Murder Is Pathological

by P. M. Carlson

  “What are we going to do?” wailed Barbara.

  Dr. Weisen straightened then; Nick could almost see him summoning determination from somewhere. “Tomorrow,” said Dr. Weisen, “we’re getting a guard.”

  VIII

  Monday morning at the lab was very tense. Monica and the others had already heard of the new slaughter, because Barbara had called at midnight, brimming with horror and news and a need to be comforted. They all arrived early and went grimly to work, checking their prepared slides carefully for tampering. No one found any signs of damage, but no one could quite believe in them anymore. After a long conference with Gib, Dr. Weisen called them all together at ten. Hurt but determined, he explained the plan of action. Gib had convinced him that the police should be called. They would arrive soon, to see if anything could be discovered about the vandalism and burglary. Also, he had made arrangements for an armed guard to patrol the area Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights, at least. The grads were to continue their work as before, but were to make copies of all their records at day’s end, and take the copies somewhere away from the lab. Gib and Rick were also to continue their work as before; he commended Rick for finding the carnage so promptly. The animals had been dead for only a short period, he and Barbara agreed.

  “Didn’t Barbara and Rick see anything odd?” asked Les.

  “No. Nothing,” said Barbara. “Except when I went into the microscope room, the instrument was missing.”

  “This is really a serious problem,” Dr. Weisen said. “Please, all of you, think hard about anything unusual that might have been going on.”

  “What do you mean? Nothing’s been usual,” complained Tom. “Norman, the dead animals, the extra work. And all this pressure. It’s been weeks since anything was normal. That wastebasket too.”

  That wastebasket, thought Monica. Damn. It was time to ask her about it, wasn’t it?

  “I know,” admitted Dr. Weisen unhappily. “But there must be some explanation.”

  “Please, excuse me,” said Rick’s soft Southern voice. “I did see one thing.”

  “Yes? What is it, Rick?”

  “Maybe it’s not important. But just a few minutes before Miz Burke arrived—”

  “Barbara,” corrected Barbara.

  “Yes, ma’am. There was a car that drove away. I didn’t see it come, but it came out of the service drive for the old laboratory and drove away.”

  “Did you recognize it?” asked Les eagerly.

  Rick shook his head. “No. It was dark-colored. But I couldn’t see enough to recognize it.”

  “Dark-colored,” said Dr. Weisen. “Blue? Black? Green?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. It was night,” said Rick apologetically. His disturbingly intelligent eyes scanned the group.

  Tom licked his lips. “The old lab?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s right. A little before eleven.”

  “It was a car? Not a van?”

  “God, Tom, what are you thinking?” asked Les.

  They eyed each other. “I’m thinking you’re around at night sometimes,” said Tom.

  “Of course. Everyone’s around sometimes,” said Les easily. Monica, trying not to look at Les, glanced toward Rick instead, and found that he was observing her, profound sadness in his brown face. God. Could he know? He was around most of the time, he liked to hike in the woods. Could he have seen something? For the first time, Monica considered Rick, the kind of person he was. Intelligent, yes; but not highly educated. Working as a bouncer, a carpenter, a janitor. Poor. Wiped out by a robbery. Honest? He seemed so. But a poor man might do desperate things for money. Such as blackmail. Her heart shivered. She had never thought of that possibility. To her, Les was a moment of comfort, an unexpected brief warmth in the bleakness of her life. But she did not want Anita to know. She would do almost anything to keep her from learning. They had been careful, very careful. But she remembered twice meeting Rick shortly after she’d been with Les, the first night and once since.

  Frightened, she risked another glance at the big dark man. He was listening to Dr. Weisen’s explanation of the new arrangement with the guard, of how they would be signing in and out of the lab for the next few days. He looked intent and sorrowful; not conniving, not evil. Surely he wouldn’t try blackmail. He seemed honest. And she was poor, and so was Les. Maybe not as poor as Rick, but too poor to do much for a blackmailer. Surely he wouldn’t try that. And anyway, he probably didn’t know.

