Finals

by Alan Weisz

  It is true that no one can really know how often individuals get away with murder. Murders don’t blog about deceiving their victims or the police, but if they did, I’d certainly subscribe to their pages.

  As many college students find their calling during their four-year academic stint, I believed I had finally found mine. All along, I sensed I was different, yet I never ventured far from my parents’ or instructors’ path. I thought I was destined to live my life according to the Ten Commandants in an attempt to better society. Now I see, I wasn’t meant to improve the community by being a good Catholic, I was meant to rid the world of disingenuous trash, like Harvey and Brent. I was a garbage man, which to most is a horrid profession, but for the first time in my life I felt as though I was being true to myself. Not only that, but I was beginning to think that I was the best waste removal expert this side of the Mississippi.

  I guess like the majority of egocentric individuals, I was in need of praise for cleaning the filth from Portland’s streets. Saying I needed a high-five or small bronze medal for my feats sounds strange, even to a killer, but I so strangely craved it. I felt like a heavyweight champ, unable to show his monstrous belt in pride. But since I had selected this bilious path, showing off to my fellow classmates was not an option. With fist pounds and back pats out of the question, indulging in my favorite blended coffee drink was my only option.

  As the weeks turned into months, my ego was steadily growing just like the gross accumulation of Starbucks reward points. The reason for the increasing arrogance was due mostly to the lack of development in either case.

  Literally a week after his death, Harvey fell into obscurity. Many found him to be as big of a tool as I did, so few tears were shed for the little creep and those with moist eyes soon began to forget about him. Unlike Brent’s death, the Portland police didn’t lurk around the campus weeks after the incident questioning students and investigating leads. Not a soul considered any other cause of death aside from accidental overdose.

  The dreaded ex, the one who always second guessed conclusions and theories, even seemed to think the case was closed, or at least it appeared that way since she never mentioned Harvey at Gazette meetings. He was rotting in a casket far beneath the ground and yours truly was the only one clued in on why the dirt bag was now worm chow.

  Brent was a different story. My discussion with Dunn helped to ease my worry, but the lingering thought that new evidence could be discovered at any time remained. It only took one studious freshman spotting me vacating the library restroom to put me behind bars, but at this point, the probability of a student coming forward with new information didn’t seem realistic. Six months had passed since I gutted the swine, and nothing had transpired. As a member of the news team, I was in the loop if new details or leads surfaced, but similar to summer snow cones, Brent’s case was becoming mind numbingly cold. I had no clue if the police were looking for a drug addict still or if a new lead had developed. I was just happy the sirens weren’t shrieking near my neck of the woods.

  Thanks to a few little blue pills, Harvey was dead as a doornail, and it seemed that the police were coming nowhere near solving Brent’s murder. I had been the swift righteous hand of justice, striking these heathens down. I was untouchable, the truth was unobtainable, and the reckoning was incompressible.

  My brash swagger was causing this craving, this need for more, yet no one was volunteering for the position of becoming my next victim. At times, professors did mark papers unfairly and subtle insults were cast in my direction every now and again. Sure, I toyed with the idea of bashing a classmate in the face with a shovel or buying a crossbow so I could shoot Professor Nolan as he walked to and from his various classes, but there was never any serious consideration. These individuals didn’t deserve to die. They hadn’t raped women or ruined lives, at least not to the same degree as Brent or Harvey.

  Until one particularly peculiar day, as if by request, a little birdie whispered into my ears that a certain haughty professor was worthy of my attention.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Writing articles and critiquing the work of my dim-witted reporters were my main responsibilities as The Gazette’s assistant editor-in-chief but on occasion I was called on to assist in other areas as well. For instance, clubs or departments on campus would email us their ads to be placed in the upcoming issue of the paper. I had to proof these ads to make sure they were acceptable and in some circumstances, I had to collect the ads from the club president or department member myself. The latter chore was tedious at times. I loved nothing more than meeting a socially awkward engineer to discuss ad placement alternatives. By no means was I on course to win any Mr. Congeniality titles but getting an engineer to articulate an ad design was more painful than listening to Elizabeth Hasselbeck and company bicker about the day’s “Hot Topics” on The View.

  On this particular Tuesday, I was collecting an ad from Father O’Connor at his office, which wasn’t an awful assignment in the slightest. Easter weekend had arrived once again, and this year St. Elizabeth’s hardworking Catholic clergyman and women had to stay on campus to celebrate the sacrament of confirmation. Father O’Connor was an advocate of publicizing achievements and expressing support for all members of the Catholic Church, so he liked to address important Holy Cross issues like confirmation with Gazette ads.

  The easy part was collecting the ad from the priest’s office, but the challenge was pushing my way through the sea of overachievers, brownnosers and nimrods scattered throughout the hallway. Father O’Connor’s office was located on the second floor of the Buckley Center. The majority of the courses taught in the Buckley Center were social sciences and general studies, and on this particular floor, most of professors of the Arts and Sciences Department had an office.

