Failure is Fatal

by Lesley A. Diehl

  “I told you not to leave that lab.”

  “Not now.” I pushed around him and slammed through the ladies’ room door, unzipping my jeans as I went. I heard Der’s voice from outside the stall.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Get out of here.” I zipped up my jeans and hit the flush handle.

  “Did you finish putting together the pieces? And where are they?”

  I walked out of the stall, crossed to the sink, and washed my hands.

  “They’re in my pockets.” I shared with him my scheme for carrying them with me.

  “Even if you did arrange them into four sorted groups, it’ll be a lot of work to put them back together into a whole.”

  I pulled the four folded sheets of paper out of my pockets and handed them to Der.

  “A lot of work for you, maybe.” I moved past him into the hall. “I already know what the note says.”

  “Tell me, Murphy. Tell me. Or do you want me to beg?”

  “Begging would be great, but get in here.” I unlocked the lab. “I can’t have you begging and whining at me in the hallway especially not after accompanying me to the ladies’ room. I have a reputation to think of on this campus.”

  “It was typed,” I said, “and it contained word-for-word one of the two stories we found among our session results today. But here’s the best part. It also had a phone number on the bottom of the page.”

  “Typed or handwritten?”

  “Handwritten. This gets even better. The number is an on-campus phone. I had a little time on my hands, so I went through the directory and found it.”

  Der waited patiently for me to reveal the name. He leaned forward in anticipation. I was too excited about my find to play games with him.

  “It’s Dr. Melvin Chaffee’s number, one of the guys on the Faculty/Student Grants Committee. The Committee denied grant money for our research. The members said the project had no merit, and, moreover, that it was not jointly designed by the students and me, but rather ‘was forced upon the students by a faculty member with a hidden agenda about sexual harassment.’ My nemesis. He hates me.”

  Der gave me one of his cop smiles, the ones more filled with a desire to interrogate than humor. “I think we need to pay him a little visit.”

  “On what basis?”

  “Just a fishing expedition, as they say in the crime business.”

  *

  Chaffee, a member of the English Department, was in his office, sucking on a pipe, unlit of course, as all the buildings on campus were nonsmoking. The pipe smoking was one of his many affectations, including wearing tweedy jackets with suede patches on the sleeves, plaid flannel shirts, and corduroy pants. Lately he had taken to wearing round, gold-rimmed glasses. With my usual cynicism, I suspected the glasses were added to his wardrobe as his fashion take on what was being worn by full professors.

  Seated in the chair across the desk from him was a young man who appeared to be hanging on Chaffee’s every word. The man turned in his chair and looked at Der and me with something close to anger in his eyes. I felt as if we had interrupted a male bonding ritual between neophyte and adored mentor. Because I found it hard to believe that anyone could find a quality in Chaffee to be emulated, this utter adulation puzzled me. Who was this skinny, acne-faced, misled individual?

  Chaffee arose from his desk as Der and I entered the open door of his office.

  “Don’t let us interrupt you. We’ll wait until you’re finished.” I paused and made no attempt to leave the office. Chaffee made no attempt at introductions. The young man made no effort to get up from his chair. An uncomfortable silence prevailed.

  “Hi there.” I put out my hand. “My name is Laura Murphy. I teach in psychology here. This is Detective Pasquis from the Onondaga Falls Police Department. And you are?”

  Forced to rise to shake my extended hand, the young man awkwardly transferred a pencil out of his right hand to his left and shook my hand without really touching it. He merely nodded to Der. “The name’s Chancey Wainwright,” he said so softly that I barely heard him, though I was standing right next to him.

  “Mr. Wainwright is working on his Master’s Degree in English. I’m his advisor. He’s writing a brilliant thesis on nineteenth century naturalists.” Chaffee offered the information as if he gave birth to Chancey and his brilliance rather than merely being the supporter and director of Chancey’s work.

