Phi Beta Murder

by C. S. Challinor

  “She won’t be.”

  “What about the guilt? She’ll wreck things one way or the other.”

  It was unlike Helen to be so negative about a situation, but Rex understood her point of view. She realized all the ramifications of what was happening better than he did, since she dealt with individuals under severe stress on a daily basis.

  “I know what you’re saying, Helen, but I don’t feel she has any rights on us. And I don’t feel guilt—not really.”

  “Does she have family?”

  “No. No one she can depend on.” He heard Helen sigh at the end of the phone and hated what he was putting her through.

  “What about the man she met in Iraq?”

  “He went back to his wife.”

  “No doubt that and the trauma of living in a war-torn country triggered this breakdown. Sorry to sound so clinical. I want to feel sorry for her, but I can’t.”

  “I know. I no longer have feelings for her beyond basic human compassion.”

  At that moment, the doors swung open and an Asian woman in a white coat gazed expectantly at him. “Mr. Graves?”

  “The doctor’s here,” he told Helen. “I’ll call you later.”

  “I’m Dr. Nancy Yee. Moira is going to be fine, but I want to keep her under observation for a few days.”

  “What about her wrists? Will there be scars?”

  “Minimal. They’re not deep. I don’t believe this was a serious attempt. Women are three to four times more likely to attempt suicide than men, while completion rates in men are three to four times higher. I think in Moira’s case it was more of a cry for help.”

  Rex found himself wishing Moira could have made her cry for help on the National Health Service back home, which wouldn’t have cost him a penny.

  “I would recommend that she talk to a psychiatrist,” Dr. Yee continued. “Does she have health insurance?”

  “We’re visiting from the UK. I don’t know if she has travel insurance or if it would even cover this. I don’t suppose you offer tourist discounts?” he joked.

  Dr. Yee smiled. “I wish.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “She’s sleeping now. Why don’t you come back this afternoon?”

  Rex returned to the motel. It was too late to cancel Moira’s flight. The plane would be in the air by now. He called his mother and explained that Moira would not be arriving in Edinburgh for another few days, and why. His mother unhelpfully reminded him of a movie she had seen called Fatal Attraction.

  “Glenn Close gets her claws into Michael Douglas and willna let go,” she warned him. “Of course, it was his fault for being unfaithful to that nice wife of his. What was her name? The one with the dark, arched eyebrows. You know what Glenn Close did with the bairn’s wee bunny? Boiled it alive!”

  “It’s only a film.”

  “Reginald, now ye be careful. A scorned woman is a dangerous thing. And slitting her wrists like that … It’s a sin against God: Genesis 1, 2, and 9, and Exodus 20, verse 13.”

  “Aye, Mother. Dinna fret yerself.” Mental strain thickened his Scots accent. “Moira’s in hospital for now, being well cared for. I’ll be in touch with the new flight times.”

  Rex got out of the SUV and crossed the motel parking lot. A man staffed reception. “We had to charge a new mattress to your room,” he informed Rex. “The blood seeped through the bedding. Is the lady going to be all right?”

  “Yes, but she has to stay at Arlington General for a few days.”

  Rex thought he saw an expression of relief pass over the desk clerk’s face. He had to admit he was relieved too. The hospital could watch over Moira while he got on with the investigation of Dixon Clark’s death.

  Interesting what Dr. Yee had said about men being more likely than women to follow through on a suicide … What could have pushed the young man to kill himself when Moira, who had witnessed a massacre and been disappointed in love, had not been able to go all the way?

  Rex consulted his notes and decided to visit the Student Health Center and see if he could talk to the person who had prescribed the Xanax to Dixon. Campbell had given him a map of the campus, and Rex found when he got there that the medical facility was housed in a converted block of old science labs located a quarter of a mile from the administrative buildings. The interior was set up like a regular practice, with a young pony-tailed woman in pale blue scrubs seated behind a window.

  “Can you tell me the name of the doctor who was seeing Dixon Clark?” he asked her.

  “The dead boy?”

