Killers. It was fascinating, even if outside my interests.”
“Ed Warner was in the course too, and something connected Doctor Hogan to Ed and some other students …” She quickly read off the names of the other dead psychiatrists.
The doctor paused again. “To the best of my memory—remember, we’re going back decades here—those were probably the members of Study Group Alpha. I can’t be sure, understand? I mean, it was many years ago. In third-year psychiatry, there were three study groups: Alpha, Beta, and Zeta. That was a joke in Latin—first, second, and last. There were five of us randomly assigned to each group. Some natural rivalries arose—every group wanted the best GPA, wanted the best Match Day results. But there was a problem in Alpha.”
“A problem?”
“One student seemed to be trapped in psychosis. At least, that was the story that went around. Of course, with the stress, the decisions, the never-ending course work, plus the fear that we’d make a diagnostic mistake, every group had members on edge. Breakdowns weren’t uncommon …”
The psychiatrist paused again.
“His was.”
A Short, but Dangerous Conversation That Actually Happened
“Doctor Hogan, I’m sorry to disturb you …”
“What is it, Mister, uh … Warner, correct?”
“Yes, sir. I’m here on behalf of my fellow study group students …”
“Yes? I have a class scheduled and not much time. Can you get directly to the point?”
Ed Warner: Deep breath. Organizing thoughts quickly. Shuffling feet. Sensation of doubt.
“Four members of Study Group Alpha are concerned with the behavioral patterns of the fifth member. We sincerely believe that he presents a genuine threat, either to himself, or perhaps to us.”
Jeremy Hogan: A pause. Rocking in a chair. Tapping a pencil against teeth. Scheduled class mentally postponed.
“What sort of threat?”
“Physical violence.”
“That’s quite an accusation, Mister Warner. I hope you can back this up.”
“I can, sir. And coming to speak to you was, all of us felt, the last resort.”
“You understand an accusation like this can impact all of your careers?”
“We do. We’ve taken that into consideration.”
“And why have you brought this to me?”
“Because of your expertise in explosive personalities.”
“You believe your fellow student is on an edge that might result in … precisely what, Mister Warner?”
“Over the last weeks, this student’s behavior has grown increasingly erratic, and—”
“Exams are approaching. Many students are on edge.”
Ed Warner: Another deep breath. A quick glance at sheaves of paper from each member of the group, outlining impressions.
“Last week he strangled a lab rat in front of all of us. No reason. He just seized the rat and killed it. Flat affect as he did it. It was like he was demonstrating his ability to kill without remorse. He constantly talks to himself, in a rambling, disjointed, usually incomprehensible, but frequently angry manner—especially as it relates to his family pressures and then, about us. He is isolated, but threatening. He claims to own weapons. Guns. Every effort we have made to engage him, maybe defuse the situation, get him to seek help, has been rebuffed. Sometimes his facial expressions are labile and disconnected to recognizable context—one second he will laugh inappropriately, then a second later he will burst into tears. Last week he took a scalpel from a surgical theater and sliced the word kill into his forearm in front of all of us, while we were holding a pre-exam cram session. I’m unsure that he either felt any pain in that second, or realized what he was doing. Whenever anyone in the study group seeks to correct him, point out a difference of opinion, even suggest a different type of answer to an academic question, he is likely to suddenly scream in their face, or else stare hatefully at them. Sometimes he writes down our names, the date, and a description of the dispute in a notebook. It’s like he’s not taking notes for class, but taking notes on us. Preparing a case, I think, to internally justify an act of violence …”
Jeremy Hogan: A nod of the head. A genuine look of concern.
“You must take your situation immediately to the dean’s office and inform him of everything you’ve told me. You should do this without delay. You are absolutely correct. Your fellow student sounds to be in significant trouble. He may need hospitalization.”
And then the brief exchange that started everything:
“Can you help?”
“Him?”
Ed Warner: Hesitation. Honesty.
“No. Us.”
“I will call the dean right now and tell him you are on your way to his office. He will want to see chapter and verse. You are correct, Mister Warner. The symptomatology you present includes several recognizable elements of certain sorts of dangerous explosions. I would think acting quickly in this situation is crucial.”
“Should we contact campus security?”
“Not yet. The dean should do that.”
Then Jeremy Hogan reached for the phone on his desk with very much the same motion he would use thirty years later in the precious few seconds before he died.
Andy Candy waited for the psychiatrist in California to continue. She could hear him gathering his breath.
“There was a physician in our department—a research guy—studying early-childhood attachment disorders, who did much of his work with rhesus monkeys. National Institutes of Health grant, I recall, not that it’s important.”
“Monkeys?”
“Yes. They’re great subjects for psychological studies. Very close in social behaviors to you and me, even if the churchgoing public doesn’t want to believe that.”
