Suicide Med

by Freida McFadden

  I slide into the seat across from her.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say again.

  “You know, some guys will actually put on clean clothes for a girl,” April says. “And shave.”

  I touch the stubble on my chin and try to recall the last time I took a razor to my face.

  “Sorry,” I say again.

  Although I’m beginning to realize I’m not all that sorry. I couldn’t care less about April. She’s pretty, yeah. But so what? There are thousands of pretty girls out there.

  And anyway, she’s got nothing on Ginny.

  I wouldn’t have been surprised if April had gotten up and walked out on me. But instead she leans forward and crosses her arms.

  “So how was your big exam?”

  I struggle to come up with an answer to her question. The anatomy exam was two days ago and I’m only slightly distressed by the fact that I barely remember it. It doesn’t seem important anymore. My life is in danger. Doesn’t she get that?

  No, I guess she doesn’t.

  As April babbles about something or other, my mind wanders. I can’t help but think that Frank is the key to all of this. Frank was a cop and I bet he knew something. He must have been investigating the suicides and he figured out what’s going on. That’s why Conlon had him killed. And it’s clear that Conlon is willing to get rid of anyone who’s on the verge of figuring out his secret. And now that includes me.

  “Who’s Frank?” April asks.

  I stare at her. “What?”

  “You just said something about ‘the case Frank was investigating’ or something,” she says. I hadn’t realized I had spoken out loud. Wow, that’s a little scary. “What are you talking about?” she asks.

  “Believe me, you don’t want to know,” I say.

  April is giving me a strange look. “Are you okay?”

  Okay? No, I’m not okay! My anatomy professor is a murderer and I’m probably next on his hitlist.

  “If you’re going to talk nonsense, I’m leaving,” she says. She punctuates her statement by standing up.

  I look up at her as she stands there for a moment, her arms folded across her chest. I know I could stop her. I could maybe say something charming and she might agree to stay and have lunch.

  But instead, I just let her leave.

  Chapter 26

  It’s three in the morning.

  I stumble to the bathroom, intending to just splash some water on my face. But when I see my reflection in the mirror, I’m a little shocked by how bloodshot my eyes are. I guess it shouldn’t be such a surprise though—my vision has gotten really blurry in the last hour.

  I stumble back to my bed and stare at the screen of my laptop. I’ve been scouring the internet obituaries for anyone who seems like they could have been Frank. So far, it’s not going that well. A lot of people have died lately, believe it or not. But I can’t give up.

  I feel my eyes drifting shut. I want to sleep so badly, but every time my head hits the pillow, my heart begins to pound and my thoughts race. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.

  Before I know it, the sun is peeking out from under the horizon. I notice that a new email has appeared in my inbox. It’s from Dr. Conlon: “Mason – please come see me in my office this afternoon at two.”

  Maybe he’s ready to confess.

  Or maybe he wants to feel me out, see how much I know. Maybe he’s going to threaten me. Or maybe he’s trying to figure out the best way to kill me.

  Still, it’s worth the risk. I want to know what he wants.

  I visit Dr. Conlon’s office that afternoon. The door is slightly ajar and I walk inside without knocking. At first, I feel nervous about the idea of being alone with this sociopath, but then I realize we’re not alone at all. Patrice Winters, the shrink, is sitting in a chair in front of Dr. Conlon’s desk. She turns when I enter the room and close the door behind me.

  Why the hell is Patrice here? Is she in on it too?

  “Mason…” Dr. Conlon looks me up and down. Maybe sizing me up.

  “What?” I say.

  “How have you been doing, Mason?” Dr. Conlon says. His voice is gentle and there’s a crease between his black eyebrows.

  Of course, I know this sensitive professor shit is all an act. Probably for Patrice’s benefit. I’m hoping she’s a neutral.

  “I feel great,” I say.

  “Is everything all right at home?” Patrice pipes up. “With your family? Mom and dad?”

  “Yes, of course,” I reply tightly.