  Technically, Father O’Connor was labeled as a professor of this department, although he rarely was assigned a teaching course. Sixteen years prior, he had taught entry-level philosophy courses, but now he was only asked to sub in for a semester or two if a professor decided to teach abroad or go on sabbatical. His time was better served assisting the university higher-ups rather than teaching. I’d often told the priest that he belonged in Kenna Hall with rest of the big wigs, not with people who got hard-ons talking about Camus and Kant.

  Similar to most, this day found hordes of students crowded in the hallway waiting outside assorted doors. I didn’t know many social science majors, nor was I too keen on the subject matter. One would think a sociopath might be interested to know what goes on inside the human mind, but honestly, I was more concerned with interest rates and rising stock prices than diving into the subconscious.

  Today was a different day and for once, I recognized a familiar face coming out of a professor’s office as I shuffled and sashayed my way down the corridor.

  “Hey Trev, what you up to bud?” I asked, as Trevor pushed his way around a few freshmen before responding with a solemn, “Hey.”

  “Meeting with a professor?” I asked, even though I knew the answer to the question and guessing from his slouched body language and grumpy mood his encounter had not gone very well.

  “Uhm…ya. I was kinda at a meeting,” he said glumly. “You here to talk to a professor?”

  “No, I met with Father O’Connor to collect the confirmation ad going in this week’s paper,” I informed him.

  “Cool,” Trevor said, his spirits seeming to lift once the word confirmation was mentioned. “I’m Gary Riggins sponsor, so I’ll be there for sure!”

  “Sweet,” I said, not really sure if being a sponsor was worthy of praise. This was confirmation, not A.A. Who really needed a sponsor?

  “I’m on my way to the newsroom to read opinion articles for the week, I can insert your ad in the paper if you want,” Trevor said, as we managed to dodge the countless backpacks and elbows as we finally escaped the social sciences wing.

  “No worries, I have a few other pieces to work on and I’d hate to burden you with another assignme
nt,” I answered. More like I’d hate to have you mess up the ad with punctuation and grammatical errors.

  After we walked down a flight of stairs and exited the Buckley Center on our way to St. Mary’s Hall, I asked about Trevor’s unpleasant appointment with his professor.

  “I was talking to Professor Quinn. It’s like I have no idea what she expects out of me. I go to her and I think I like have a clue on the projects and assignments and stuff, then I get my grade back and I’m like, ‘What the crap is this?’”

  “Is this entry level sociology or an upper division class?” I asked.

  “The class is Sociology 201, but I mean I thought it was gonna be easy and I needed to take another social science. I liked Sociology 101 with Dewar, so I figured I could handle 201, but it is way harder than I anticipated.”

  Professor Quinn and I had never formally met but her reputation preceded her. She was the Meryl Streep of the Arts and Sciences Department. Anyone going into social work was forced to take at least one of Quinn’s classes, and those like Trevor, in need of obtaining necessary social science credits, often had to deal with her.

  To St. Elizabeth’s female population, Quinn was a goddess. Girls loved her classes and many, especially sociology majors, aspired to be her. She helped women escape abusive husbands, and children from neglectful parents, all while earning her doctorate and courting affluent businessmen. She was wealthy and distinguished. Without question, Quinn was the perfect role model for any young college girl.

  The school’s male population did not hold Professor Quinn in such a high regard. According to rumors, she turned into a sexist bitch after several divorces. Father O’Connor joked that she probably had daddy issues as well because on occasion he mentioned cantankerous department discussions in which Quinn’s hostile attitude towards men was more than obvious.

  Now that I thought about the matter, I actually remember Scott telling me a similar story about his inability to earn high marks on Quinn’s assignments. At the time, I thought nothing of it since Scott was notorious for finishing his work at the eleventh hour. I assumed Quinn was able to see through Scott’s last minute bullshit and conclude his work was void of the research necessary to achieve a good grade. During the following semesters, Scott maintained his last minute approach and was able to earn decent grades. He was no honor student, but he kept a solid grade point average with A’s and B’s. I remember Scott bitching to me about receiving his first C in her class, but I reasoned that his procrastination was at last catching up with him.

  Maybe Quinn was the sole reason Trevor, Scott and other males at St. Elizabeth did poorly in her class. Maybe she was purposely giving females higher grades. Maybe I was simply grasping at straws.

  “Were you there to prep for a test or something?” I asked Trevor, trying to assess whether Quinn was being truly unfair or Trevor was failing because he treated his assignments as he did his job at the paper.

  “I was talking to her about a grade. I went in and talked to her about the assignment beforehand so I knew what to do. Then I get my grade back and I’m like, ‘What the frick is this?’ So talking with her today I was like, ‘I did what you told me and I still got a bad grade, what’s up with that?’ Then she goes off on how I didn’t accurately address the ideas in enough depth and that I missed some key points. I don’t know Wayne, I like just don’t get her, I feel like she’s out to get me or something.”

  “I feel you man, I wish I could give you some advice but I’ve never taken a class from Quinn. I don’t know her grading style.”