  “Sounds more like a work in biology rather than English,” said Der. The surprise on Chaffee’s face told me that he didn’t expect a cop to be good at what he did, well-educated and smart too.

  “Their writings such as their journals, letters and books are what I’m focusing on. I’m interested in the impact of their work on the literary world, not its scientific importance,” said Chancey.

  “See there,” said Chaffee, a smug look on his face, “you spoke too soon without knowing his focus.”

  “I’d think it would be difficult separating one from the other without destroying the significance of their work and its impact upon nineteenth century thought,” said Der. He ignored Chaffee’s remarks and directed his comments to Chancey. Chancey looked at Der closely, examining his face for indications that Der wanted to argue with him. Rather, he saw only curiosity on Der’s face.

  “So,” Der said, “you must know a great deal about biology too, I’d guess.”

  Left out of the conversation, something I knew was offensive to Chaffee’s sense of his own intelligence and importance, Chaffee stopped Chancey before he had a chance to reply to Der’s comments. “That’s enough work for now, Chancey. As you can see, these people need my help with something of importance.”

  If my thesis advisor treated me so dismissively, I would have been furious. Instead, I saw only hurt on Chancey’s face.

  “Of course,” he said, “I’ll check with you later.” Chancey paused briefly in front of Der, stuck out his hand, and said, “Nice talking with you, sir. Perhaps…” He stopped there abruptly, turning to look at Dr. Chaffee, then heading out the office door.

  “What do you want?” said Chaffee. All of the affability previously accompanying his remarks about helping us left his voice and manner.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Dr. Murphy’s research.”

  “I don’t know anything about her work,” Chaffee said, walking around his desk to confront Der. Chaffee was not as tall and broad as Der, but he was well built and, from a woman’s point of view, might be deemed good to look at with his hazel eyes and longish brown hair that fell boyishly across his forehead. Somehow he always seemed to have a tan, making it look as if he spent most of his time outdoors. Handsome though he appeared, I found it unpleasant to be in his presence, knowing what I did about his behavior around women students. But there was another thing about Chaffee I disliked; it was that I believed him to be a complete phony, and I always wanted to call his bluff on matters intelligent and academic. I suspected he used his good looks in many ways to further his career. Men would find his rugged appearance comradely and his pompous way of speaking an indication of his intelligence, but many women would divine the predator-like character that lay beneath the handsome exterior.

  “We know you had an opportunity to review Dr. Murphy’s work, so there’s little question about your being familiar with it,” Der said.

  Put in his place with Der’s assertion, Chaffee gestured to the chairs in his office and then walked over to close the office door.

  “So how can I help you?” he said in a most unhelpful tone of voice.

  “Some very odd stories have been generated in response to the harassment leads in Dr. Murphy’s research. Is there anything you can tell us about these stories?”

  “Of course there will be odd stories written by students. It’s an absurd piece of research, and I said so to the Committee.”

  “I’m certain of that. Dr. Murphy told me of your critical evaluation of the project for the grant money. However, I’m concerned that you m
ay have let something slip about the specifics of her project outside the Committee.”

  “Let something slip? What do you mean?” Chaffee picked up his pipe and began to draw over and over again on it causing the air to whistle through the stem and bowl. He caught the gesture and the nervousness that it implied and laid the pipe on the desk.

  “I thought it was possible that you might have spoken to someone, another colleague or perhaps a student? Your office number came up in conjunction with one of the students’ stories,” Der said.

  “Absolutely not. And I can see no reason why any of this would be a police matter, anyway. I suppose now I’ll need to get a lawyer to defend my right to speak my mind about some of the trashy research that comes through the Committee. My peers selected me for this committee, you know, for my keen eye for experimental fraud, and I certainly am shocked that a cop is questioning my professional judgment. As for you, Dr. Murphy, I’m not surprised that your little project may have landed you in trouble and that you need some man to pull you out. Now get out of my office.” He pointed toward the door.

