Resolve

by Hensley, J. J.

  The last thing I heard before the recording ended was her mumbling to herself, “Asshole.”

  Randy’s repellent personality had finally paid off for him. He wouldn’t hop into bed with a twenty-two-year-old. I made myself pledge to only loath the guy for the thousand other legitimate reasons. Nobody can say I’m not fair.

  The last folder I opened was titled “Jacob Kasko.” Jacob had said that he didn’t know Lindsay. In fact, he said that he knew all of his students and he rarely forgot them. I looked at the date of the recording. December. The end of the previous semester. Maybe Jacob’s memory wasn’t as keen as he thought. Maybe it was.

  I tried to imagine Lindsay approaching the eternally proper, prominent professor and trying to convince him to have a fling with her. She had guts—I had to give her that. He made me self-conscious about my tattoo and she was going to try to seduce him.

  The first few short conversations mirrored the others. Some brief encounters after class, some compliments, a few subtle hints. Jacob was polite and dismissive, without offending. Lindsay turned on the heat. She pressed him to talk about his background and his experiences. What did he like most about being a professor? Where did he get his doctorate? What did he do on his days off? Maybe they could spend some time together outside of class and he could help her decide on what graduate school to attend?

  I wondered if she knew that he had lost his wife recently. If she did, would she still have pushed so hard?

  That’s when Jacob said it. I stopped breathing when the words came through my speakers. I followed the image of sound waves bouncing across my monitor with every syllable.

  He calmly entreated, “Lindsay, why don’t you tell me what it is you’re working on?”

  Then, silence. I thought the recording had stopped, but it hadn’t.

  The male voice I knew well continued, “I’m not mad at you. I simply want to know from an academic standpoint. What’s the endgame here?”

  The girl’s voice changed from tigress to kitten in a flash. She didn’t even try to lie.

  “It’s a project, of sorts. You would call it a study in human behavior.”

  “Interesting. Tell me about it. You have complete confidentiality with me. Social scientists have to depend on confidentiality.”

  And she told him. She told him about everything except for the names of the men she had approached and the existence of the recordings. He didn’t interrupt, and he asked follow-up questions about how she planned on presenting her findings. He told her that the venture had real potential, but that she shouldn’t limit her work to the field of journalism. If she developed it as a true research project, and presented it as an academic pursuit, as well as a journalistic piece, she would be taken more seriously. She wouldn’t be regarded simply as an aspiring young reporter who was starved for attention. She wanted to be more, right? Not just a flash in the pan.

  He was smooth. Inviting, but professional. He sounded earnest and interested. I could see where this was going and I didn’t like it.

  He made a few suggestions about the way she could organize the data by categorizing her subjects by age, race, field of study, years in academia, and marital status. The possibilities were endless.

  “You’re an exceptionally bright girl,” he told her. “You seem to have lots of potential. Good luck with your project. With a little refining, it may work out well for you.”

  It sounded like he was packing up a briefcase.

  For a brief second I was hopeful. Then the second passed.

  “Wait,” the female voice was strong again. “Can you please help me? I mean just with the organizing and writing part. I really do want to be taken seriously.”

  There was a pause, and I could hear the softest of breaths being picked up by the microphone. The lines on the monitor were low ripples.

  Then a nonchalant male voice said, “I suppose we could discuss this further.”

  I could practically see the heartwarming look on his face when he said, “I’m always available for a worthwhile project.”

  I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew it was true. Jacob had told me before we set off running down the river trail, but I wasn’t listening.

  For most of the city, it’s just some blonde girl who had her future snuffed out like the flame on a candle.

  How did he know she was a blonde?

  Jacob had said he didn’t know who Lindsay was. Every television station and newspaper had shown her photo while telling the story. A photo of a young freshman who had dark hair interrupted by a red streak. I had seen Jacob Friday afternoon. He had been in Morgantown on Monday morning. It wasn’t likely that he had a conversation with someone over the weekend who just happened to mention her hair color.

  How did he know she was a blonde? I hadn’t even asked myself that question at the time.

  I’m kind of an idiot sometimes.

  Mile 13

  The unmemorable mile after coming off of the Birmingham Bridge creates a brief psychological strain. The vacant lots and graffiti-covered walls are a reminder that progress can be slow. Recovery takes time. Bent and rust-covered rebar sticks out of chipped concrete where a commercial building once stood. Windows on the front of a forgotten warehouse have served as objects of dissatisfaction for rock-throwing youths.

  The road has been sewn together with tangled strings of tar. The pavement at the corner of Forbes and Craft resembles a Rorschach test. I try to occupy my mind by assigning a perception to the blackened shapes, but all I can come up with is an octopus. No crowds line the streets. The distance between me and the next runner is thirty feet. The married couple running “for Linda” have fallen back and vanished. It’s weirdly quiet.

  A medical center approaches on my right. The massive University of Pittsburgh Medical Center system has sprawled into this wasteland. I’m sure the property was cheap, and the main campus is just up the street. A few UPMC employees stand outside the newer buildings and smoke cigarettes. Why is it that nurses and firefighters smoke so much? If ever there were two professions you would think would avoid the flaming cancer sticks, those should be them.

