Three to one, p.10
Three To One, page 10
She had been thinking about the lecture and had formulated an intelligent question. She was following it up by doing research. Sad to say, but in the lower-level auditorium courses, that level of initiative was somewhat rare. It was a professional question, one he could engage without any impropriety.
“Well, Miss Jorgensen, we’re going to delve deeply into that. I merely mentioned it in the opening lecture as a sort of teaser.”
“So, you were trying to tease me?” she asked, with a mischievous grin.
He flushed. “What I meant was, I merely intended to say…”
“Well, it worked,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about it, doing some reading, and I now understand that Mitochondrial DNA mutates at a very low incidence. That’s right isn’t it? That’s the reason?”
“It is.” A young woman with high intelligence, and also an apparent interest in his field. She was lovely in every way. He wished there were not constraints placed on him because of his job title.
“And if I understand correctly, because of that low incidence of mutation, the DNA in mitochondria is more stable across generations, than DNA found in other parts of the body. Am I close?”
“Yes, actually. That is insightful. Congratulations. It sounds like you have more than a passing interest in genetics?”
“I do. I want to conduct research in the field. I am so intrigued by the diversity within the human species. I want to understand what drives it, and more than that, I want to focus on all the ways we are similar.”
“Good.” She was mature, and really thinking about the subject matter.
“Human diversity is fascinating,” she said. “and I understand that when we are talking about long time lines, it is even critical to survival, but in our micro way of looking at the world, we humans often sub-divide people into small groups, with each group feeling isolated from the others. I think ultimately, our unity is the key to our survival.”
“Ah,” said Professor Faulk. “It sounds like you are drifting out of genetics and merging into philosophy.”
“No, I’m not. I just think the world would be a better place if people understood how critical our species’ diversity is, that’s all.”
“That is a valid opinion. I would caution you, however. The scientific method is not about proving what we hope to be true. It is about discovering truths objectively.” Even though he had to remain professional, he shouldn’t be rude, should he? “I apologize – please sit down.”
She smiled at him and nodded a thank you. Goodness, she was attractive. And easy to talk to. He caught a faint hint of an alluring perfume. Her intense interest in genetics was refreshing. She had much to learn, but she was sincere, and her comments reflected a depth not all that common, even here, where people were serious about their academics.
A young employee in an apron arrived at the table with a large pizza.
“Ah. That’s my order.”
“Really? You order a large?”
“Well, I ’m not at all above eating left-over pizza, since I live alone.”
“Professor Faulk eating left over pizza while he grades papers. Somehow that fits with my mental image of you.”
She has a mental image of me, he thought. I wonder if she thinks of me daily, weekly, or only occasionally in passing. It would be interesting data to have.
She leaned forward now, with a tease of her own sparkling in her eyes.
“I’ll make you a deal, Professor Faulk. If I can guess what kind of pizza this is, you have to give me a slice.”
He laughed.
“Oh, Okay, I’m game.” She was so cute.
Still leaning forward, breasts pressed up against slender arms, rounding out the shape of yet another soft sweater, her eyes moved up and to the left. Interesting. If they had gone up and to the right, it would indicate that she was trying to synthesize a clever reply, drawing upon the creative parts of her brain. But she was trying to access the left side of her brain, approaching the challenge analytically. He loved that.
“Let’s see… You don’t strike me as a vegetarian, so I’m thinking… Pepperoni.”
“Ah… yes, great deduction, and might I also add, a very practical use of your olfactory nerve. Come on, anyone can sniff this pizza box and know it has pepperoni in it. You’ll have to do better.” He was enjoying the game. It was a rare opportunity, to hang out with someone his own age, and simply have fun.
“Ok, Professor. Touché. I will do better. You are a nerd more than a jock, I’m thinking you are not counting calories… Sssoo, you have not one but two cheeses on this pizza, and this is a special treat, so you’ve spiced it up a bit. I’m thinking peppers… green, not Jalapeno, because you are practical, and measured in your approach. And you probably have a sophisticated pallet, and like variety, so you have something on here with a little bitterness… Anchovies? No. Olives. Black olives. How did I do?”
She was cute as a little ladybug. Smart, clever, a little sassy, sure of herself. He opened the box ceremoniously and waved his hand over the pizza.
“Pepperoni, a given, free points. The cheese thing was good. Insightful. Provolone and mozzarella. Green peppers, there they are, and yes. The real ringer, the black olives. You, young lady have garnered yourself a free slice of pizza.”
She clapped with glee, like a little kid, pulled the slice out, raised her trophy high, letting the cheese stretch as far as possible. She bit into the slice, cheese drooping across her chin, and both of them laughed.
“Excuse, me, is that you, Professor Faulk?”
“Oh, hi. Yes, Professor Blumstein, how are you?”
“I am fine, thank you. And who is this young lady?”
She extended her hand, and dove reached and took it, her mouth full of pizza, suddenly much more serious, the smile fading.
“I am Dove Jorgenthen, Profethor,” she said through puffy cheeks. She swallowed and wiped her chin quickly.
“You are my psych II professor.”
“Ah, yes, of course. I thought you looked familiar. Well, I’ve got to run. I don’t want to keep you from – whatever this is.”