  “Aye. His family has asked me to look into his suicide, and I thought his doctor might have some insight.”

  “Why aren’t his parents contacting us themselves?”

  “Because they’re busy dealing with formalities such as funeral arrangements,” Rex said tersely. “I have their number for you to call …”

  Disregarding Mr. Clark’s business card that he held out to her, she picked up a phone and pressed a button. “Becky, are you free?” She briefly explained the situation to the person at the other end. “Becky Ward,” she told Rex, “is our nurse practitioner. She saw Dixon Clark.”

  The receptionist propelled herself in her swivel chair to a file cabinet and pulled out a folder. “She’s just finishing up with a patient. I have to get a signed release from Dixon’s parents faxed to us.”

  Rex claimed a chair by a giant potted plant and waited. A boy whom he recognized as Mike, the fair-haired business studies major from Indiana, exited a door studying a leaflet on STDs, followed shortly afterward by an older woman in a white coat. She had cropped gray hair and wore glasses suspended from a chain around her neck.

  “Please come in,” she told Rex, taking Dixon Clark’s folder from the receptionist.

  Her office walls displayed colorful charts and anatomical diagrams. A glass door offered a view of a small concrete courtyard surrounded by oak trees.

  “Do you mind if we step outside?” she asked Rex. “I was about to take my lunch break.”

  “Please, go ahead. I’m sorry to be interrupting. It’s good of you to see me at such short notice.”

  Carrying a Styrofoam cup and a brown paper bag, the nurse led the way out the glass door and settled on a bench against the brick wall of the building. Two squirrels leaped up beside her and raised their paws to their chins, chattering excitedly and twitching their tails.

  “Little beggars,” she said fondly, feeding each a piece of her salad sandwich, while Rex sat at the far end of the bench and watched in amusement. “Meet Tricky and Lola, my lunch companions.”

  “They’re a lot more prepossessing than some of my lunch companions back in chambers.”

  “You’re from Scotland?”

  “Aye, Edinburgh.”

  “My grandmother was from Dunfermline.”

  “Oh, aye? That’s not far from us.”

  Becky Ward gently shooed the squirrels off the bench. “Off you go now and let me eat in peace. So, Dixon Clark,” she said, swiping her fingers against each other to dislodge the crumbs. She opened the folder. “This is a very sad business. He came to me for something to calm his anxiety. I prescribed an anti-depressant, Xanax, which he’d taken before.”

  “Did he discuss his problems with you?”

  “Some.” She reviewed her notes. “He said he was having problems in his social life and was having trouble sleeping. He also presented with itchy blisters on his privates, which I diagnosed as Herpes Simplex II. I wrote out a script for an antiviral. I’m telling you this because the symptoms and stress of having an STD were adding to his anxiety. I told him it was just a variation on the cold sores some folk get on their mouths and not life-threatening, but it’s not easy for people to accept they have an incurable sexually transmitted disease.”

  “Poor kid. Is it highly contagious?” Rex wondered if Campbell knew about the virus.

  “Extremely, even if you use protection. It’s passed via skin to skin contact. Some people are asymptomatic a
nd don’t know they have it, and then pass it along.”

  “Did his girlfriend Kris Florek ever come in for treatment?”

  Becky Ward picked up her coffee. “I’d need a signed release form from her before I could discuss her case with a third party. Perhaps you could just ask her, if it’s part of your investigation?”

  “I’d feel a bit awkward doing that. I’d be embarrassed to discuss STDs with my own son.”

  “I know, but parents should. Kids do listen a lot of the time.”

  “Sounds like Dixon had a lot on his plate.”

  “Yes, otherwise I might have hesitated to prescribe Xanax. Some kids use it as a recreational drug. They refer to it as Bars, Handlebars, Zanbars. It’s a Benzodiazepine class of drug that lowers inhibitions. In teenagers and young adults, where the frontal lobe of the brain is not fully developed, it can lead to them acting out on suicidal and violent impulses.”

  “So, naturally, you monitor its use.”