  Yet she was uneasy all morning. She hurried through her work for Moore, because she had to go to the nursing home that afternoon. Usually she went Thursdays, but Weisen had asked her to change this week, because he wanted all the students on hand Thursday for the visit of the pharmaceutical company officials.

  Other people too seemed worried and distracted this morning—Tom, swearing as he dropped a set of slides he had just made; Barbara, babbling pointlessly about every slide she looked at, keeping her own spirits up; Rick, solemn and attentive, choosing to stay at the lab today during his time off to talk to Gib; and Les and Dr. Weisen, all uncharacteristically glum, throwing themselves into their tasks as a way to avoid the huge ugly questions.

  They were interrupted by a long visit from the Laconia police, who took all their fingerprints, checked the areas of the lab where the missing microscope had been, and shook their heads sadly. Dr. Weisen had told Rick to incinerate the slaughtered rats last night because he couldn’t bear to look at them; but except for that, Rick had wisely done only minimal cleanup work, and with his soft-spoken descriptions the police apparently had a good idea of what it had been like. “Well, we’ll try, Dr. Weisen,” they said finally. “And if anything else happens please call us right away.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Dr. Weisen, sad and shaken.

  The police questioning slowed them all down. Monica put her dismally small morning’s work away at noon and went out to her car. She had to stop off at the house first because, in her preoccupation with the problems at the lab, she had forgotten to pack a sandwich. As she unlocked her car door, Les’s van rolled into the lot, and Anita got out, pale and tired but resigned, almost content.

  “No, boys, you stay right there till I get Daddy,” she said as she slammed the door. “Oh, hi, Monica.”

  “Hi, Anita. How’re you doing?”

  “Pretty good. Morning sickness finally let up a little.”

  “Good. That must make it harder, with the kids.”

  “Oh, my! You said it! Those little tykes are up at dawn, and me not able to wiggle my toe without sicking up. Thank God Les understands, he’s just a gem.”

  “He’s a good father, huh?”

  “Oh, yes. They have a lot of fun together. He’s just got so much to do, though. Doesn’t get much time with them these days.” She didn’t seem upset, just resigned.

  “Well, things will ease up a little after Thursday.”

  “Thank God. Hey, I’d better go get him before the boys destroy our van. Good to see you, Monica.” She smiled her contented smile.

  “Nice seeing you too, Anita.” Monica watched her amble to the front door of the lab, thin, belly bulging a little already, joints loosening and spreading already, changing her gait. Monica was reminded suddenly, unpleasantly, of B-716. The distended female, dumbly responding to the inexorable program of hormones and neurons. Giving blood and nutrients and shelter to the new creature, eating and breathing and excreting for it. Tired, resigned. Beautiful somehow. And fulfilled? Maybe. Monica would never know.

  When she reached the house, Maggie was in the kitchen eating a banana and drinking a mug of coffee. “What’s the news?” she asked. She seemed a little guarded today.

  “Nothing much.” Monica got out bread and cheese and lettuce. There was a second package in the fridge now marked “Property of M. Ryan. Verboten! Touche pas!” Bargain treats for Zelle, Maggie had said. Monica spread the bread and added, “The police came and shook their heads and fingerprinted everyone. Put us hours behind.”
/>   “Yes, I know. They stopped by the psych department to get mine.’’ Maggie moved back from the table to give Monica room.

  “The only new thing that you might not have heard about last night is that Rick saw a dark-colored car leaving the old lab at about the right time.”

  “A dark car. Like yours?”

  It was not a joking question. Monica looked up from her sandwich, startled. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve got a dark blue car. Was it like yours, or like somebody else’s?”

  “He couldn’t see.” She was definitely not joking. Hurt welled up in Monica. This, her roommate, her friend, should have been a support. Had been until now. What was wrong? The hurt merged into anger, and Monica counterattacked. “It didn’t have fins like yours. But that wouldn’t stop you, would it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you told me you could hot-wire cars from the time you were fourteen. You wouldn’t have to drive your own, would you?”