  Patrice’s thin eyebrows raise. “Girl problems?”

  I shake my head no. “I’m fine. Really. I don’t know what this is all about.”

  Dr. Conlon and Patrice exchange looks. Finally, Conlon says, “Mason, you failed the last exam. You know that, right?”

  The room gets really quiet. Did I know that? I don’t know anymore. I feel sick to my stomach. Something is wrong. Something is really, really wrong.

  How could I have failed an exam? I’m the best student in the whole goddamn class! I got a perfect score on the first practical. I knew the material backward and forward. There’s no way I could have failed.

  Of course, Conlon was the one who graded the exam. So if he says I failed, who’s going to doubt him? He’s showing me that he’s not messing around, that he has the ability to wreck my life. Except I’m not messing around either.

  I stand up. “I have to go.”

  Patrice stands up too. “Mason, don’t go. We need to talk.”

  “What’s there to talk about?” I say through my teeth. “Dr. Conlon messed with my exam and failed me on purpose.”

  It’s almost enjoyable to see the way Conlon’s blue eyes widen and his jaw falls open.

  “Mason,” he manages. “I would never…”

  “Mason,” Patrice says, “this is a really serious accusation.”

  I shrug.

  “Mason…” I watch Dr. Conlon struggling to his feet. Or at least, pretending to struggle to his feet. I’m more convinced than ever that his disability is all an act. “Please sit down. Let’s talk about this.”

  “What’s there to talk about?” I practically spit at him. “You’re trying to destroy me, aren’t you?”

  Dr. Conlon just shakes his head. “Mason, I would never mess with your exam. This is outrageous. How could you ever think that I’d—”

  “Matt,” Patrice interrupts him. “Let me handle this, okay?”

  She touches his arm when she says it, and suddenly I get it. The two of them are an item. They’re in this together. And now they’re ganging up on me. It all makes perfect sense.

  “I know what you’re doing,” I say. “And it’s not going to work.”

  With those words, I spin on my heels and leave Dr. Conlon’s office. I can hear him calling my name, and then Patrice’s voice telling him to let me go.

  _____

  “You’re breaking my heart, Mason.”

  My mother is determined to get me to come home for Thanksgiving dinner. She’s pulling out all the stops, really laying the guilt on thick.

  “I’ve got a big test right after the break,” I lie.

  “Two hours,” Mom says. “You can’t spare two hours for your family?”

  I could. And I admit that it’s tempting—the food around here is crap and I know Olivia will put out a really great spread. I can almost smell her roasted turkey if I close my eyes.

  But the act of dinner is what I can’t deal with right now. I can’t face my mother’s questions about my social life or my father grilling me about my grades. And I know if I tell them what’s really going on, they won’t believe it. My father would never buy it that my anatomy professor has been targeting me, that he’s made it his business to destroy my life. And that so far, he’s succeeding.

  “I can’t,” I say for the tenth time.

  “You know,” Mom says, “this will be the first Thanksgiving in your entire life you haven’t spent with your family.”


  “I’m sorry,” I say lamely.

  Mom is quiet for a minute, then finally she says, “Mason, sweetheart, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I say quickly and then get the hell off the phone before she can launch into the third degree.

  Abe’s a local like me, so he drives in to see his family for Thanksgiving dinner, then returns the same night, very late. He’s not home yet when I go to bed for the night, but when I wake up suddenly at three in the morning (which has been happening more and more lately), he’s lying in his own bed, snoring softly.

  I feel confident that Abe is safe from Dr. Conlon. He earns decent but not spectacular grades and hasn’t done a whole lot to call attention to himself. Moreover, he’s huge, so even a completely able-bodied and athletic Dr. Conlon probably wouldn’t be able to overpower him. No, Dr. Conlon would never target Abe in a million years.

  Abe shifts in his sleep, mumbling a few words I can’t make out. I watch his broad chest rise and fall with each breath. I’ve known Abe for several months now and one thing I know for sure is that he’s a good guy. A really good guy. He’s kind, he’s honest, and he’d never do anything unethical. He’s exactly the sort of person I need on my side.

