The Suicide Effect

by L. J. Sellers

  The red brick building on 5th Avenue had always looked more like a huge public library than a jail. Today Sula noticed its lack of windows for the first time. The cop car drove up to an annex next to the main building and waited. Twin steel doors opened and Officer Whitstone drove in. She parked the car in front of a small steel door to the left. Another set of wide steel doors was set into the opposite wall. It was a drive through, only no one ran up to change the oil or rotate the tires.

  Whitstone got out, removed her weapon, and locked it in the trunk of the squad car. She opened the car door for Sula and helped her out. Her hands were cuffed and she was glad for the assistance. In the next room, three desks with computers and chairs were the only items in the small, windowless space. Whitstone sat down at one station and motioned for Sula to sit as well. For a few minutes the cop said nothing as she filled out paperwork and entered information into the computer.

  She abruptly asked, “Do you feel ill or do have any medical conditions, such as diabetes, that we should know about?”

  Sula wondered if she should mention the occasional post traumatic stress, but said, “No.”

  “Do you feel like you might want to commit suicide?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to become sick from withdrawals during the next twenty-four hours?”

  “No.” She was glad to know they asked such questions. Many of the people arrested on a daily basis were homeless, addicted, and/or mentally ill.

  Whitstone picked up the phone and called for a female deputy. Moments later, a slender middle-aged woman with a buzz cut and a pretty face entered the small room. Whitstone handed the deputy a plastic bag containing Sula’s purse, then uncuffed Sula and turned to face her. “Good luck,” she said softly, then moved toward the exterior door.

  As the jail deputy escorted Sula out of the room, she felt like a piece of property that had just been transferred to a new and unknown owner. The steel door slammed behind her. Sula shuddered. She was a prisoner.

  They moved down a short hall into a similar-sized room and sat on opposite sides of a desk. The deputy asked her the same set of questions Whitstone had: “Are you going to try to commit suicide? Are you sick? Will you experience withdrawals?”

  Then the woman, whose name tag said Deputy Crouse, asked her to remove her shoes, her belt, and her sweater. Those were added to the plastic bag. Then Crouse read a list of the items, starting with her purse, followed by all of its contents, including the seven dollars and fifty-six cents in her wallet. Sula signed the document, in essence agreeing with the inventory of her possessions.

  Deputy Crouse pulled a blanket from a shelf and handed it to her. They went back into the hall, down another twenty feet, then entered yet another windowless room. This area was larger, about forty-by-forty, and housed a dozen unhappy women, most in their twenties and thirties, plus a few older street hags. Scattered around the perimeter of the room on wooden benches, some sitting, others reclining, the women formed a colorful and tragic collection of human lives gone inexplicably wrong. As they looked up at Sula in her black skirt and pink silk blouse, it was clear they had no empathy. She did not belong here.

  “There’s a pay phone over there,” Crouse said pointing as if she were showing a home for sale. “You can make collect calls only. There’s a toilet and sink behind that short wall. You might as well get comfortable. You’ll be here until you’re arraigned at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. If you were a guy, you’d probably be released before midnight because of overcrowding. But unless a whole sorority house gets arrested this evening for drunk and disorderly, you’re in for an overnighter.”

  Sula wanted to ask, Where do I sleep? But it was clear this room was her reality for a while. She looked at her watch: 3:10 p.m. Seventeen hours and twenty minutes to go.

  She looked around the room and spotted a place along the wall near the phone. Hugging her blanket like a timid child, she walked across the cold concrete and sat on the bench.

  “Welcome to the fishbowl,” said a skinny young woman. She had the abused hair and skin of a meth addict.

  “Thanks.”

  Sula closed her eyes as if that would make it all go away. She meditated for about ten minutes, then heard her named called out. She looked up to see the deputy waving her over to the door. A flash of hope surged through her. Maybe she was being released. As she got near, Crouse said, “Time for prints and pictures.” Sula’s hope plummeted.

  She followed the deputy into yet another room, where another deputy took her fingerprints, entering her forever into the system of suspects. It wasn’t until she stood next to the wall for a mug shot that she felt like a criminal. In that moment, she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs.

  Sula thought about her father, who’d been arrested so many times. He had treated the arrests like notches in his belt. To him, people who never landed in jail were “slaves to the system.” Mindless sheep with no passion. As a child, she had resented his incarcerations and the stigma attached to them. Now, his rebellion gave her a sense of strength.

  It was worth it, she told herself. She had the disk with Warner’s discovery. The FDA would see it and stop Nexapra’s clinical trials. Lives would be saved. She could only hope hers would not be lost in the process.

  Chapter 16

  Rudker watched from his third-floor office as the cop escorted Sula across the parking lot to the blue Impala. He was disappointed she was not cuffed. An image of Sula naked and cuffed to a bedpost slid into his thoughts. She was not really his type, with her long silky black hair and cinnamon skin, but her face was striking. She had a decent body too, long and lean but not enough cleavage. Still, she aroused him. Or was it just her humiliation that made him hard?

