My
name is Danny Stark, and I’m a student at
I
sit here typing this at the top floor of a library in
Perhaps I should start at the beginning…all the way to the middle of November 2002.
It was required of every student in my State and Local Government class to write a final paper in lieu of taking a final exam. The paper was assigned at the beginning of the semester, and so by mid-November, the studious students were already well on their way to finishing their essays. Naturally, I hadn’t even thought of doing one.
The assignment specifically stated to find a current event that could affect, in some way, state and local government. Most of my classmates talked about their papers as being about bills that would improve the local environment, create more city parks, or other things like that.
But I wanted something big…I wanted something fun.
At least that’s what I told people who were asking me what I was writing on. The truth is, I’m sort of lazy. It was still my first semester of college, and I hadn’t quite broken out of the funk of high school senioritis. I figured that the paper wasn’t due until the middle of December, so I still had a long time to research and write about anything.
Finally, on November 16th, my professor holds me after class. His name was Dr. Dixon. “Mr. Stark, I need to speak with you.”
Dr. Dixon was a sad, little man with white hair that sprung from the sides of his head. He was going bald, and it looked like it was migrating to his face and ears. I don’t think this guy had gotten a haircut since the 1970s, and he looked like he still belonged there. He had a wedding ring on, and I couldn’t imagine what kind of woman would marry this guy. He wore large, thick glasses, and behind those were dark, black eyes. He spoke with a slight, accusatory tone, and seemed like he was never happy.
“Yes, sir?”
“Mr. Stark, have you started on your final paper yet?”
I sort of looked to the side. I figured I’d lie and save myself any embarrassment to myself. “Um, yes sir. Of course I have. It’s coming along quite smoothly, as a matter of fact.”
“Wonderful, Mr. Stark.” He removed his glasses, and dropped his voice an octave. “Mr. Stark, your grades in here have been pitiful. If this essay doesn’t please me…” he let his voice trail off from there. I could see where he was going though. Basically, I needed to blow him away with one heck of an essay to avoid failing the class.
Dr. Dixon replaced his glasses and crossed his arms. “Out of curiosity, Mr. Stark, what are you doing your essay over?” A slight grin came over his face. He sees right through me, I thought.
I
wouldn’t give him the pleasure of being right though. I remembered reading an article in The New York Times about the suicide of
acclaimed senator Michael Franks. It was
one of the few times I had actually read a newspaper. The only reason I had read it was because a
student had left it near my seat, and I really didn’t want to pay attention to
the day’s lecture.
I ran a few other options through my mind, but I couldn’t think of another current event off the top of my head. So I smiled back at Dr. Dixon, and calmly said, “I’ve been doing research on the death of Senator Michael Franks. He apparently had a lot to contribute to empowering the state and local governments. He seems like a fascinating person, and I’d really like to look into his suicide.”
I expected the smile to vanish from Dr. Dixon’s ugly mouth, but instead it grew to show a gingivitis infested mouth with twisted white beans for teeth. I seriously thought about buying this man a bottle of toothpaste and tape it to my final essay. “Mr. Stark, I’ll have you know that I’m the brother-in-law of Senator Michael Franks. My wife’s sister is Susan Franks, his wife. So I’ll be extremely interested to see what you uncover. Good day, Mr. Stark.” He then turned and walked back to his desk, avoiding eye contact with me.
So instead of his smile fading, mine quickly faded into a slight frown. I saw my friend Sean Duffy waiting for me, and quickly explained the situation to him.
“What a jerk,” he said. Sean was an aerospace engineering major. He was one of the good friends of my roommate at the time, Eric Strickland. Sean was kind, and always quick to lend an ear of compassion or reason.
“Yeah, I know…as if I wasn’t doing poorly in this guy’s class to begin with, this essay is going to have to be huge. I’m gonna need some help on this one, man.”
“Hey, yeah, no problem. I’m free tonight, let’s hit the library…I need to do some research for my paper as well.”
“Hey, thanks. I’ll meet you at Evans at 9?”
If I could go back to that moment in time, I’d rather just fail the class. As I’d find out months later, Dr. Dixon made a phone call that night. I’m not sure who the man he talked to was, but I’ve recently found the tape that had the recorded conversation on it. It went like this:
“Hello, this is Dr. Dixon.”
“Yes. Do you have something to report?”
“I might. This freshman in my class…Danny Stark? He’s researching the Franks incident. While he doesn’t seem very bright, he’s impressed me a few times throughout the semester. I doubt he’ll uncover anything, but I thought I’d let you know.”
“Thank you. Does he pose a threat?”
“A threat? Well…maybe. The media couldn’t figure anything out, and neither could forensics. I doubt a student could beat that.”
“But they got what we fed them. We paid most of them off. Should Stark be…taken care of?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll monitor his research and let you know.”
“Thank you.” And the conversation ended there.