  “I see. I borrow someone’s dark car, hot-wire it, drive it to the lab, butcher a few rats, wave good-bye to Rick and whisk off again?”

  “And also steal a microscope, of course.”

  “Of course. And what is my motive supposed to be?”

  “Hell, Maggie! What was your motive in making that wastebasket explode?”

  “You knew it was me? Then you know why.”

  “I thought I knew. I thought you were helping out Norman because he hated cleaning up sloppy wastebaskets.”

  “Right on the button. You win the cigar.” She leaned insolently against the door frame.

  “But what am I supposed to think now?”

  “You mean now that I’ve taken up occasional rat slaughter as a hobby? Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Ryan?”

  “Listen, Maggie, you’ve never told anyone about that wastebasket. That’s what started it all. If it was so harmless why haven’t you told?”

  “And start a wild-goose chase, when there are real problems at the lab?” Maggie was angry too. “Anyway, why haven’t you told about Les?”

  Fear poured through Monica, drowning out the anger. “Maggie! You won’t tell anyone?”

  “Tell anyone? Why bother? Happens every day. Boring story. Woman gets pregnant, has kids, man gets tired of her and the office floozy lures him away.”

  “Maggie, my God!” The anger was back, in force. “You don’t know a damn thing about it!”

  “I know Les is married, Monica. Pair-bonded, right? A wife and two point-five children. And I know you’re full of nice words about bonding and loyalty and two parents necessary for the good of the species. But what am I supposed to think you were doing in the woods last night while those rats were being killed? If it wasn’t Les, the alternative is no better.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? You’re the original workaholic. One goal—your degree. So, the doctor threatens to leave? Easily fixed. Destroy his work.”

  Monica hurled the lettuce at her. It had hardly left her hand when Maggie reacted, bouncing high across the table in a gymnast’s straddle vault and catching Monica’s wrist on landing to twist her arm back in a painful hammerlock before releasing it. Monica stumbled away, rubbing her shoulder, struggling to regain control. Maggie too seemed shocked by the contact, silenced. There was a long taut moment. Then Monica said tightly, “I’ve got to go now. We can continue this discussion later.”

  “Fine!” Maggie favored her with a big insincere smile. “See you later, floozy!”

  It was too much. Monica screamed, “All right, bitch! You get in my car!’’

  “What?”

  “You’re coming with me! You know so damn much, you think. Well, I’m going to show you. It’s time you had a little education.”

  “Monica, what do you mean?”

  “Get in my goddamn car!’’

  “Okay, okay!” Looking at Monica warily, she followed her out and got into the car as bidden. Monica slammed herself behind the wheel and launched the car into the street, onto the highway. The traitor. The bitch.

  After a few furious miles Maggie asked, “Where are we going?”

  “To the nursing home.” Monica kept her voice under control.

  “God, that’s miles away!”

  “Educations don’t come easy, lady.”

  “Okay.” After a moment, tentatively, Maggie handed her the forgotten sandwich. Trust Maggie to remember food. Monica looked at it suspiciously, then took it. It was like agreeing to a truce.

  For miles they said nothing to each other. As her anger dissipated, Monica began to regret her wild impulse to bring Maggie. Was there any hope of making her understand? Someone who could make such cruel accusations? And even if she could understand, would anything be gained?

  A friend, she answered herself. A friend, maybe, would be gained. She was surprised at the depth of her sudden need. Or maybe not sudden, maybe just ignored until this moment. Except for her sister, the people she had thought were her friends before she came here had all drifted away. She had been alone now so long, sharing her work with her colleagues but her deeper feelings with no one except once or twice, to her own surprise, with Maggie. And now she found that that was the reason she had asked Maggie to come. She wanted the elusive comradeship that had bloomed occasionally between them, that had led to those first tentative confidences. It had been the beginning of something that Monica realized now she needed very much.

  Did Maggie need it? Or even want it?

  “Maggie, why are you coming?” she asked.

  “Because you forced me.”

  “Yeah, sure. I saw how much that lettuce scared you. Why are you coming?”