  Our exit was interrupted as I swung open the door and ran headlong into the individual standing outside Chaffee’s office. I had the distinct impression he was eavesdropping on our conversation.

  “Lionel,” said Chaffee. “I didn’t expect you until the end of the week.”

  “But here I am, dear brother, and it looks like trouble is afoot.” His gaze swept over Der and me. It made me feel as if I were being considered as dinner by a carnivore. Lionel’s appearance was like seeing double, the two men so closely resembled each other, both handsome and well-built with full heads of brown hair and high foreheads.

  “Hi.” Once again I extended my hand expecting no introductions would be forthcoming this time either. “My name is Laura Murphy. I teach in psychology here, and this is Detective Pasquis with the local police. Your brother is helping us solve a puzzle.”

  “Dr. Lionel Chaffee.” He smiled and took my outstretched hand, which he shook limply. It was like handling a dead eel.

  “You never told me you had a brother, Melvin,” I said to the first Dr. Chaffee, then turned quickly back to face Lionel Chaffee. “Would that be MD or PhD? Oh, wait, let me guess. PhD and your area is literature, the same as your brother’s.”

  “Not at all the same as my brother’s, Dr. Murphy. Mine is British, his American. Now, let’s see. I believe my brother has mentioned your name. You do work in some quaint little women’s area. Oh, forgive me. I believe I should call it gender studies or be thought a real cad.”

  You are a real cad. Perhaps, even worse than your brother. I wondered if that was possible.

  “And you teach where?” I said.

  “I’m rather in-between jobs just now. I’m working on a book at the moment and teaching a few courses as an adjunct at Shelley Junior College near Syracuse. And, of course, paying a few visits to my brother. We’re very close, you know.” Again he smiled, but pleasure didn’t seem to be behind the upturned lips. A glance at Melvin Chaffee told me his brother was lying about them being close.

  Lionel turned his attention to Der who was watching this exchange with a barely noticeable grin on his face as if he were content to have me ask questions and amused at Lionel’s answers.

  “Now that I know you’re a detective, I’m worried. Has my little brother gotten himself into difficulties?”

  “We’re here to talk with him about some issues associated with Dr. Murphy’s work, but we were just leaving. Don’t let us interrupt your visit,” Der said. He drew me out of the office and down the hall with him by pulling on my arm.

  “Very nice meeting both of you.” Lionel pushed his hair off his forehead in a move that mimicked his brother’s.

  “Lionel,” I could hear Melvin hiss, “get in here and don’t bother with those people. They’re just here to intimidate me.” The slamming of the office door cut off any reply Lionel offered.

  “I don’t like the brother any better than the original,” I said to Der.

  He turned to me and laughed. “Yeah, it’s a real toss up who’s the most arrogant.”

  We returned to the lab to puzzle again over the note written on the torn paper. Der insisted we put it back together once more so he could have a look at it. This time he stayed to help.

  “I don’t think he had a thing to do with it,” I said to Der.

  “Chaffee? No, you’re right. He’s a big phony. He’s malicious, but I doubt he’s more frat-boy malicious.”

  “No, I mean, I don’t think the student who wrote that story ending was its author. I think he carried this story with him and copied it onto the test packet provided in the research session. Then he threw away his ‘notes.’ Maybe none of the stories were created by students, although they may have been written down during the testing by students. As for Chaffee number one, perhaps you’re right. Maybe he’s not your murderer type. But there’s something there,” I said.

  “I think you’re wrong, Murphy. You dislike the guy so much that you’d love to see his ass in jail for something, anything.”

  “Yeah, well I’d have to stand in line behind all the others who find him a jerk—faculty, students, staff. Even his own department took five years to finally recommend him for promotion.”

  Der turned his attention to the scraps on the table, gathered them together and slipped them into an evidence envelope.

