Murder Is Pathological

by P. M. Carlson

  “God help you, then,” she said, pushing back an escaped strand of her dark hair.

  “God help us all. Are you done?”

  “Only with this stage. I have to look at this batch of sections by the time I see Moore tomorrow. But hell, maybe I should break for dinner before too long.” She began to put away her work.

  “I’d love some dinner.”

  “Then you can’t feel all that bad.”

  “Are you kidding? Norman dead. Priceless experiments being destroyed. Weisen leaving us all in the lurch. Plus the refrigerator in the trailer just blew, and Anita’s pregnant again.”

  “God, Les! That’s supposed to be happy news.”

  “Popular mythology. The first time, maybe it was. Then the kid came, and reality opened our eyes.’’

  “Is she unhappy about it?”

  “Anita? Hell, no. She tends to turn placid. Tries to worry with me on the surface, just to humor me, but down in her core she’s convinced everything is fine.”

  “Wish I could borrow her hormones for a few weeks. My core isn’t convinced of that at all.”

  He grinned. “The hormones bring morning sickness too, I’m afraid.”

  “Will having another kid really be that bad for you?”

  “Oh, hell.” He stretched his neat flexible body, and with sudden decision began to put away his slides too. “The kids are okay. Actually they’re great. It’s the bills that depress me.”

  “Yeah.” Other people had problems too. She said, “The tough part will be over in a few years.”

  “Yeah. If we survive. I don’t want to tell you how far in debt we are. It’s really going to take a while to pay it off. And Weisen leaving may put us all behind a year or two.’’ He closed the refrigerator door.

  “Only if we let it,” she said firmly. She had decided that, whatever happened, she would not slow down.

  “You’re a scrappy kid.” The green-flecked eyes warmed on her again, and he opened the door and held it, gently guiding her through ahead of him with a hand on her waist. The touch was so rare in her life, so old-fashioned and protective, that her body kindled to him a moment.

  “Watch it,” she said to him brusquely, “or you’ll turnout to be as gallant as Dr. Weisen.”

  “Damn. I knew these were unhealthy surroundings. Free of all germs except fatal ones, like gallantry.” He was smiling at her.

  Tom was in the graduate office when they arrived. He had burrowed down to a bit of the surface of his desk, where he was now copying pages of data onto a master sheet.

  “How’s it going?” asked Monica.

  “Grim. How can we ever get any of our own stuff done? All day on the slides, all night copying data for him, or baby-sitting his little fascist rats.”

  Monica felt a little guilty. Her own assistantship was in the psychology department with Moore, work that could be spread out reasonably over time. Weisen’s assistants, however, had the strict June 12 deadline, and the various test groups were coming due now in swift succession. Les and Tom and Barbara were working long, long hours to get the analyses done. Even Martin was taking more time from his thesis to come in and help. She said, “Won’t it all be done in a couple of weeks?”

  “Won’t do me any good then. I wanted to get a proposal ready that he’d approve. Once he’s sold the goddamn patent he’ll be so wrapped up in his own plans he’ll forget us.”

  “No, he won’t. Anyway, do you really think he’ll approve projects for us this year?”

  Tom shrugged unhappily. “No, not really. But I hate to wait so long to get started. Thought it was worth a try.”

  “It’d have to be something you could finish awfully quick if he supervises,” said Monica dubiously. Her own plan was to work out three or four projects through the preliminary stages, getting feedback from Moore and Weisen, and then be ready to go with any of them when the new neurophysiologist arrived.

  “Well, it would be quick. But he says I haven’t thought through all the theoretical implications. Damn, how can I, when I can’t get to the library because of all his damn rat livers and data sheets?”

  “Life is indeed tough,” said Les dryly, sitting down at his own desk. Monica sat down too. It was five-fifteen already; she’d have to leave soon. It would be best to get things organized now, come in early tomorrow to look at the slides and get the data onto the sheets.

  Tom did not take the hint. He continued irritably, “And I’m supposed to be on duty tomorrow night. Martin has to come in too. It’s clear as hell, he doesn’t trust us. Pairing us off this way.”