  The only good thing about this stretch is I can see ahead for nearly two miles.

  This is the third place it could happen. This would be the worst place. It could all be for nothing if it went down here—and I wouldn’t get a second chance. Not here.

  Later.

  For some reason, this area has an odd Lord of the Rings feel to it. The road turns from destruction to renewal and expansion. All the time we are moving closer to a huge tower that appears to be the end of the world. It’s called the Cathedral of Learning. Seriously. Maybe it’s more of a Brave New World feel. Are we chasing the ideal? Are we running toward a mythical concept that will never really get any closer?

  I need some water, I’m not thinking clearly.

  I need calories.

  I chew some sugar and grab a paper cup from the water station. Looking ahead, I see nothing important. No sign of him anywhere. I better pick up my speed, just in case. I can’t miss him. What if he’s having one of those days when he’s faster than normal? I can’t miss him.

  Not now.

  Not after all he’s done.

  I closed the folder that contained the audio files. I knew what I needed to know. Jacob was seeing her. I heard it in his voice. It was the same polished way of talking that Kaitlyn used when the psychologist in her came out. The difference was, when I heard it, I knew what was happening. Lindsay didn’t.

  He had spoken with a certain rhythm and level of compassion that could charm a cobra. For a man of his experience, a young girl was an easy mark. Part of me wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and allow his wife’s death to serve as an excuse. Part of me wanted to sympathize with him and I tried to imagine him supplying me with a reasonable rationale why he would have gotten involved with Lindsay. But the way he turned the conversation around—the way he played on her ambition, her desire to be somebody . . . something m
ore. Any hopes I had for feeling exhilaration on learning the truth were gone. I wished I didn’t know.

  Staring at my screen, I allowed my eyes to focus on the other large icon that had originally popped up. It was a set of text files organized the same way as the audio files, by names and dates. I clicked on the image and several subfolders spread across the screen. There weren’t as many of these files as there were audio files. I assumed that these were simply her written notes and they would summarize the recorded conversations. I was wrong.

  When I opened the file labeled “Craig Bandi”—a colleague from the English department—what I found was much more than typed out notes. A lengthy list of document names filled the screen. I knew from the recordings he was one of those who had succumbed to Lindsay. There were different file types: PDF, Word documents, Excel spreadsheets. I started reading each file.

  Lindsay had done a lot more than record unsuspecting professors. She had been data-mining information from the internet. She had paid online services to research the details of Bandi’s life. For less than fifty bucks per request she had obtained information about his real estate purchases, property taxes, family members, utility bills, political affiliation, involvement in lawsuits, business ties of family members, phone numbers, records of his marriage and subsequent divorce along with terms of the settlement, and a plethora of other details. Since TRU received some funds from the state, she had even found his salary information for the past several years.

  The last document in Bandi’s file was a Word document where Lindsay had summarized her findings. He had been a professor at TRU for the past five years. He had been cleaned out in a messy divorce seven years before when he lived in Michigan. According to court documents, his wife filed for the divorce and cited repeated instances of physical abuse. He had no criminal record. Just prior to beginning his employment at TRU, Bandi rented a modest apartment in Robinson Township. His spending seemed to be in line with his diminished income. Lindsay’s summary was well written and detailed. She would have been a good investigative reporter.

  Even before getting any guidance from Jacob, Lindsay had been doing much more than posturing to get on television. She was really digging into peoples’ pasts. She was looking for damaging information—apart from what she was able to elicit through her approaches—and hadn’t limited herself to those men she had tried to lure. There were other names here. Names of male and female faculty members. My name.

  My file consisted of the same type of information as Bandi’s. There was information on my finances, marriage, etc. There was a small press clipping that detailed an arrest I had made in Baltimore and the citation I received from the department. That was it. The most damaging information about me was a speeding ticket I received in Kentucky.

  I spent the next two hours reading every page Lindsay had accumulated. I assumed that there were fewer of these files than the sound recordings because she hadn’t received all the results yet from the data-mining services she was using. Again, I looked closely at those I knew best.

  Dr. Jacob Kasko’s file contained a huge amount of data, as you would expect for anybody with a lengthy career in academia. In addition to the basic items, there were some press clippings about academic awards received, grant money obtained, and journals and books authored. The relatives section still listed Jacob’s wife, Tabatha, as living. Lindsay hadn’t known she was dead when she first approached Jacob.

  Finding nothing of interest in that folder, I moved on to the folder bearing the name Aaron Caferty. His life filled my screen and I picked it apart. Again, there was nothing of real interest in most of the documents. The only item that drew my attention was a six-month gap in employment. I thought it could have been some sort of sabbatical, taken with the university’s permission. I checked his financial records. Somehow a company had managed to obtain his credit card statements. This couldn’t be legal, but I assumed that at fifty dollars per request they made enough money to hire some really talented lawyers.

