Failure is Fatal

by Lesley A. Diehl

  How insulting! Der knew me better than to believe he could rein me in like this. And to try to get me to promise to do only what he asked. After all, I was the one who discovered the body, not something I much cherished, I can tell you.

  “Well, Murphy, what do you say?”

  Before I could say anything, someone knocked on the door.

  “Dr. Murphy, it’s Karen. I need to show you something.”

  “C’mon in.”

  The door opened and Karen entered the office. She appeared to be her usual cheerful self. Little of the pale, withdrawn woman who found her murdered friend was obvious, but I was worried about her. She seemed too eager to return to her usual routine of classes and work on the research. I was concerned that she was hiding her shock and depression behind a frenzied schedule that left her no time to grieve and adjust to her loss.

  She held a paper in her hand. “I’m sorry. I took a chance you were still in your office, but I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” she said. She nodded a greeting to Der.

  “I haven’t seen you since the night of Marie’s murder.” He left his chair, took her hand and looked into her eyes. Despite his physical appearance and his reputation as a tough investigator with criminals, he was a gentle and compassionate man. “I’m sorry about your friend. How are you doing?”

  “Oh, fine.” She removed her hand from Der’s grasp, her eyes misting up. “Thanks.” She wiped away an escaping tear with her fingers.

  “Sometimes, it takes a while to get through these things,” he said. “You may need to give yourself a break and not expect to get right back into your old routines.”

  “If you’re worried about the research, don’t. The other assistants will cover for you, no problem,” I said.

  A knock on my door was followed by the appearance of a head of curly brown hair poking through the opening door.

  “Oops, didn’t mean to interrupt. What’d she say?” A short, plump, olive-skinned young woman held the door open.

  “Oh, say. You must be that investigator guy. I’m Paula.” The young woman stuck out her hand and pumped Der’s. “I saw you on that televised news conference about the murder of Marie Becca, Karen’s friend. That was just awful. I told Karen she shouldn’t be at work, that she should go home and just chill for a while. Ugh. I don’t see how you can do that work.” She stopped and took a momentary breath, and continued. “This can wait if you’re in the middle of something. Oh, I bet I know. Dr. Murphy is going to help you find the murderer, huh?” Paula’s face lit with excitement at the prospect of knowing someone participating in a murder investigation. “Oh, geez, I’m sorry, Karen. I guess you don’t really want to hear all this, do you?”

  “Well, not really. You know, I think I’ll just let you finish up on these testing results, Paula. I’ve got a terrible headache. I think I’ll go back to the dorm and lie down for a while before dinner.”

  I got out of my chair, walked from behind the desk, and put my arm around Karen’s shoulders. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “I think I’d just like to go back to the residence hall, that’s all.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” said Paula.

  “No, I’d like to be alone. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “You’re sure?” I said.

  “Very. See you at dinner,” Karen said to Paula and walked toward the door. Turning before she exited, she waved and offered all of us a tiny smile.

  “Stubborn gal,” said Der.

  “She’ll be okay. She’s really a lot tougher than she looks. If I had found Marie like that, I would be puking my guts out all over the parking lot and in a catatonic state for weeks after,” Paula said.

  I cleared my throat and decided to change the subject. “So what did you find in the results that brought Karen running out of the lab to show me?”

  “Another of those highly detailed sexual reactions to our story lead,” she replied. “And this is a real funky one.” She handed me a sheet of paper.

  I read it and chuckled, shaking my head.

  “Every time we get a bunch of guys sitting next to each other in the testing session, they decide to get funny about what they write. Most of them take the testing seriously, but there’s always one, when he gets out of the session and talks about the testing, which they are asked not to do, who wants to brag about what he wrote. Here take a look,” I said to Der.

  I explained that we had the subject who wrote the response on the sheet read a story we made up. The story proposed that he needed to get into a class that was full. The professor, who was a woman, said she would consider signing him into the class if he would meet her at a bar. The subject was asked what he would do in this situation and to put his answer in the form of an ending to this hypothetical story.

  What Der held in his hand was the ending to the story as written by one of our male subjects. He read through what the young man wrote and looked uncomfortable, making harrumph sounds in his throat and shifting around in his chair.

  “This is like reading Hustler magazine,” he said.

  “Set it to one side, Paula, as usual. We can’t use this one either.”

  She nodded and left for the lab.

  ‘Let’s take a walk, Der. I could use the fresh air.”

  I stuck my head into the lab and told Paula that I’d only be gone fifteen minutes or so. A cold wind blowing across the open center of campus hit us when we left the building. I began to reconsider my suggestion that we walk anywhere.

  “Let’s get out of this wind.” I wanted to abandon the idea of a walk, and I turned up the hill toward a building on the north side of the college. “We can grab coffee at the Student Center. It should be pretty deserted this time of day, and we’ll have privacy.”

  “Murphy, I just had a cup of coffee in your office.”