She breezed off, glancing back over her shoulder only once.
Professor Faulk felt a little ill. Her tone had been sweet, but the words were laced with venom, like those dripping off the tongue of a serpent.
“Professor Faulk is everything OK?”
He stood and closed the lid on the pizza box, a slight tremble in his hands. Lights flashed red and blue, as a loud Whoop, whoop! Came from outside, then a siren. An ambulance raced past the front windows. A police squad car followed, lights and sirens flashing and blaring, then another and another. Something bad was happening. He turned his attention back toward Dove.
“I’m sorry. What did you ask?”
“I asked if everything is okay.”
“Yes, everything is fine. Of course. I’m Sorry Miss Jorgensen. I really must be going. I hope they bring you your order soon.”
She looked hurt, sitting there holding her piece of pizza. How could she understand the complexities of being a faculty member, especially the most junior faculty member?
“Dove – Miss Jorgensen – I – it was nice to see you. Have a pleasant and safe evening.”
As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he saw that the street was filling up with emergency vehicles, not two blocks away. A large firetruck, an ambulance, cop cars. It didn’t look good. He didn’t feel good either. He was certain this encounter with Professor Blumstein was something he would hear about later. Standing there holding his large pizza minus one, he could smell smoke. Probably his career going up in flames.
September 14
“Clevon, we get there, you come up on the loading dock and stand next to me. You stand like this, see? One foot back, one forward, relaxed, but ready. Keep your feet a little apart, kind of a fighting stance, just in case anybody has any ideas of challenging you. Cross your arms over your chest. Ball up your fists, tuck ‘em up under your biceps, like this, make ‘em look as big as possible. While I’m talkin’, you look ‘em in the eye, one by one. That lets ‘em know things are gonna be different now. You’ve earned your spot in the food chain. Tonight’s the night we make it official.”
“Okay, Kilo. But I’m the youngest in the whole gang. They all know they can bust my head if they want to. I’m not sure it’s gonna work. They might just get mad at me, jump me when you ain’t around.”
“See, now that’s loser talk. You got to get all that outa your head. Next to me, you’re the biggest man now. And there ain’t one of ‘em can bust your head, cause they know you gonna bust 'em first. Here. This is yours now.”
Kilo pulled out a huge nickel plated .45 caliber pistol, model 1911. He dropped the magazine, showed it to Clevon. “Holds nine rounds. Eight in the mag, one in the chamber. You jack it like this.” He slapped the magazine into the handle, raised the pistol and racked the barrel back and forth with a loud metallic clacking sound. He put the gun in Clevon’s hand. “Now you the biggest, you feel me?”
Clevon got a big smile on his face. “Man, Kilo, thanks.” Up ahead there was a bonfire roaring out of a large blue metal dumpster.
“Let me have it back. I want them to see me give it to you. Once you have it in your hand, you tuck that cannon down the back of your pants, then fold your arms and go back to starin’ ‘em down. Nobody’s gonna doubt you. You’re running with me now. You my right hand, till I say different.” Kilo quickened his pace, vaulted up the industrial stairs two at a time, and stood on the loading dock, looking down at his crew. Everybody shut up their laughin’ and clowning once he took the platform. Clevon bounded up the stairs and stood to the side, a couple steps back.
“Listen up, you bunch of cowards. I got a formal announcement to make. You all remember, last week, I put the green light on a certain heroin addict, cheated us out of some product? When I say green light, that means go time. That means open season. I did that to see who around here has the stones to take care of business. Not one of you all stood up like a man. None of you all down there. This little man right here - come up here Clevon.” He put his arm around Clevon’s shoulders. “This little man right here didn’t ask permission, and he didn’t ask for no help. He went on his own initiative and took care of the business at hand. You all look at him. This is a man with stones of biblical proportions. You all a bunch of thick-headed giants, but this little man right here – his name, from this day forward is Giant Slayah, feel me? He waded into battle and made you all look sick.” There was utter silence in the group. Clevon was doing his best to look the part, but shaking inside, like a leaf.
“As a result of this little man passing a test that you all failed, and I mean all of you.” He started moving his index finger across the crowd, making sure nobody felt left out. "Every single one of you have chicken livers. He did what you couldn’t do. As a result of that, Slayah is now my right hand. You cross Slayah, you cross me. You disobey Slayah, you disobey me. There’s only one man in this gang can question the word of Slayah, and that man is me. Slayah’s got my back, and I got his. Now, if any of you sniveling, milky little chicken squirts has anything to say against this, you man up and say it right the hell now.”
Only the sound of the crackling fire could be heard.
“I find out anybody sassed back to Slayah, or anybody called Slayah by his childhood name, that fool will feel my wrath. Any questions?”
Kilo stared hard at them, moving from eye to eye, seeing them wilt and look down. Once he had ‘em all looking at the ground, he pulled out the big cannon, blasted five shots into the side of the burning dumpster, punching holes through the thick blue metal fast as he could squeeze the trigger. Streams of sparks shot up into the night sky. Gangstas were leaping in all directions, trying to get out of the way. When the shooting stopped, they were all cowering, scared stiff, looking over their shoulders to see what was gonna happen next. Kilo held the pistol up, moved it from far right all the way left, twisting it a little to let it catch the firelight.