  “Curiosity. Why are you taking me?”

  The discovery of her need was still raw. She forced herself to say it. “I need a friend.”

  “Jesus, Monica!” Maggie looked away, stared out the window at the woods and fields. “I can’t promise anything. Not now.”

  “Okay. But why are you coming?”

  A long silence. Finally Maggie said, “Okay. I thought once we could be friends too. God, Monica, I swallowed that stuff you fed me about being human and loyal and so forth. I actually started to think it might be possible after all.”

  So that was it. She was feeling betrayed too. Monica said, “You won’t have to swallow any more. You’ll see for yourself.”

  “Fair enough.” Noncommittal, but underlain with what might have been hope.

  Monica took heart, a little. “I, um, didn’t really mean any of that stuff about the car.’’

  But Maggie bristled again. “Why the hell not? Look, Monica, from my vantage point it really could be you. Okay? And from yours it probably could be me. So let’s not pretend anymore. We owe each other honesty, at least.”

  “Okay. An honest request, then. Whatever you think after today, please don’t tell Anita.”

  “I won’t tell Anita. Not unless it’s connected to the rat slaughter and Norman, and has to come out.”

  “Okay, then.” Monica was relieved. She knew somehow she could trust her on that point.

  Mrs. Audley was delighted to see them. “How nice that you’ve brought a friend, Monica! They’ll be glad to see a new face. It’s so good of you to come, Miss Ryan.”

  “It’s good to be here.”

  “They’re out in the courtyard again today.”

  “Good,” said Monica. She led Maggie past the rosebushes, which were struggling now to produce a few buds, and along the walk to Pauline and her four charges. Mary was asleep. “Brain tumor,” murmured Monica to Maggie. “One of these days she won’t wake up.”

  As they approached, Bibbsy asked eagerly, “Did you bring a thing, you know, in the story of the second man, you follow?”

  “No, Bibbsy, I didn’t bring anything today. Maybe next week.”

  Jock’s sad eyes had brightened a little at their approach. Monica introduced them, and then added, “And this is Ted.”

  �
�Hello, Ted.” Maggie held out her hand. Ted twitched, held out his left hand, turned his head sideways until he could see his right hand, picked it up with his left uncertainly. Maggie, uncertain too, reached over and took his right hand in hers. He was pleased.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Ted, this is my friend Maggie.”

  “Maggie. Hello.”

  “Hello, Ted.”

  “She’ll help me give him his math lesson today,” Monica explained to Pauline.

  “Okay. He’s been reading that book, you know. Everyday.”

  “That’s great, Ted!”

  “Math book,” said Ted. He groped around in the wheelchair, found the book. Holding it, he looked up at Monica, puzzled. He had forgotten again.

  “Time for your math lesson,” Monica reminded him. “Stand up, Ted.” He did. “Would you take his right arm, Maggie? We’re going into that building over there. Come on, Ted.”

  By the time they had settled him on the sofa, he had forgotten that Maggie was there on his right. When she pulled up a chair to sit by them, moving into his left visual field again, he looked at her in surprise. “Oh. Hello.”

  “Hello, Ted,” said Maggie, her eyes questioning Monica.

  “He has right visual neglect,” Monica explained. “He sees, but nothing on his right registers. It’s bodily too. For him, it’s as though the right side of his body doesn’t exist.”

  “But he walks well,” said Maggie.

  “I forget,” said Ted apologetically. “My hand, I forget my hand. My something too. Not hand. Not arm.”

  “Leg?” suggested Monica.

  “Leg. I forget my leg. Then I look for it.”

  “I see,” said Maggie, taken aback.

  Monica said, “Ted, Maggie is a mathematician.”

  “A mathematician.” He swiveled his head to center Maggie in his view and said earnestly, “I was, something. Something.” He struggled a moment. “Chemist! I was a chemist.”

  “That’s right,” said Monica. “Before Viet Nam, Ted was a chemist.”

  “Then, something, in my brain. Something. Injury. Brain injury.”

  “A trigger-happy new recruit,” said Monica.