  “Any responsible medical practitioner would. Unfortunately, online pharmacies are proliferating like rabbits, and anybody can get hold of legal prescription drugs and abuse them.”

  “What is the answer?” Becky Ward was a no-frills nurse of the old order, and he was interested in what she had to say.

  “There needs to be better education and awareness out there. The pharmaceutical industry should stop promoting their products like they were candy. Some of these drugs are as harmful and addictive as cigarettes, but it’s going to be another long, uphill battle to get the message across.”

  “So there is a risk of suicide if Xanax is prescribed for anxiety?”

  “There is a risk, but if a kid came for help as in this case and we didn’t offer it, and the kid went ahead and committed suicide, we could be sued just the same. Xanax is a helpful tranquillizer in most cases.”

  “One final question: Does it surprise you that Dixon Clark committed suicide?”

  Cocking her head to one side, the nurse practitioner thought for a moment. “On the whole, yes. He seemed like a well-grounded young man.”

  By the time Rex arrived back at the hospital, Moira was sitting up in bed watching TV, her wrists neatly bandaged, her dark curly hair contrasting with the starched white pillows. He placed the pot of yellow mums he had bought for her on the bedside table. Not a very inspiring choice, and she looked disappointed. He had called 1-800-FLOWERS to order the wreath for Dixon’s memorial service and had tried to reach Helen, but had encountered her answering machine. He felt tired and dispirited.

  “Busy day?” Moira asked.

  “I was at the university talking to people.” Rex didn’t want to bring up the word “suicide” in her presence.

  “Did anyone come up with anything helpful?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it because you think it will upset me, but I’m curious. I don’t know the lad but, from what you told me at dinner last night, he seemed to have a lot going for him. Some kids just don’t know how lucky they are.”

  Rex hoped Dixon’s suicide had not given Moira the idea of cutting her wrists. He had not realized the depth of her despair until it was too late. “You have a lot going for you too,” he told her, sitting on one of the visitors’ chairs.

  “Like what?”

  “You’re still young. You do commendable work helping others.”

  “I’m alone. If my life was completely fulfilling on its own terms, I wouldn’t need to plug the void with charity work. My life’s a house of cards. It took only a couple of puffs to blow it down, and now there’s nothing left.”

  “If we had been really strong, would you have gone to Iraq? I always felt your work was more important to you.”

  “I was wrong.”

  Rex didn’t know what else to say. Moira was at the bottom of a personal abyss. “Have you spoken to a professional yet?” he asked.

  “Aye, I had my ‘evaluation.’”

  “And?”

  “They didna tell me. The staff call me by my first name as though I were a helpless wee bairn.”

  “Americans use first names more than we do. The doctor seems very nice.”

  “Nice, nice, nice! I think I’m going to scream. I hate all this bloody cocooning!”

  Rex wondered if he should ring for a nurse.

  “Don’t worry. I’m perfectly calm,” she said through clenched teeth. “They sedated me. The mums are nice. Extremely antiseptic. Thank you.”

  Rex sat miserably in his chair, grateful when minutes later a female orderly wheeled in a tray of food and put it within Moira’s reach.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You lost some blood, honey. You don’ eat, you won’ get discharged.”

  “Please eat,” Rex begged.

  Moira lay back on the pillows. “I dinna have the strength.”

  “I’ll feed you.” He drew up his chair and lifted one of the dish covers on the tray.

  The orderly winked at him and went on her way. When he looked up, bright tears were sliding down Moira’s pale cheeks.

  “Don’t leave me, Rex,” she implored. “I couldna bear it.”

  He saw Dr. Yee pass the door, her white coat flapping behind her. “I’ll be right back,” he told Moira as he dashed out the room.

  “Dr. Yee!”

  She turned around and smiled briskly, tucking a stray strand of jet-black hair behind her ear.

  “Doctor, I need to ask you about Moira’s mental state. Can you tell me how she’s doing in that regard?”