“But what—”
He interrupted her. “Just rumor, you know. Innuendo. Whatever actually happened got covered up by the university really fast, probably because the administration didn’t want it impacting their U.S. News and World Report ranking. But the sort of story that stays with you, even if I haven’t thought about it in years and years. No one has ever asked me about this. And, you must recognize that as sensational as it seemed to be then, there was no time for any of us to digest it, assess it, what have you. We were all swept up in all that third-year tension.”
“I understand,” she replied, although she doubted that she did.
“The research psychiatrist came in to his laboratory one morning. Door had been forced open. He found five of his prize monkeys arranged in a circle on the floor. Their throats had been sliced.”
Andy Candy gasped.
“But what …”
“Dead monkeys. No, slaughtered monkeys.”
The psychiatrist hesitated. “Now, did that have some connection to the troubles in Study Group Alpha? No, one ever proved that, at least not that I know. And it wasn’t as if that research doc hadn’t made more than a few enemies. He was notoriously cruel to his assistants, and prone to yelling at them, firing them, and screwing up their futures. Not hard to imagine that one of them went looking for a little payback.”
“You don’t think that?”
“I never knew what to think, and had no time to think it anyways,” the psychiatrist continued. “That wasn’t what bothered me.”
“What was that?” Andy asked, slightly afraid to formulate this question.
“It was the number. Five—as in five dead monkeys. There were twelve others that were untouched. Sometimes, when one examines acts, particularly acts of violence—it makes sense to try to connect dots. Why weren’t all the monkeys killed? Or perhaps, just one?”
Andy Candy stammered again, making some grunting sound that came out instead of a question. The only word she could come up with was “And …”
“And that’s all. I always thought that the lab incident had something to do with that psychotic student. A matter of timing, I suppose. A hearing. Dismissal. Back of an ambulance heading to a private psychiatric hospital. Goodbye, so long, and that was it. One minute he was there, the next gone. And there was no obvious connection to that particular laboratory. Like, he wasn’t studying with that professor. But, like all of us, he knew about it, and he knew how to get in and out. So maybe the Freudian in me wants to see a link, but a detective wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Four people testified at that dean’s office hearing: the members of the study group. Curiously, though, there were five slaughtered monkeys. Four versus five … which threw it all askew.”
“What about Doctor Hogan?”
“He wasn’t at that hearing. All he did was what any faculty member would do: contact the dean’s office. The rest was up to the members of Study Group Alpha. So I can’t really see what he has to do with this.”
“I see …” Andy Candy said, although she didn’t know if she did.
“Of course, this all might be just conjecture. Sounds like far too much Hollywood, if you ask me. And perhaps it was the overinflated and overheated suppositions of a too-tense and stressed-out imagination, so I wouldn’t put that much credence in it. Even in medical school rumors were inflated, exaggerated, and bandied about like junior high school dating rumors. But the dead monkeys—those were very real.”
Andy Candy felt her mouth go dry and she choked out her question: “Do you remember the name of that student?”
The doctor hesitated.
“Interesting,” he said after a momentary hesitation. “You would think that recalling a detail like monkey murder would automatically mean that I would remember the name as well. But I do not. Totally blocked. Intriguing, huh? Perhaps if I think about it for some time, it will come to me. But right now, no.”
Andy Candy thought she should have a thousand additional questions, but she could not come up with any. She looked out the window of the car and saw people starting to emerge from Redeemer One. She realized suddenly that the hand holding her cell phone was slippery with sweat.
“Sorry. I don’t know if I’ve helped you or not,” the doctor continued. “That’s all I recall. Or, possibly, that’s all I care to recall. You let me know where I should send that contribution to the memorial fund.”
The psychiatrist hung up.
24
Gotta love Facebook.
Student #5 was getting to know Andrea Martine from a distance. He was staring at an electronic array of her wall pictures and reading captions and comments, lots of silly, inconsequential words that concealed some important elements: dead father the vet; music teacher mother; happy college times that seemed to stop abruptly; no posts for weeks. I wonder why. Bits of information flooded him as he carefully sorted through the typical teenager-to-college-student chaff in his search for hidden details that would help him plan. He had an odd thought: Did Mark Zuckerberg ever imagine that his social network could be used to make a decision whether to kill someone?
He smiled and had an added thought: It’s a little like preparing to go on a blind date, isn’t it? He imagined himself seated across a restaurant table, exchanging pleasantries with Andrea Martine. He spoke in a nice, friendly voice: “So, you like adopting animals, do you? And reading Emily Dickinson poems and Jane Austen novels both for class and in your spare time? Isn’t that interesting …
“It sure sounds like you have a fascinating life, Andrea. Full of possibilities. I would be so sorry to have to cut it short.”
This dialogue made him laugh out loud. But the burst of humor didn’t manage to conceal troubled thoughts that were lurking in the back of his imagination.
He read through everything, then read it all again, revisiting photos and archived materials. He looked closely at a single picture of a grinning Andrea arm in arm with a dark-haired, thin boy. No name. This picture had the caption EX beneath it.