  He would have liked to pursue the fantasy but he had some search-and-destroy missions to carry out. He strode into his outer office and spoke to his secretary. “I’ll be out for the afternoon. If anyone calls, tell them I’ll get back to them on Monday.”

  “You have an appointment at four with Allen Sebring from Anderson and Shire Consulting.”

  “Cancel it.”

  “You’ve already canceled him once.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  Rudker kept moving. He was not prepared to deal with the accountant yet. Before he reached the elevator, Marcy Jacobson came running up behind him.

  “We need to discuss a few things about closing out Diane Warner’s employment.”

  “Like what?” Rudker slowed and turned to face her. Marcy looked pained and the expression irritated him.

  “What happens to the money in her pension fund? Who gets her office? Believe it or not, people have already asked.”

  “All of that can wait until we discuss it Monday. Meanwhile, I don’t want anyone in her office.”

  Rudker boarded the elevator and quickly closed the doors. Why did people bother him with all this trivial stuff? Couldn’t they make decisions on their own? In a moment, Rudker chuckled. They didn’t make decisions because they were afraid to. Because he was famous for saying, Why wasn’t I consulted? He knew he was difficult to work for at times, but he paid people well and his job wasn’t any easier.

  He crossed the courtyard and entered the R&D building. He briefly considered rounding up Steve Peterson to help him with the task of sorting though Warner’s files. Steve would be better able to recognize what was relevant to Warner’s DNA research. He rejected the idea. He didn’t want to stimulate interest in Warner’s work by seeming determined to cast it aside. Scientists were inherently curious, stubborn to a fault, and contrary by nature. Rudker had almost gone that route himself. He’d earned his B.S. in biology but had gone on to earn a master’s in business because laboratories bored him. The degrees had suited him well in the pharma industry.

  Rudker stuck his key in the lock only to discover that the door was unlocked. It only confirmed his belief that Sula had been in the office. He’d told the cops he’d seen her coming out, but he hadn’t. She’d been
standing near the entrance. He pushed in and locked the door behind him.

  Warner’s filing cabinets were unlocked too. He knew she had not left them that way. Proprietary behavior was also in the blood of researchers. Rudker spent twenty minutes skimming through folders, looking for references to the Puerto Rico patients. The search was so tedious. He wondered how long Sula had been in the office. How far had she gotten?

  In the third cabinet, he found three folders of notes about the Phase I testing in healthy patients. He put them all through the shredder, nearly filling the wastebasket. He moved quickly through the remaining files, growing impatient with the chore. Next, he searched her desk, finding an odd assortment of felt-tip pens, a collection of half-eaten protein bars, and a prescription bottle of nambumetone, an anti-inflammatory often used by people with arthritis.

  In a moment, he located a clear plastic case with about ten CDs. A quick search turned up the key for it. Rudker decided to simply take the entire collection. The woman was dead, and her research belonged to the company.

  The only other item of interest was a calendar sporting pictures of half-naked firemen. It was dated 2007. Obviously, Warner had kept it for the photos. It was interesting what you learned about people after they were dead.

  With the CD case tucked under his arm, Rudker left Warner’s office and locked it behind him. He would have Peterson and Marcy sort through everything else. Company property would be boxed and saved, personal property would be boxed and sent to Warner’s heirs. If she had any.

  Rudker wanted to feel relieved, but it was too soon. Sula had papers in her hand when he saw her yesterday. He believed those papers had come from Warner’s office and he intended to get them back. Why would she risk her job looking for Warner’s notes unless she planned to do something with them? What if Sula already had? Rudker refused to believe it. The idiot had come into work this morning as usual. He suspected that whatever she’d taken from Warner’s office was in her home.

  He intended to take it back while she spent the night in jail. He’d used his acquaintance with the police chief to pressure them into keeping her overnight. Rudker had looked Sula up in the human resource files and knew she lived alone on the corner of Friendly and 26th. He’d cruised by her place the night before, and it seemed unlikely that the small 1950s home had a high-tech alarm system installed. Sula was a twenty-five year old single woman, making $28,000 a year. She couldn’t afford anything of value, including an alarm system. Getting in would be a piece of cake. He just had to wait until the neighborhood was sleeping.

  Robbie sat at Jason’s computer and tried to write something funny. He’d gone down to the comedy club the night before, but only as a spectator. It bothered him to be there and not perform, but he hadn’t written any new material in a while, and he couldn’t keep doing the same old bit.

  He had three main subjects he could joke about: depression, working at a drug factory, and not getting along with his father. The woman who ran the club said all humor came from pain and Robbie suspected she was right. The clinical trial also seemed like a good source of material. He tried to come up with a before-and-after joke. Before I started on this drug, I was seriously depressed. Now I’m like the energizer bunny, only not so…

  His roommate burst into their two-bedroom apartment and shouted, “Party!” just as Robbie took his Hot Pockets out of the microwave. He nearly dropped the plate.

  “Shit, Jason. You need an early warning device.” Robbie transferred his food to their garage-sale dining table as Jason danced around the living room in a bizarre show of happiness.

  “Guess where?”

  “Tell me.” Robbie pushed aside a pile of newspaper and sat down.

  “Jennifer Krazanski’s.”