  “I consulted with the hospital psychiatrist. Moira is suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. We’re seeing it in an alarming number of servicemen and women returning from the war. It’s a major adjustment to return to normalcy after what they’ve been through, and a lot of times they wind up committing crimes and acts of domestic abuse, also suicide. Moira’s case is not dissimilar. She is reacting to the trauma she experienced in Iraq.”

  “Here’s my dilemma,” Rex said heavily. “I need to get her back home and I canna go with her. Is she fit to travel alone on a plane?”

  It floored him to think that they should be discussing a usually intelligent and resourceful woman in this way.

  Dr. Yee pursed her lips. “Perhaps if you put Moira in the charge of a flight attendant. I could prescribe something to keep her calm on the plane.”

  “Aye, but she has a stop-over, and I don’t want her to miss her connection.”

  “They have airline staff to watch over children. That would be my suggestion.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. When can she leave the hospital?”

  “Thursday morning, if she continues to do well.”

  Dr. Yee flew off down the corridor, leaving Rex to wonder if he dared risk booking Moira on another flight. He knew the responsible thing would be to escort her home, but he had come to Florida to be with his son and he was looking forward to their trip to the Keys, just the two of them. On top of all that, he had promised to review Dixon Clark’s suicide and he did not have time to spend babysitting Moira.

  At that moment, a nurse approached him. “The patient in room 403 is asking for you.”

  With a weary sigh, Rex turned back and entered the room.

  “Where did you rush off to so fast?” Moira demanded.

  “I went to have a wee word with the doctor. Are you going to try some of this Chicken Alfredo? It looks right tasty.”

  “Eat it yourself then. I’ll have the jelly. They call it Jell-O over here. Isn’t that funny? Why don’t they just call it jelly?”

  “Because jelly is their word for jam.”

  “Well, why don’t they call jam ‘jam’? Then they could call Jell-O ‘jelly’!” Moira threw her spoon down on the tray.

  “No need to get agitated over the word for a pudding.”

  “I am not agitated about that. It’s you being all patient and reasonable! Treating me like a bairn, like the rest o’ them!”

  Rex wanted to tell her she was indeed b
ehaving like a child, but he did not want to provoke another tantrum. If she had a breakdown, he would never be able to put her on a plane on Thursday.

  “What did the doctor say, then?”

  “She said you were recovering from PTSD, which is—”

  “I know what PTSD is,” Moira snapped. “What am I supposed to do about it? I can’t just make it go away. And I refuse to become dependent on happy pills.”

  “When you get back to Scotland, you can see a therapist.”

  “I suppose you’re already scheming how to get me on a plane back home at the earliest opportunity!” She glared at him, her face flushed with anger.

  Rex swiveled the table out of the way before she could throw something at him. “What do you expect me to do?” he asked in desperation.

  “Stay with me,” she pleaded.

  Fear numbed his limbs. He would have run if he could and never looked back. For the first time in his life, he understood the real meaning of pressure. He picked up the pocket-size Bible by the bedside and opened it to the wafer-thin page marked with a gold ribbon. He started to read aloud to her, but the words could have been in a foreign language, so unfocused were his thoughts. He held her hand until she grew drowsy. Her eyes finally closed.

  The nurse assured him she would now sleep comfortably throughout the night. Slipping from the room, he regained the corridor and made his way along the squeaky linoleum to the elevators. He could not wait to get out of the hospital, with its pale green walls and smell of disinfectant. It was a relief to reach the warm air outside.

  He went straight to the college and found Campbell in his room with Justin listening to a Hip-Hop CD with a catchy synthesized refrain.

  “Fancy a bite to eat?” he asked them. They were dressed in button down shirts as though in anticipation of an invitation to dinner.

  “Great. Where?” asked Campbell.

  “Somewhere close.”

  “How about Smokeys?” Justin said. “It’s a rib joint.”

  “Grand.” Rex was glad of the opportunity to eat with the boys. He had several matters to clear up in regard to the Clark case and hoped they might be able to help.

  Smokeys, a short drive away, was a ranch-style building located near a strip mall.