“This doesn’t make sense!” I shouted, and several other students in the library looked up.
It was December 7th, and my essay was due in four days.
“What’s that?” said Sean.
“Why would this guy commit suicide? He had an overwhelming majority of support for his bill, it was the eve of the vote, and I can’t find a single instance where this guy was ever unhappy, ever drank, or ever did medication. Why would he get depressed on the eve of arguably the biggest night of his life?”
“Well, The New York Times says that the bill was doomed to fail,” replied Sean.
I glared at him, and snapped back. “I don’t buy that for one second. Every report I’ve read about that bill before November 11th said that the bill was going to pass for sure.” I shook my head. “It just doesn’t make sense. And Sean…she was pregnant.”
“Well, sometimes people do stupid things.” Sean shrugged, and went back to typing his essay. I turned away and resumed typing mine. I thought about writing about the inconsistencies of the suicide, and turned to Sean to tell him.
That’s when I saw him. Dr. Dixon was in the library, in the darkest corner, just watching…and something inside of me insisted that he was watching me.
“Hey…Sean…is that Dr. Dixon over there?” I gestured, but did not point. I didn’t want him to see I was there. I gave Sean a slight headshake to indicate that he should only glance.
He caught the signal and stole a glance. He looked at me and slightly nodded. “Looks like it. The guy must be really interested in your essay…he’s burning a hole in your back.”
That was the first moment I thought I was dealing with something more than a suicide. I felt like I was writing more than an essay, and instead writing death certificates. It was the first time I felt like someone was running ice down my spine.
I
thought about my options. I thought
about simply reporting on what I’ve read – what every American had read. I could give Dr. Dixon the sob-story of his
brother-in-law and expand a little bit about the history of the bill and how it’s failure was a travesty for state and local government. I could write something safe, easy, and
butter up
But then I realized my other option. I could write about my suspicions. I could dig up interviews, autopsies, the forensic reports, and all sorts of other documents. I could play it aggressively for once, and blow Dr. Dixon away with so much information that he’d be forced to not only pass me, but give me a great grade in the class and praise me for my extra effort and congratulate me for uncovering new information about his brother-in-law. It would be a lot more work, but the result would be worth it.
I’m not sure if it was my laziness, the glare of Dr. Dixon’s black eyes on my back, or just a gut feeling in my stomach, but I took the easy way out. The paper was actually pretty good, weighing in at a hefty 11 pages and containing the word “tragedy” a total of 19 times. It’d make anyone sob, and it was certainly enough to give me a passing mark in the class.
Over the next few days, I didn’t really think about my essay too much. Finally, December 11th came around, and Sean and I sat in class, listening to the last lecture of the semester. I noticed that Dr. Dixon looked at me almost constantly. I began to squirm in my seat a little bit, and decided to give Dr. Dixon a taste of his own medicine.
I stared him down, and the next time he looked in my direction, I gave him a sly, knowing smile full of smugness. You know, just to throw him off a little bit.
Usually when I do that to a professor, they quickly look away and cease looking in my direction. This time, however, Dr. Dixon stopped mid-sentence, and I could swear I saw a look of anxiety on his face. A bead of sweat might have fallen from his forehead too. My smile quickly faded, replaced with a frown of confusion.
He had still not broken eye contact with me.
All of a sudden, it was like he became aware of his silence, and that the entire class was staring at him in perplexity. He started looking all around him, like he had just woken up from a dream in a strange room. He began to stutter, and then finally began to lecture again.
It wasn’t the same as before. Now he wouldn’t look at me anymore, and he would stutter every few words and even purposely ignored my side of the room. Several students sitting in front of me had their arms raised for questions, but he ignored them. Finally, one of them spoke up.
“Dr. Dixon? I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have a quick question,” the student asked. Dr. Dixon did not look at the student, but looked at his notes and shuffled papers around.
“Yes…yes. What is it?”
I can’t remember the question asked, but it seemed that Dr. Dixon looked at every part of the room except the area where the kid was sitting. I was becoming more and more certain that there was something that Dr. Dixon had read in my stare that I never meant.
I decided to test an idea. I coughed loudly, and asked, “Dr. Dixon, I have a question.”
He blatantly ignored me. He simply spoke louder, and his stutter got worse. Finally, he just gave up. “Class dismissed. Pl-please turn in your essays to the fro-front of the room.”
I decided to wait until last in order to apologize to Dr. Dixon for whatever I did to make him nervous. Finally, my turn came.
“Dr. Dixon, I just wanted to…”
“Mr. Stark, do you…know something?” Dr. Dixon interrupted. I stared at him curiously.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Nothing! Nothing…Mr. Stark, I have been very anxious to read your essay. Do you mind if I read it now?”
“Um…sure, I guess. I mean, it doesn’t really bother me.” I was becoming very puzzled.
He read over it, and as he turned every page, his frown transformed into a smile. When he had finally finished it, he let out a sigh. “That’s a wonderful essay, Mr. Stark. You really showed a great grasp of the policies that we’ve discussed in class this semester. Very good job. That will be all, Mr. Stark.”
As he begun to turn away, a thought crossed my mind. Today, I realize that if it had simply remained in my mind, I wouldn’t be where I am today, hammering on a rusty typewriter at the top floor of this library. It’s begun to rain outside, and it’s getting darker and darker in this room. But I refuse to turn on a light, for that would draw far too much attention.
There are hundreds of moments of regret in every person’s life…the regret of not asking the pretty girl for a dance, the regret of never watching a very good movie, or the regret of ordering salad when you really wanted soup. But all of these regrets usually mean nothing in the long-run, unless the salad made you very sick. Every once in a while, there’s a major, major regret that you have that if you could change, your entire life would change. Every day I regret what happened next, and the thousands of lives that would be affected if I had remained silent.
I mentioned a while back that I was a very curious fellow, and that more often than not, it turns out to be a bad thing. I regret being so curious…if I had just accepted things as so, my friends would still be alive, I wouldn’t have to live in hiding, and everyone would be at peace. But that’s the thing about who you are…you can’t change it. You can only embrace it.
“Dr. Dixon? Actually…I have a question.”
“Oh?” Dr. Dixon looked at me from above his glasses. He was clearly not expecting this.
“In doing research for my essay, there were several…anomalies that I didn’t include in my essay. He didn’t drink, sir. He was using no prescription drugs. His bill was projected to pass. He loved his wife, and there was even a child on the way. Why would a man with so much to live for decide it wasn’t worth it? The rest just doesn’t add up right.” I thought my question was innocent…almost philosophical. My question didn’t meet an innocent reply, however. Dr. Dixon looked very, very angry.
“Mr. Stark, some questions don’t have answers.”
“Thank you, sir…” I said hesitantly, afraid of annoying him any more. Staring into his eyes, I saw an underlying emotion…one that I didn’t expect to see, and one that I couldn’t begin to think of why it was there.
Fear.
And that’s when I realized it. That’s the moment that changed the rest of my life. I turned away quickly, and jogged outside the room. I found Sean waiting for me patiently on a bench.
“Sean, we need to talk. Walk and talk…and we need to hurry.”
Sean nodded, and gave me a curious look. We walked quickly outside and began our trek toward our dorm building.
“Michael Franks
didn’t commit suicide…he was murdered – and
Once again, I’ve managed to scrounge up the ensuing conversation between Dr. Dixon and the same mysterious voice.
“
“Yes. What is it?”
“I think he’s figured it out, sir. He was asking the right questions and…he’s figured it out.”
“We’ll have him
taken care of then. Thank you,
And that’s when the murders began.