  “Tripling us,” said Monica. “Les and Barbara and I are all together. It’s for our own protection, I guess.”

  “You’re on tonight?” asked Tom.

  “No, Gib is doing it again tonight. We’re the night after you.”

  “What a pain,” said Tom. “Barbara says she’s coming in every night anyway to do the night schedule with her thesis rats. I think those two guys in psych are doing their own too. So why do we have to bother?”

  “We have to protect the exalted Weisen rats,” explained Les.

  “Having Norman around didn’t protect his other rats. Anyway, what difference does it make in the great scheme of things if he gets his million or not?”

  “It’s not his million, it’s fighting the tumors,” said Monica.

  “Thank you, Queenie, for the lesson in science and civics. But we all know that if Weisen doesn’t invent it this year, somebody else will invent it in the next year or two. That’s how science works.”

  “The hell with science. I don’t give a damn about science. But there are people who need it now. A year or two can make a lot of difference to them,” said Monica.

  “Including us, right here, if Weisen stays. How do you know Les or I wouldn’t discover something just as terrific if Weisen forgot his big deal and hung around to teach us?”

  “I don’t know about you or Les. I’m going to discover things whatever Weisen does,” said Monica hotly.

  “Hey, wow! Queenie has a temper!”

  “C’mon, gang. Let it be,” said Les, a metallic edge in his voice.

  Tom looked at him, then at Monica, who was sitting bone-tired but game at her desk, waiting to deflect his next blow. He shrugged. “We’re just all so exhausted.”

  “That’s true enough,” said Les.

  “Yeah. Let’s get out of here soon.” Monica accepted the truce, turned to her work. “We’re lucky enough not to be on duty tonight.”

  They had only been working a few minutes when Dr. Weisen stuck his head in the door. “Hey, everyone. Want you to meet someone.”

  “Sure,” said Monica, pushing her chair around to face the door.

  “You’ll be glad,” Weisen continued. He was happy, Monica realized. The tension and concern that had marked him ever since the ghastly discovery of the slaughtered rats, the worry that had increased after Norman’s accident, had lessened now. Not disappeared, but retreated a little. One could almost believe that someday he would twinkle again. He said, “We’ve found a temporary night custodian. If things work out, you may only have to stay overnight once or twice.”

  “Hey, no kidding!” Les was pleased. Even Tom seemed suddenly less grumpy.

  “Rick?” Dr. Weisen motioned to a big man in the hall. “Here, these are some of the graduate students. Rick Donner, meet Monica Bauer, Tom Conklin, Les Warden.”

  Rick was middle-aged, a light-skinned Negro or maybe Hispanic, with clear brown eyes, thinning hair, a soft Southern-flavored voice. He shook hands with each of them in turn, smiling shyly. “Glad to meet you,” he said.

  “I’m glad too,” said Les to Dr. Weisen, “but I thought you weren’t going to hire a temporary.”

  “Yes, but Rick has good qualifications. He’s been a custodian before, and has cared for animals. I thought the special requirements of our lab here wouldn’t be too difficult for him to learn.”

  “I’ll sure try,” said Rick.

  “It w
on’t be too hard,” said Monica. She was grateful to this big deferential man who was going to save them all so many night hours. “The hardest thing is to learn which doors you’re allowed to open when.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Gibson told me a little about that. It is a little confusing, but I think I can learn.”

  “Will you be here tonight?” Tom asked.

  “Yes, with Mr. Gibson.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Dr. Weisen. “Gib is here tonight anyway; he can show Rick the ropes. We probably ought to help him out the next few nights in case questions come up, but as soon as he’s ready we can get back to normal.”

  “Are you applying for the permanent job too?” asked Monica.

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I’m just passing through.”

  “He’s been living in New York,” explained Dr. Weisen. “He started off to see his brother in Chicago. He stopped here to visit a friend, and someone stole his money.”

  “Ripped off, huh?” Tom was sympathetic. “That’s too bad.”

  “Yeah, I’m real happy to get this work,” said the soft voice.