  What I will do for you Trevor, is do a little snooping of my own and see if Professor Quinn is in fact guilty of favoritism based on sexual orientation. I doubted I would find sufficient evidence to deem her worthy of my services, but that was merely a guess. After doing a little digging, I might render a different verdict.

  “That’s okay, thanks anyways, Wayne,” said Trevor, as he punched in the four digit code and pushed open the door to the newsroom. “Hopefully I can figure out what Quinn wants so I don’t bomb the final.”

  “Hey boys!” said, a lively Hayley, smiling at us from her desk at the far corner of the room. I assumed she was diligently finishing this week’s cover story about the school’s new recycling program.

  “Did I overhear you talking about Professor Quinn? I absolutely love her! I took Sociology 101 from her my freshman year and I found her to be very knowledgeable and I thought the class was rather entertaining as well. I wanted to take her upper division class last semester but the class time conflicted with one of my mandatory French classes, so sadly I was unable to take it. How are you enjoying the class so far? Professor Quinn is fantastic, is she not?”

  The brownnoser was a fan of Professor Quinn, what a surprise. No doubt, Quinn was fond of the animated blonde as well, since professors tended to fall in love with her as quickly as Lucy did with Beethoven enthusiast, Schroeder. I could envision them sipping tea and munching on scones while discussing political ideals and sharing tales about the countless number of men they had given blue balls to.

  “Yeah, she’s alright. It’s like I don’t really get what she expects at times, but ya I think she’s nice,” Trevor replied.

  “I have found that professors and course expectations are unique within the various departments. Correct me if I am wrong Wayne, but in the Pamplin School of Business, class work is expected to be concise and accurate,” After a moment when I didn’t correct her, Hayley continued. “Often times for the social sciences more is better if the material is relevant and pertains to the issue at hand. I have frequently written papers exceeding the maximum quota because I felt the information was essential to prove my case.”

  Hayley could have continued to provide Trevor with an insurmountable amount of advice on the subject; however, Trevor’s glazed over expression made it clear he had checked out of the conversation.

  “I would bulk up the evidence in your papers Trevor, then perhaps Professor Quinn may find your argument more reasonable,” Hayley said, giving Trevor one last suggestion.

  “Thanks Hayley,” Trevor said absent-mindedly, as he plopped next to a computer and began logging in. Clearly the recommendation had gone in one ear and out the other.

  I was about to sit down at my own workstation when I was intercepted by Miss Summers before I was able to reach my desk. “Can I have a quick word with you outside?” Hayley whispered, directing me out of the newsroom and into the smoker’s den.

  “Is this about letting Trevor pick an opinion piece again?” I asked, once the kid was out of earshot. “I told him like I do every week, he has to see you before the final piece is selected.”

  “Oh no, it has nothing to do with Trevor’s opinion selection. Did you get the Holy Cross confirmation ad this afternoon?”

  “I did, but I haven’t typed it up yet. If you’re interested in seeing the final product, I can email you a copy before I insert it into this week’s paper.”

  “Oh, that isn’t necessary. I believe you are quite capable,” Hayley said, giving me one of her infamous smiles.

  I hated moments such as this one. She was parading around in front of me in a light blue spring dress that made me yearn to get her back. It was grueling. Often times I dreamt about killing her, well not really killing her per se, but I hoped a beehive would fall on her head or that a tall basketball player with a backpack full of medical dictionaries would abruptly turn around smacking her right in the face. Yet, at moments such as this, as we stood staring into one another’s eyes, it felt as if we were the only two people on the planet. In these instances, I wished we could rekindle that once magical spark.

  “Okay, well is that all you wanted to discuss or did we leave the newsroom for a particular reason?” I asked, snapping out of my daydream.

  Hayley looked at her shoes for a brief second as if she was embarrassed by what was about to come out of her mouth.

  “Wayne, I’m going back to California tomorrow to see my family for Easter,”
she said, finally looking me in the eyes once again. “But when I return, I was thinking it might be fun to go to Starbucks together and grab some coffee if you are free.”

  “Why” and “sure” were the two words that immediately jumped into my head which is probably the reason, I said, “Why sure!” seconds later. On one hand, I did have suspicions regarding this sudden invitation. Why now was she asking me out for coffee, seemingly out of the blue? I mean the last time we went out for coffee together was when we were an item. Why now did she want to spend time with me? Why the sudden interest?

  Maybe she did just want to talk. I’d be graduating in less than a month, hence the urge to grab a latte with a departing colleague. Maybe she had information about Brent that she wished to share. Maybe she was going to spill the details of their relationship, or about the cocaine incident to give the matter clarity. Maybe she was finally going to fess up and apologize for her transgressions that led to our breakup. The words “I’m sorry” had never escaped her lips, so it seemed possible that she wanted to confess, since the overbearing weight of one’s sins usually gets to most Catholics. I suppose our relationship had been making strides over the last few weeks. You could almost say we were friends, though I’m not sure I would.