Student #5 noted frequent use of a nickname: Andy Candy.
Interesting construction, he thought. Sort of like a porn star’s nom de sex.
He thought Andy Candy was pretty and recognized that she had a disarming smile and a lanky, sleek figure. He guessed that she was devoted to her studies and a good student. He imagined she was outgoing, friendly, not overly social but no wallflower either. She had posted pictures showing her drinking beer with friends, riding a two-person bicycle, bikini-clad on vacation dropping from the sky harnessed into a parachute towed behind a speedboat. There were pictures of her on a soccer field and playing basketball during her teenage years. There were baby pictures, with the obligatory question written beneath: Wasn’t I a beauty? She wasn’t at all like anyone he’d killed—up to this point.
One old person. Four middle-aged psychiatrists. Study Group Alpha.
But Andy Candy went into a different category. This would be a killing of choice. This would be a killing to protect your future and to hide what you have done. Uncertainty made him pause. Made him slightly unsettled. What’s she guilty of?
Student #5 eyed one particular photo. He guessed she was in her late teens when it was taken. Andy Candy was cuddling on a fluffy sofa with a mutt—and dog and girl were looking directly at the camera, cheek to cheek, each wearing a slightly skewed baseball cap from the University of Florida and a wide grin, even if the dog did look a little uncomfortable. The picture went directly into the young person’s category of “cute.” There was a joking caption underneath the picture: Me and my new boyfriend Bruno getting ready for freshman orientation Fall 2010.
Innocent, he thought.
He bent toward the computer screen. “What were you doing in Doctor Hogan’s house, young lady?” he asked, a stern schoolteacher wagging a finger under the nose of a miscreant classroom cutup. “What did you see? What did you hear? What do you mean to do now?”
He almost expected one of the pictures to answer him. “Don’t you understand what it means?” Silence filled the room. “I might just have to kill you.”
Student #5 shut down the Facebook page and turned his attention to Timothy Warner. No social network site for him—but there were other sources of information, including police records.
Timothy Warner showed up twice for driving under the influence. There was a district court adjudication—six months’ nonreporting probation and loss of license.
He found some other entries for Timothy Warner: magna cum laude from the University of Miami, undergraduate degree in American History, and the recipient of a prestigious award. This news release from the university conveniently included a picture and the information that Timothy Warner was continuing at the university to obtain a doctorate in Jeffersonian Studies.
He fixed his eyes on the picture. “Hello, Timothy,” he said. “I think we’re going to get to know each other.”
The Miami Herald website listed Timothy Warner in the “survived by” category following its obituary report on his uncle’s suicide. Some additional quick clicks on the keyboard, and within a few seconds he had addresses and phone numbers for both Andy Candy and Timothy the nephew.
Student #5 rocked in his chair like an eager sub hoping to be called to go into a game.
He knew what they looked like, and he knew where to look for them, and he believed that whatever blanks he had left on his Do I need to kill them both? list could be filled without too much trouble.
He split his computer screen and put up the picture captioned EX next to the university press release of Timothy Warner. This interested him. Did love bring them back together?
He shook his head.
More likely: death.
25
Andy Candy thought they had entered into some weird parallel universe. Where they stood, the morning sun was insistently bright. The air was warm. Gentle breezes stirred palm fronds into a rhythmic, benign dance.
And now what connected the two of them was murder.
And fear, too, she thought. But she wasn’t quite able to gather all that anxiety up into a neat package and describe it to Moth the way she had related all the details of her conversation with the West Coast psychiatrist the night before. When she told Moth all that the doctor had said, she imagined herself some sort of executive secretary of killing. Details had flooded her afterward, and she’d tried to sort through them all: You go to a college frat house party and it becomes death. You get a call from your old high school boyfriend and it becomes death. You fly to talk to an old psychiatrist and that becomes death.
What’s next?
Too many things were conflated together inside her head. She wanted to grasp something solid, but nothing seemed quite real to her any longer.
Dead monkeys in a psych lab thirty years ago.
Was that real?
Names of dead people on a page in front of her. Accident, accident, suicide.
Were they real?
The baby she’d aborted.
Was it real?
Andy looked over at Moth. No, she suddenly thought. It’s not a parallel universe. It’s the theater of the absurd and we’re both eagerly waiting for Godot.
“Are you hungry, Andy?” Moth called out.
He was standing at a counter, collecting Cuban coffees for the two of them.
They were outside a window-front restaurant on Calle Ocho, the main thoroughfare through Little Havana, engaging in a Miami tradition: dynamiting oneself awake. A line of folks—from businessmen in dark suits to mechanics in greasy overalls—were sipping small cups of sweet, frothy, strong coffee and eating pastries. Andy Candy and Moth were both on their second cup of the brew, which they knew was more than enough caffeine to keep them going for hours.