  That’s when I make up my mind: in the morning, I’m going to tell him everything. He’ll keep my secret safe and then if something happens to me, he’ll be able to go to the authorities. I can trust Abe—I’m sure of it.

  _____

  The next morning, when I wake up, Abe is already gone from his bed. My heart races for a second until I hear the shower running. Thank God—he’s still here. I sit up in bed and wait for him, staring patiently at the wall as I plan out what I’m going to say.

  Abe emerges from the bathroom, his short red hair wet and disheveled, wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts. He nods a greeting at me, and starts shoving his legs into a pair of jeans.

  “Hey, Abe,” I say. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

  Abe pulls his pants up and zips his fly. “Uh, I’m sort of… on my way out.”

  “Where are you going?” It’s the day after Thanksgiving, so there are no classes and no exams to study for. Plus I know Heather is gone for the break. I sort of doubt Abe is running out to get a head start on his Christmas shopping.

  “I’ve got an appointment,” he says vaguely.

  His face is pale so that the freckles running down either end of his nose stand out.

  “For what?”

  Abe frowns and he suddenly looks very nervous. I see his giant hand shaking as he runs it through his damp hair in an attempt to comb it.

  “Just an appointment. No big deal.”

  Just an appointment. No big deal.

  I feel sick. Abe is keeping something from me. Something important. I can see it written all over his face.

  Holy shit, is Abe in on this too?

  “Oh,” I say quietly. “I understand.”

  I’m not sure if Abe is part of Dr. Conlon’s conspiracy or not. But I realize that I was wrong to think I could trust him. I can’t. I can only trust myself.

  “Can we talk later?” he asks, glancing at his watch then over at the door.

  “Sure,” I say. “Of course.”

  Yeah, not a chance in hell.

  Chapter 27

  Forty hours. That’s about how long it’s been since I’ve last slept.

  I would pay any amount of money just to get an hour of solid sleep. Not that I have any money, but I’d find a way. Hell, I’d take twenty minutes of sleep. But every time I close my eyes, my thoughts race. The suicides. Dr. Conlon. My exam. Frank…

  I wish I could turn it off somehow.

  I check my watch—it’s almost two in the morning. Abe is lying in his own bed, his breaths whistling between his lips. Even though he’s asleep, I can tell he’s not sleeping soundly—he tosses and turns, and occasionally cries out. Once he punched the wall in his sleep, hard enough to crack the plaster. It makes me nervous to be in the room with him.

  I notice that I’ve been absently scratching at my arms. I pull up my left sleeve and I see there’s a rash running all the way up the length of my forearm, covered in deep scratch marks from where I’ve been rubbing at it. The scratch marks are so bad that a few of them are oozing blood.

  I lift up my other sleeve and see there’s a similar rash on my right forearm. What the hell? Why am I breaking out in weird rashes?

  I put my up pants legs and lift up my shirt, but I don’t see anything similar there. It’s just on my arms. And it almost looks like a rash from being allergic to something. What have I been touching that would make me break out in a rash like this?

  Shit. It must be Frank.

  I feel a shiver go through my body. What has Frank’s corpse been contaminated with? What are we being exposed to?

  I’m almost afraid to know the answer.

  Finally, I struggle to my feet, grab my car keys, and head out the door. I’ve got to get a look at Frank, away from prying eyes. I stumble down the stairs and manage to make it towards my car.

  I’m driving like shit, which is no big surprise, considering how tired I am. I keep weaving in and out of my lane—I probably seem drunk. My only saving grace is that there are no other cars on the road and no cops lying in wait. If there were, I’d probably land myself in jail.

  I reach the school and park crookedly across two spaces. I hurry into the building, the sound of my sneakers slamming into the pavement, echoing in the silent hallways. I continue running until I find myself outside the anatomy lab. I stare down at the combination lock to allow me into the lab. I punch in the code shakily—I have to do it three times before I get it right.