  “Well, we’re happy too,” said Monica. “Really, Rick, you don’t know how glad we are to get some help now. We’ve got so much to do.”

  The intelligent eyes, lights and shadows like a woodland pool, seemed to look into her. “Thank you.”

  “Well, Rick,” said Dr. Weisen, “Gib should be back soon to start showing you around. Let’s go get the paperwork out of the way.” They left for Weisen’s office.

  “Whoopee!” said Tom. “Maybe we’ll be able to get some work done after all!”

  But Les was frowning. “Very odd,” he said.

  “What?” asked Monica.

  “That someone with good enough qualifications to satisfy Gib and Weisen should just happen to be passing through Laconia, and just happen to need money, and just happen to have a couple of weeks free, and just happen to hear about this unadvertised job.”

  “Well, coincidences have happened before. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” said Tom.

  “No, no. I’m not objecting. Just wondering,” said Les. He stacked a few papers on his desk, plunked a book on top of them as a paperweight, and picked up his raincoat. “Well, see you all later.”

  “Bye,” said Monica.

  He touched her shoulder encouragingly as he left. Monica ignored it and made a list for herself. Library tonight. Tomorrow was Thursday. First thing, she’d look at Moore’s slides, get the data onto the master sheets. She had a meeting with him at eleven, on campus, but that should be enough time if she got here early to start work. Afternoon at the nursing home. She was taking a new box of dominoes. Jock and Bibbsy and Ted could all play a little, but their old box had lost several pieces over the last year. She also had a fifth-grade math book that she wanted Ted to look at.

  She labeled a data sheet with the categories she would need for Moore’s study. It was an experiment on the physical results of a deprivation environment on the brain. Half the rats, like D-832, had been raised normally. The other half had been raised in a room with a constant, even noise level; constant lighting; no contact with other rats or with any objects except for food, water, and bedding. Moore was investigating the differences in behavior and learning ability of the two groups, and later looking at physical differences in different parts of the brain. She carried the labeled blank sheet down the hall and around the corner to the copier and ran off enough copies for the study. Then she started back to the office. As she passed the glass entrance doors, Maggie was just coming in from outside, scuffing the mud from her high-heeled shoes on the nylon mat. She was dressed in her best blue dress.

  “Well, hi, gorgeous!” said Monica.

  But Maggie sounded tired. More than tired. She asked, “Is Weisen still in, do you know?”

  “You may be in luck. He’s still here, hiring a new temporary custodian. Saw him just a few minutes ago. Listen, what’s wrong?” Maggie had been subdued and unhappy since Norman’s death, but nothing like the black despair that Monica sensed now.

  Maggie made an effort. “Oh, I’ll recover. I’ve just had one bloody hell of a day. Wanna get drunk with me tonight?”

  Monica regarded her friend critically and tried to keep the tone light. “Chicken soup and chamomile tea might be more to the point. Is the tragedy irrevocable?”

  “Yes, and I don’t want to talk about it. Would Weisen be in his office?”

  “Let’s try there.” Monica felt obscurely that she should stay with her, that this mood was dangerous. They started back along the corridor toward Dr. Weisen’s office. After only a few steps they saw the door open, and Dr. Weisen came out with Rick, shaking his hand heartily and saying something about how things would doubtless work out well.

  “That’s the new custodian, the one I was telling you about,” said Monica, and then realized that Maggie was no longer beside her, had stopped stock still in the middle of the corridor. Looking back, Monica caught a glimpse of an extraordinary war between delight, despair, and full-flaming anger before Maggie ducked her head to look in her bag for something. A moment later, as she pulled out a folder of papers and met Monica’s concerned gaze, all traces of conflict had disappeared.

  “Sorry,” she said calmly, “just getting Weisen’s stuff out. What were you saying?”

  “I just said that was the new custodian. Rick Donner. If he works out, we shouldn’t have to be on duty so many nights.”

  “Rick Donner, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think he’ll be able to do the job on such short notice?”

  “Dr. Weisen and Gib seem to think so. The guy seems fairly intelligent.”