  “I’ll get the lab to lift fingerprints off these and see what we get. But so far we don’t even have a crime, just a segue to an earlier crime, and only maybe. But I think we need to track down the writers of these two most recent stories. It’s all we have. Let’s gather together all the subjects. Murphy? Murphy? You’ve gone off on me there.”

  I had gone off. I was thinking about Der’s comment about frat boys. I wasn’t real crazy about Greek organizations, especially fraternities, and was especially unfond of their initiation techniques. Somewhere in my unconscious something was brewing, and it had to do with frats. I knew better than to chew on it too long. I pushed it out of conscious thought. It might rise to the surface at some later date. I smiled at Der to let him know I was once again back to the real world, and we began to decide how to get the subjects back together.

  Chapter 8

  At the meeting I called for the students who participated in the research, I could tell from the expressions on their faces and their nervousness that they were surprised and confused at the presence of Detective Pasquis. It wasn’t easy to get the attention of college students, but a cop could do it.

  “I cannot go into detail,” he said, “but obviously my presence at this meeting is in reference to activities related to a recent crime. If the story you wrote yesterday was not your own, I’d like to speak with you one-on-one. If you know of anyone attempting to manipulate the stories written by students yesterday, I’d also like to speak with you.”

  Students began to whisper to one another. Others seemed stunned by Der’s reference to a “recent crime.” A hand shot up from one of the young men sitting in a small group in the corner of the room.

  “So you mean, if we got the story from someone else, like plagiarized it, you can arrest us? What if we just don’t say a thing? How can you tell who the person is? Aren’t we supposed to be subjects who are unanimous?” he said.

  “I think you mean ‘anonymous.’ And we’d like to keep it that way. We’re really not interested in the particular story you created in response to the lead you read on your paper. But if that story wasn’t yours, then we need to know that and talk to you about it,” I said.

  “Dr. Murphy has gone to great lengths not to let anyone know who wrote which story, and she stands firm on protecting each one of you. That’s why she insisted we hold this meeting and ask you to volunteer any information you may have,” Der said.

  “And if we don’t volunteer?” the same student asked. He crossed his arms and settled back in his chair, his pose defiant.

  “We can question each of y
ou individually, we can get a court order allowing us to attach names to the stories, and we can charge you with criminal conspiracy, if you are found to be complicit in withholding information,” Der said.

  He and I were playing our version of good cop, bad cop—good psychologist, bad detective.

  “I’ve given each one of you my card. I hope to hear from you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “We hope you will help us with this.” I then dismissed them.

  As the students filed out of the room, the young man who asked the questions passed by me announcing to his friends in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone that he was going to call his dad and “get a lawyer.”

  “Why would you do that, son?” Der stepped in front of him blocking his exit from the room.

  “You’re harassing me,” the young man said. He turned to solicit confirmation from his friends, who quickly turned away, making a fast retreat from the room.

  “Bring on the lawyers, then.” Der smiled that smile of his. Why is it when Der smiled he looked more menacing than when he frowned?

  *

  Over the next few days, Der and I met with the students who were unable to make the earlier group session. Most seemed interested in what we were saying, startled by Der’s reference to a crime, but unable to provide any additional information. One student failed to show for an individual meeting. When I called to schedule another time, her roommate told me she had gone home because of a family emergency and would be returning in a few days. I asked the roommate to have the student return my call.

  Der and I waited. The good part of waiting was that each day brought no reports of any missing coed, an anxiety created by the two most recent research descriptions. Neither Der nor I wanted to talk much about this possibility, but I knew we both worried that these descriptions would prove as prophetic of a crime as we feared had the murder description. And, unfortunately, no students from the testing session got in touch with Der. At the end of the week, Der called me to let me know he was proceeding with a court order to connect names to stories. In a final effort to elicit cooperation from the students, I convinced Der we should try individual contacts with them before he took action. He agreed, knowing how loath I was to sacrifice the anonymity protection of research. We decided to make the calls the following Monday.