  The freezing cold air of the anatomy lab hits me like a slap in the face. My eyelids had been sagging before, but now they’re wide open. I look around the room, at the rows of dead bodies under thick plastic. The only sound is the whir of the air conditioner—it’s almost comforting.

  I’m breathing hard as I walk over to Table 13. Frank. Like every other cadaver in the room, Frank is covered in plastic. I pull the plastic off the body, not bothering to cover my hands in gloves.

  Frank’s dead and I suspect foul play. It’s obvious he hasn’t been shot and isn’t the victim of trauma. So that leads me to believe he’s been poisoned. Poisoned with something toxic enough to make me break out in a rash all over my arms. I just need to prove it.

  Most of Frank’s blood is congealed, but it’s still there. If I can get a sample of his blood, I can send it off to a lab to be analyzed. I’m hoping there’s some way they can check for poisons or other things that might be responsible for his death. And after I can prove Frank was murdered, I can go to the police and implicate Conlon.

  I stare down at the cadaver. We dissected Frank’s face weeks ago. It’s barely even recognizable as a face anymore, pulled apart by scalpels and forceps. I wish I’d gotten a good look at him before we did this. It makes it almost impossible to recognize him from photos in the obituaries.

  I look down at Frank’s arm, where the tattoo had been only a few days earlier. To Serve and Protect. I remember I came to the very the end of the last lab to see Rachel dissecting the other arm, but the arm with the tattoo was still intact. But somehow the tattoo is now ripped apart.

  I examine the arm further and my skin begins to crawl. This arm hasn’t just been dissected—it’s been destroyed. The muscles are ripped apart, the skin is sliced into pieces… and when I look down at Frank’s legs, I see that they’re in the same condition. Then I look inside his body and I gasp audibly.

  Frank’s organs are all ripped to shreds.

  Whoever did this dissection wasn’t interested in learning. They were trying to destroy evidence—the very evidence I’d been looking for. And they were extremely thorough.

  I’m not imagining this—it’s real. This is concrete evidence that something is going on. Someone has mutilated Frank’s body in order to protect himself.

  “You’re close, Mason,” a gruff voice
speaks up. “Don’t give up.”

  I jump, startled. It’s the same voice I’ve been hearing all along, but louder and clearer. I look around the room, trying to figure out where the voice came from. But there’s no one else in the room. It’s just me. Just me and Frank. Frank.

  The dead body is talking to me.

  Oh Christ. Oh shit.

  Without bothering to cover Frank up again, I run out of the anatomy lab. Even the sound of the door to the lab slamming closed behind me offers no comfort. I need to talk to someone, someone who I know for sure is real. But who the hell can I talk to at two in the morning? What other soul would still be awake at this hour?

  Ginny.

  I head in the direction of the library. I notice that the student working at the desk gives me a funny look when I first come in, but I flash my student ID and she nods at me. I hurry to the far corner of the library, where Ginny always studies. I see the back of her head, and feel my chest flood with relief.

  “Ginny,” I say breathlessly as I reach her side.

  She looks up at me and I know that the horror on her face is a reflection on my own appearance.

  “Oh my God, Mason,” she murmurs. “What happened?”

  “Ginny, please,” I whisper. I fall to my knees in front of her, holding both her hands in mine. “I think… I think I might be losing it…”

  “It’s the stress,” Ginny acknowledges. “I feel the same way sometimes.”

  “No, it’s more than that…” I lower my head. I feel tears rising in my eyes. I haven’t cried since I was six years old when my cat died. And even then, I tried to hide it because I didn’t want my father to think I was weak. “There’s something wrong with me. I know it.”

  “Every medical student turns into a hypochondriac,” Ginny says in a soothing voice. “You’ve just got to take it easy. Anyway, people who are going crazy usually have no idea they’re going crazy. So I think you’re safe.”

  “Is that a rule?”

  Ginny smiles and touches my cheek, “You just need to get some sleep, Mason.”