“Here you go, Bruh.” He handed the cannon to Slayah, who immediately tucked it into the back of his pants. “You know I’m the law around here,” Kilo said, “and Slayah is my new chief deputy. That shiny piece of steel right there proves it.” Then he turned to Slayah, and spoke loudly, so the whole gang could hear. “As of this moment, you carry my authority with you everywhere you go. Any of these losers questions your authority, you show ’em your badge.”
Slayah nodded, then went to work starin’ down every single giant, one by one.
September 15
Detective Paul Gibson stood with one hand in his front pants pocket, the other holding a warm styro cup of coffee. The salt marsh at low tide smelled like death. Dead crabs, dead fish, dead shellfish, and one dead human. A male Caucasian. At least that is what it looked like. He was puffed up, had chunks missing, sharks probably, and some smaller fish. Gibson yawned, and shook his head. He sat his coffee carefully on the trunk of his car, so he could take out his note pad, and scribble
“Sept. 15. John Doe supping with the fishes.”
He put the note pad away. More coffee. The assistant M.E. came up, half covered in the black stinking mud of the marsh. With his blue gloves, he removed his respirator.
“A drowning?” asked Gibson. The young A.M.E. shook his head.
“He’s got a deep laceration between his third and fourth rib, from his right arm, half-way to his sternum.”
“Ah. Suicide then.”
The A.M.E. looked bewildered.
“It’s a joke,” said Gibson. The kid looked confused.
“Load up what’s left of him, would ya?” Gibson asked. “I can’t stand around here admiring the scenery all day.”
September 16
To Bill Callandahl, it seemed like he had been Dean of the Science Department for a lot longer than ten years. The faculty often regressed to a childlike state, fighting, whining, and bickering like a group of middle school kids.
“Bill are you hearing me?” Professor Blumstein asked.
“Yes, I’m sorry, Maggie.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all weekend. My message said it was urgent. I have to tell you, I find it insulting that you did not even find time to return my call.”
The bare fact, which he would not share with her, is that his experience had taught him that messages presented as “urgent,” were usually anything but. Nine times out of ten, if you let the person cool for a few days, maybe a week or so, the big problem would have worked its self out before you even spoke with them. It was about conservation of energy. And sanity.
“Bill!”
“I’m sorry, Maggie. My mind wandered for a second. Continue.”
“What do you mean, continue? Are you going to do something about this or not?”
She sounded like a teenage girl telling the dad that he had to discipline a younger brother.
“Maggie,” he began.
“Don’t you ‘Maggie’ me, Bill. You know as well as I do that the guidelines are clear about this, and there is no room for gray area.”
“Maggie,” he stopped because he realized he was repeating himself.
“Maggie, could we tone it down a little, please? For Pete’s sake, it’s Monday morning. I haven’t even finished my first cup of coffee, and you barge in here shouting that the sky is falling. Is this truly that dire?”
“OOOH,” she growled, balling up her chubby little fists. “It is so like you to treat this as a minor issue.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“No! How could it be? A professor sleeping with a student? How can that be anything but serious?”
“What? Wait- did I miss something? I heard about two people sharing a pizza, in a public setting.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Actually, no, I don’t think I do. Have you somehow made a leap from a pizza box into a bedroom? That sounds a little hysterical, even for you, Maggie.”
“Well!” she said. “If you had seen what I saw, you’d feel differently.”
“That may be true,” he said. He took his time, sipping his coffee, precious, precious liquid, the only thing keeping him sane in this moment. Oh, man. A headache was starting, like a brain freeze from chugging a slushy. It was way too early for this foolishness.
“Maggie until I have seen something with my own eyes, or heard something corroborated by several witnesses, there is nothing I can do. I cannot take action against a faculty member, on the hearsay of one co-worker.”
“Hearsay!” She was almost shouting now. Good grief.
“I’m sorry, Maggie,” he said, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. “Until there is corroborating evidence from multiple witnesses, that is all this is.”
“Don’t you realize the scandal this could bring down upon the institute? Don’t you realize the financial consequences? What if the girl’s parents sue the school?”
“Sue the school for what?” He was trying to remember his schedule today and determine if there was time to lie down on the couch and take a nap.
“For liability. When it comes out that the Dean of Science knew what was happening, and did nothing about it, the school will be liable, and so will you.”
He sighed. Should have called in sick. He knew he had stayed up too late last night, but he thought he could power through. Big mistake.
“Alright, Maggie,” Bill said. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I will stop by Professor Faulk’s office, and have a word with him.”
“A word?”
“Maybe two or three.”
“Hmmph.” She snorted. “What needs to happen, is he needs to be made an example of.”
“Enough, Maggie.”
She looked at him, lips pursed, jaw set tight, rigid as a fireplug, but she didn’t say anything.
“Maggie, have a nice day, okay? Get out and breathe some fresh air. It’ll do you good.”
“Ooooh…” she said, teeth gritted again. With that, she spun on her stubby little heel, and clacked out the door.