  “Hot blond from history class?” Jason was a student at the UO.

  “Yep. She invited me personally.” Jason was a good-looking guy who didn’t lack for first dates, but his puppy dog energy turned serious girls off.

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “For us.” Jason rushed over and punched Robbie on the arm. “You’re going.” His roommate grabbed one of the Hot Pockets and bit into it, then let out a garbled yell and spit the mouthful on the table.

  “Hot?” Robbie tried not to smile.

  “How long did you nuke that for?”

  “Couple of minutes.” Robbie looked away. “I don’t think I’ll go.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve been moping around here for days. You’ve got to get out.”

  Robbie didn’t say anything. He had been off his old medication for two days, and now this was his second day on the new stuff. So he was in a low spot. It was too early to tell what would happen with the new drug, but it had been a rough week. He’d missed work yesterday for the first time in months. Even though he felt better today he didn’t think he had the energy to party.

  “Chug some Mountain Dew if you have to. You’re going.”

  In the long run it was easier to go along than to resist Jason. Around 9:30, they climbed into his roommate’s old Toyota and headed for west Eugene. They picked up a six-pack of Miller on the way, and Robbie agreed to drive home. He never drank much. One beer loosened him up, and two beers made him contemplate the pointlessness of most people’s lives, especially his.

  Located at Jefferson and 26th, the two-story glass-and-brick home jutted above all its neighbors. They found a parking spot across the street, two houses down.

  Robbie could hear the music as soon as he stepped out of the car. He recognized Macy Grey’s voice, whom he liked pretty well. As long as they didn’t play rap all night. He could only take about twenty minutes of the bass beat before he started thinking he would rather be deaf.

  Only about fifteen people were in the house, but they all seemed to be talking about The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, a movie showing at the Bijou. Robbie hadn’t seen it. He sipped his beer slowly and wondered why he could never seem to connect to people the way others did.

  He tried. He discovered that telling people he worked for Prolabs usually sparked a conversation. The subject of drugs was always popular with young people, and the company was in the news because of its controversial expansion plans. After listening to a girl rant about greedy pharma companies, he had to get away.

  “Excuse me, I need some air,” he said abruptly and walked toward the sliding glass door. Once outside, the sudden burst of cool air gave him a rush. Robbie stood at the edge of the balcony overlooking a split-level back yard where two guys tossed a frisbee in the dark. A couple in the corner didn’t stop kissing to notice his presence. Their intimacy shot a cold ache through him. He’d only slept with one girl in his life and that had been more than a year ago. He was tired of being alone. He was tired of the episodes of hopelessness.

  Robbie looked out at the space below and wondered what it would be like to jump. To feel the ground rushing up at him in one glorious flight, knowing that when he hit, it would be over. He envisioned it for a moment, feeling its pull, then stepped back. This balcony wasn’t nearly high enough. Unless he landed on a sprinkler, he might not even get seriously hurt. He made a mental note to use that thought for comedy material.

  He turned to go inside. The lights of a big vehicle cruised by on the side street. He watched it pass and realized it was a black Jeep Commander. Was that his dad? It sure looked like him. What the hell was the old man doing cruising 29th Avenue at midnight?

  Rudker parked two blocks from the corner and shut off the engine. He regretted bringing the Commander, which stood out from the smaller cars. Yet the neighborhood was so dark and quiet, he saw no reason to abandon his plan now. He’d passed a party a few blocks back and from here he could see the glow of one TV across the street, but other than that, there were few signs of life. He pulled his wallet out of his jeans and slid it under the seat. Now all he had in his pockets were a small bright flashlight and an expired credit card with his ex-wife’s name on it. From the jockey box, he extracted a pair of thin leather driving glov
es and pulled them on.

  Rudker eased out of the vehicle and gently closed the door. He suspected he hadn’t used enough force to latch it properly, but he was more concerned with drawing someone’s attention with the crunch of a car door than with someone stealing the Commander.

  He moved down the sidewalk, his black jogging shoes making almost no sound. Rudker had also worn black jeans and a dark brown sweater Tara had bought him for Christmas two years ago but he had never worn until now. She thought he was having drinks with a JB sales rep.

  He approached the side of the fenced yard and slowed. It was fortuitous that Sula lived on a corner lot, making it that much more accessible. With one easy motion, he reached over the gate, lifted the closing mechanism on the inside, and pushed though. A dog in the backyard of a nearby house let out two loud barks. The noise was jarring, but Rudker had taken a beta blocker earlier for that very reason—to keep his nerves calm during this excursion no matter what happened. Rudker moved briskly toward the attached garage where moonlight bounced off the glass of a side door. He would try it first.

  It wasn’t even locked. Even if it had been, a fourteen-dollar dead bolt from Home Depot was no match for someone with a credit card and a light touch. Rudker had been prepared to climb in a back window if necessary, but he was relieved that he didn’t have to. He pointed his pen light at the floor, clicked it on, and made his way across the surprisingly spare garage. A large metal object caught his eye. It appeared to be some kind of sculpture representing a human form. He would have liked to see it in better light. Abruptly, he turned away and stepped toward the door leading into the house. It was locked.