  “Well, have another one. I thought cops did nothing but drink coffee. What’s the matter with you? Need a donut?”

  The coffee looked as if it had been in the pots since early morning, and it poured like the final boil of maple sap in February. We selected a table near the windows. Few people were in the food center this late in the afternoon.

  “What do we know so far about the murder?” I took a sip of coffee and grimaced at the burnt taste.

  “I’ve interviewed everyone who knew her. No boyfriend, her roommate claims. Lots of prints in her car, but so what? She gave everyone a ride because she had a car. Her friends didn’t. The forensics lab says the knife we found was the murder weapon. The crack in the handle is an old one. I can’t find anyone who might have a motive for this killing. I’m at a dead end, but I keep thinking I must be missing something, something on this campus that I’m not hearing or seeing. So I’d really appreciate it if you could do a bit of…”

  “Snooping, poking my nose in where it’s not wanted? Sure I’d be more than happy to. I’d really like to see this guy caught.”

  We left our coffee unfinished and started out of the Student Center, heading back to the building where my office and lab were located when I spied Paula running down the sidewalk waving her arms at us.

  “Dr. Murphy, come quick. You’ve got to see what I found at the lab. It was from the testing session last Thursday, over a week ago.”

  “Slow down a bit. Good heavens, you came out here in the cold without your coat. Freezing to death just to get me to read another crazy response among our results isn’t necessary. Detective Pasquis and I were just on our way back.”

  “You’re just not gonna believe what I found. Boy, am I glad Karen went back to the room.” Paula paused and seemed prepared to shift gears yet again.

  “Just what was so unusual that you thought you should run all over campus without your coat to try and find me?”

  Der removed his overcoat and wrapped it around Paula’s shoulders. She smiled her thanks at him.

  “Well, it sure wasn’t another story with pornographic details, that’s for sure,” she said. “It was a story about Marie’s murder.” />
  Chapter 3

  Der and I hurried back to the lab.

  I took out my key and opened the door Paula had locked. On the large worktable in the center of the room were the packets of materials the research team gave the subjects to read. I walked to the table reaching for what I saw was a story ending written by a subject.

  Der stepped in front of me, preventing me from picking up the story. “Let’s be cautious. Fingerprints, maybe,” Der said.

  Der and I stood over the table and read what was written on the paper. Paula poked her head between the two of us. We read the macabre and inappropriate story ending:

  She lay across the seat like a sleeping princess awaiting a prince’s

  kiss to waken her. At first glance it looked as if a ruby necklace

  of some great length trailed down her dress and wound through

  her fingers. Her tiny waist was cinched with a silk scarf of matching

  color. It pooled gracefully in her lap. Closer inspection revealed

  the necklace and scarf to be rivers of blood, hers, of course. Her recumbent

  pose was that of a dead body, not one of a sleeping princess. Who

  do you suppose did this ghastly deed and, most of all, why?

  It was a horrifyingly accurate description of Marie Becca’s murder.

  The writing was bold and accomplished with a broad point felt-tipped pen. The story lead typed at the top of the sheet was the same as the one Karen showed Der before, the hypothetical case of the young man asked by his female professor to meet her in a bar. I pointed this out to Der.

  “This story ending was written by a guy, right?”

  “It sure looks that way. But it’s totally inappropriate to the story lead of sexual harassment, really grisly.”

  I was interrupted by Paula. “It was found with the test results we collected last Thursday, a day before Marie Becca was killed.”

  “The murderer or someone who knows details about the murder found his way into your group of subjects,” Der said. His lips closed in a tight line. He turned to me and something else crossed his face, hope followed by anger. “It’s not only a lead, but it’s also a threat. To you, Laura.”

  I saw what he meant. Why place the story into my research results? Despite the fact that the lab was warm and stuffy, I shivered at the violence of the act described in the story and its similarity to the murder scene. A look of fear appeared on Paula’s face and made her once merry brown eyes shift from side to side as if expecting a phantom to materialize in the room.

  “It’s not just personal and in my face. It’s much more than that. All research has to pass through the Human Subjects Committee. The Committee reviews the project with respect to its adherence to ethical principles, such as anonymity of subjects and potential physical and psychological harm to participants. The problem is that if the Committee finds out about this story ending,” I gestured toward the table, “they’ll surely make us stop our work.”

  “It’s just crazy. Some guy participates in your research on Thursday, writing a description of the dead woman and then goes out and kills her on Friday?” Der said.

  I sank into the chair in front of the table. “A young woman is dead, and this research is somehow involved. Why? How?”

  “Yikes!” Paula said. “It just hit me. We may have been in the same room with the killer last Thursday.”

  “Yes, you might have been. So your memory of what happened during that testing session is important. Who ran the testing session a week ago Thursday?” Der asked.

  “Karen and I did. I don’t remember anything out of the ordinary happening. But maybe Karen did, and it just slipped her mind, what with this past awful weekend and all.”