  I found one that matched up with the dates of his brief period of unemployment—a large charge to the Timberlake Retreat. Figuring that he put himself in debt to vacation at some plush resort, I did an online search for the establishment. The Timberlake Retreat was not a luxury beachfront hotel. They did not offer valet parking and rooms with balconies that had breathtaking views. What they did offer was high-quality inpatient psychiatric care and drug and alcohol rehabilitation services.

  Lindsay’s summary on Aaron had connected the two. V was right. Lindsay hadn’t been some ditz who was going to get by on her looks. Lindsay had typed out two short paragraphs mentioning the probable visit to the funny farm and little more. In red text at the bottom of the page were the words Follow up on this.

  The next file I checked was Randy’s. The pages Lindsay had received were dated after she had tried to tempt Randy. My fellow Criminology professor had been so rude in his deflection of her that I could imagine her crossing her fingers and praying that she could find dirt on him. She did.

  Good ol’ Mr. Walker had made his reputation from a well-known study he had conducted over three decades ago. It was a brilliant analysis of how the construction and layout of a prison could affect inmate behavior. I had read it years ago, and I have to admit it was groundbreaking. He systematically broke down the way everything inside prison walls was set up, from the size of the mattresses to the color of the food trays. He compared four prisons, studied the prisoners and their behavior, controlled for all of the right variables, and wrote an exceptional article that detailed his findings. He singlehandedly changed the way prisons were built in this country.

  After Randy’s blast onto the academic scene . . . nothing. He ground out a spattering of weak articles that couldn’t even be categorized as research. His writings became nothing more than slanted editorials under the guise of social science. That was the case until fifteen years ago.

  Then the name Randy Walker reappeared in the most respected academic journals. He had conducted research on juvenile crime and the negative effect that could be seen when both parents in a family worked. It was an increasingly common scenario as the American middle-class disappeared. He studied families with parents that worked full-time, part-time, the same shift, and different shifts. He followed the activities of their children for nearly two years and watched how their lives were affected. He wrote up the results and became semi-respectable again. I had seen that study too, and while not great, it was decent. Regardless of how people felt about the results, the methodology behind it seemed to be solid. Randy didn’t publish much of substance after that, but he put himself back on the map and he was granted tenure at TRU just after the study had been made public.

  Good for him. Even a stopped clock gets it right twice a day.

  Better for Lindsay, who didn’t need an online information service to do any work for her on this one. There have been some amazing technological advances in the last ten years. A lot more information is readily available now than there used to be. I didn’t know what possessed her to do it, but she ran Randy’s study from fifteen years ago through a new database that compares writing samples. The program searches for key words, lines of text, and finds duplication or similarities. Colleges use it to make sure their students turn in original work. Older studies are constantly uploaded to the system in order to make it more complete.

  The smile on Lindsay’s face must have been a mile wide when she saw the results. The study I was looking at had been scanned from a hard copy. The typeset was blocked off and some letters looked like small nibbles had been taken out of them. It had been written on a typewriter, not a computer. The content was exactly what I remembered it to be: An analysis of how juvenile crime may be affected by the increase in two working-parent families. The only problem was the author wasn’t named Randy Walker. It was Marie Miller from Carson-Newman College in Tennessee. And the study had been conducted eight years prior to Walker’s plagiarized version.

  A quick internet
search told me that Miller had died of cancer just after she authored the article. The name of the journal that she was published in was unfamiliar to me, so I looked it up too. It was an obscure journal that ceased publication not long after Miller’s death. It was a forgotten article, in a forgotten publication, by a forgotten researcher.

  I conducted another search and pulled up the article under Randy’s name. It was nearly identical in every way. The only difference was that Miller followed families in Knoxville and Randy claimed to have conducted his work in Pittsburgh. Randy must have been desperate to get tenure, knowing that his star had long faded.

  Somehow he found this article and realized the author and journal were both obscure and no longer functioning. He changed a few details, put his name on it, and reclaimed a little credibility. TRU had never questioned him and nobody had done any fact checking. In the academic world, any level of plagiarism was an intolerable offense. If discovered, his career would be over and he would go down in history as a fraud. Any work he ever did would be assumed to be fraudulent, including his landmark study on prisons. I closed Randy’s folder and reminded myself to get a better running group.

  I was down to the last three folders, when I noticed one of them wasn’t actually titled with a person’s name. It was just labeled with initials “D.A.A.” I hadn’t remembered seeing any names on the audio files that had those initials, so I was curious. What I found made me a lot more than curious.

  The information in the file was similar to the others. Money, land, associates, driving record, the works. What was different was the story that it told. Accusations of embezzlement at a university in California five years ago. An overly aggressive admissions department and campus police department. A lawsuit filed by the accused, and directed at the school and the cops for slander, unlawful arrest, harassment, and unlawful termination. A small financial settlement. An expunged record. Legally binding agreements to not discuss the case. Everything swept under the rug. Somehow one of the investigative services Lindsay employed had found all this information, and had passed it along to her in a series of neatly formatted electronic documents.