  “Does he, now?” Her face was a cool blank.

  “Yes, the little I’ve seen of him.” Monica was puzzled by Maggie’s flashing changes of mood. Maybe she was on some sort of drug trip, although she seldom took much of anything, even wine or grass.

  But now she was greeting Dr. Weisen normally enough. “Hello, Dr. Weisen. I’ve brought the next set of analyses.”

  “Good, good. Though we won’t have anything ready for you till tomorrow, I’m afraid. Maggie, meet our new temporary night custodian, Rick Donner. Rick, this is Maggie Ryan, the project statistician.”

  “Hello,” he said in that shy Southern-tinged voice. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his jeans.

  “Hello, Rick. Filling in for poor old Norman, right?” said Maggie with a hearty condescension that surprised Monica.

  “Yes, ma’am. He was a friend of my friend here. That’s how I heard about this job so quick, just when I needed it.”

  “Oh, we were wondering about that,” said Monica.

  “Pat he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy.” There was a thread of anger in Maggie’s voice. Rick seemed to be puzzled.

  “Well, we did think it was a coincidence,’’ said Monica, half in apology to him. What the hell was wrong with Maggie?

  “Actually,” said Dr. Weisen, “about a dozen people have inquired about the job already, and the ads haven’t even appeared. But Rick is the only one who needed it for just a short time, and also convinced Gib that he could learn it fast enough to be of use.”

  “You’ve done custodial work before, right?” said Monica.

  “Yes, ma’am. Two or three places in New York, once in a hospital.”

  “But have you ever taken care of animals?” Maggie asked, suddenly intent.

  He smiled at her shyly and became surprisingly loquacious. “Well, no, not laboratory animals. Just dogs, cats. But Mr. Gibson tells me it shouldn’t be hard. It’s not like a dog, that has to be played with and walked every few hours and fed a cup and a half of Purina Chow every night. He said with the animals here you just fill the water bottles and the hoppers, and clean out the bedding, and you’re finished. Except for the ones on special diets or special schedules.”

  “That’s right,” said Maggie. “You have to know where the special ones are. After that i
t’s not too complicated.”

  “I’m sure he’ll do fine,” said Dr. Weisen. “Well, Rick, let me put Maggie’s work into my file here, and then we’ll go around to Gib’s office.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you.” But he didn’t follow Dr. Weisen into the office. Instead he turned back to Maggie. His dark eyes were more shadows than light as he looked at her. He pulled his hand from his pocket and held it out. “Very glad to meet you, Miz Ryan,” he said seriously.

  For an instant Monica thought she was going to refuse, but then she took his hand grimly and gave it a brief shake. She murmured something like “Sure is great to meet you, prick,” but Monica must have misheard, it must have been his name, because Rick’s gentle face did not change except to smile a little as he turned away.

  Maggie whirled and sped with long strides down the hall. “Hey!” objected Monica, trotting after. “What’s the hurry?”

  “Gotta see a man about a dog,” said Maggie unhelpfully over her shoulder. By the time Monica reached the door, Maggie’s rusty Ford was skidding with reckless speed from the parking lot down the driveway.

  Must be drugs.

  Monica put away the blanks for Moore’s data, then walked slowly to her Chevy. She had parked at the side of the lot, near the old lab, a long clapboard barracks-style building dating from the Second World War. It was used now only for storage—extra shelving and cages, supplies such as mimeograph paper or shipments of bedding that were purchased cheap by the truckload and then used slowly over the course of months. The line of evergreens before the old building produced a bit of shade on the west side of the parking lot, and she often parked on that side in the summer. Not that she’d needed it today; the morning’s downpour was long gone, but the sky was still overcast. The promised fair weather was not quite here yet.

  She got home before Maggie. It was Mary Beth’s week to fix dinner, and she and Craig were producing something that filled the house with appetizing odors of chili and cinnamon. Misha, his lank hair almost hiding his dark eyes, was flopped on the living room sofa reading one of the mysterious Cyrillic volumes that he and Sue discussed at such length. From upstairs came the clatter of Sue’s typewriter.