  “Walk me through the entire procedure,” he said, gesturing toward the chairs. Paula sat beside me, and Der grabbed a chair, which he turned backwards and straddled.

  Paula gathered her thoughts and began. “We place a sign-up sheet on the psychology bulletin board located in the main hallway on the first floor in this building. Students from Introductory Psychology sign up to participate in research. They’re required to do that as part of what they learn in the course.”

  Der interrupted her. “Kind of like human guinea pigs?” I could tell he was not impressed with this research angle on psychology.

  “Important human guinea pigs. In the case of our research, we truly do want to find out what college students think about sexual harassment.” Paula sounded just like me, a bit defensive about this line of research.

  “Sorry for the interruption. Go ahead,” Der said.

  “Most of the work with subjects is done in the evenings when we can find an empty classroom in which to test the participating students. Last Thursday we used the large classroom next to the psychology main office.”

  “Then what?” asked Der. “I mean, after the testing is over.”

  “We bring the test packets back here and lay them on this table.” She swept her hand toward the table. “A week ago Thursday was the last session of the week, so those results were placed in a pile next to the results from two other sessions from earlier that week.”

  Der turned toward the table.

  “It looks as if you’re pulling the testing packets apart. One part is clearly the story ending this subject wrote. But what’s this other part, which appears to have been stapled to the front of it? The one turned face down on the table.” He seemed about ready to turn over the first sheet, when I jumped out of my chair and placed myself between him and the table.

  “That’s the consent form, which explains to the subjects what kind of research they will be participating in. Every participant signs a form. We detach the consent forms from the story endings subjects write to protect the identity of the subject. Otherwise we’d never get people to tell us what they’re really thinking and feeling.”

  “So there’s no way after you’ve separated the consent form from the story ending to tell who wrote what ending?”

  “That’s right,” I said. I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

  “Oh, but there is. We keep them in order in the two piles. Consent forms turned face down like the one here, and the corresponding story ending in this pile,” Paula said, gesturing toward the story. Karen started doing the forms this way, and we’ve all just followed her lead. I guess just in case something happens and we might need to pair a name and a response form. I don’t really know why.” Paula’s voice trailed off in doubt. “Not too smart, huh, Dr. Murphy?”

  We all looked at the forms as they lay on the table. The description of the murder scene lay turned up on the right, and we now all knew that the name of the person writing it would be revealed if anyone turned over the consent form to its left.

  “Don’t touch it, Der,” I warned, still standing between him and the table. “We’re assuming that the person who wrote that story is the murderer, but we don’t know that for certain. Until you can come up with a connection that a judge will buy, I am obligated to protect the anonymity of my subjects.”

  “Get a court order, right?” he said. “Geez, Murphy, you used to be so cooperative. Not like all those other intellectual fuddie duddies. What’s going on here?”

  “I’m ethically bound to protect the well-being of my subjects. Part of that is affording them the anonymity to answer research questions anyway they want without regard for social correctness or psychological normalcy, or any of a long list of things people would rather not have the world know about. If I can’t do that, there’s no point in my doing research, because it will only say what my subjects think I or someone else wants to hear.”

  “You may be protecting a killer,” Der said. “How will you feel if that’s the case?”

  “It’s not likely that the killer was stupid enough to sign his name to the consent form. Think about it, Der. Besides, there are any number of ways you can get the information you need without connecting names with responses. You know that. The names of those who participated in the
study are public knowledge. I’d be more than happy to give you the list and you can interview them. It’s more work than one name, yet it doesn’t violate anyone’s civil rights.”

  He sighed and tapped his foot. “Okay. So you got the list of names for me?”

  I nodded to Paula and she went to the file drawer and pulled out the names of the students who served as subjects for the testing time last Thursday.

  “Make certain that the list you give Investigator Der is the sign-up sheet posted on the psychology bulletin board.” I turned to Der. “I can’t be sure all of these students came to the testing, but these are the students who said they would show up.”

  “Don’t you have a list of those who did show? Give me that.” Der noted the expression on my face. “Aw, Murphy, you aren’t saying that’s protected under research ethics.”

  “I can’t be certain if it is or isn’t. Besides, that list isn’t generated until we separate the packets. So we wouldn’t even have it yet. I’ll have to talk with the college attorney about that. All I know is that those who participated probably have some privacy rights. I do know that the sign-up sheet is public. It’s a beginning. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Aw, Murphy, you’re making this so difficult”

  “Think about it. You now have about twenty or so more leads to follow up on than you had when you came in here. Go get ’em.” I pushed him toward the door.

  “Before I go, I’ll also need the names of all of your research assistants and anyone else who may have had access to the research responses.”

  I pulled my list of the assistants’ names from another filing cabinet and handed it to him.

  “Oh, by the way. Let’s keep all of this to ourselves, what was found, how, and the details of the murder description,” he said to Paula and me.

  “I guess I was wrong about this murder,” he said. He shrugged into his overcoat.