by Alan Weisz
“Great!” Hayley said excitedly. “I’ll text you sometime next week and we can plan a time that works.”
“Sounds good to me,” I replied, trying to match her level of enthusiasm, which was an impossible feat.
“Yay! Okay, I am off to finish my French homework before I leave for home. Have an excellent Easter, Wayne!”
“I will, you do the same,” I said, as Hayley slipped by me, heading pass the cat piss couch and down the corridor.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I exhaled deeply wondering what I had gotten myself into. I was having coffee with the dreaded ex who I secretly, kinda sorta still had feelings for. Not the best idea.
I had plenty of time to worry about my coffee date with Hayley later, for now I needed to focus on how to collect evidence linking Quinn to her unjust grade distribution. With a four day Easter weekend looming, this was the ideal opportunity to do a bit of snooping.
Chapter Seventeen
One of the key differences about attending a private Catholic school such as the University of St. Elizabeth is that students don’t get off all of the traditional holidays or in-service days that normal undergraduates at public universities do. For instance, we didn’t get Labor Day, Martin Luther King’s Day, Veteran’s Day or President’s Day off like Portland State University. On the other hand, due to St. Elizabeth’s conscious effort to emphasize the significance of religious holidays, campus officials made sure the university’s Easter services were treated with great importance.
St. Elizabeth’s Easter festivities began on Holy Thursday, also known as Maundy Thursday, the day of the Last Supper. Usually there is at least one service on this day, but for the most part, only hardcore Catholics and Holy Cross members ever attended the Holy Thursday services. The turnout for Good Friday is much better, usually I go to that service since commemorating the death of Jesus is a rather big deal for Catholics. Of course, the turnout on Sunday is massive. Neighboring families near the campus join the students and staff to celebrate Christ’s resurrection, and unlike most Sundays, every seat in the house is filled.
Some students stayed on campus during the four-day holiday, but the majority ventured home to celebrate Easter with family. I was one of the few opting to enjoy my extended break in Portland, despite my parents’ protests. I fibbed that my assignments were numerous and getting more difficult with each passing week, which is why I needed to spend my mini vacation being studious. My father agreed that I needed to “buckle down,” a favorite term of his, and finish out my collegiate experience on a high note. Besides, I would be graduating in a few short weeks, so my parents would see me then. With this very tiny window of opportunity, I needed to seize the day and see if I could find any dirt on sociology sophisticate, Cheryl Quinn.
Many students, such as Hayley, departed on Wednesday once the day’s classes had concluded, and by Thursday, every student intending to leave for the holiday had done just that, allowing me the best possible chance to sneak into Quinn’s office unnoticed.
I suppose I was feeling overconfident thanks to my two successful malicious feats, which is why I elected to sneak into Quinn’s office in broad daylight. Not a sole was present as I strolled from my nearby house to the Buckley Center. I imagine most students staying on campus were either in the dorms or in the library, meaning I only had to worry about running into other professors or the janitorial staff.
I quickly jettisoned up the stairs to the second floor. I looked down the long hallway to see if my plans would be foiled by a workaholic professor, but the coast seemed cleared. I had scheduled this visit during the Holy Thursday Mass to ensure no inopportune runs-ins with Father O’Connor or another Holy Cross member. As I made my way towards Quinn’s office, I didn’t see any other professors from the Arts and Sciences Department in their offices stiffing through papers. So far, so good. The plan was proceeding without any snafus.
My luck had brought me this far, but to break into Quinn’s office Jason Bourne moves were likely necessary. To guarantee yet another bout of successful criminal activity, I looked up YouTube videos detailing how to pick a door lock. Practicing on the doors in my room was easy since like most of the house, the door locks were crumbling with age. I hoped Quinn’s office door would be so simple and that without a step-by-step instructional video by my side, my limited practice as a vandal would be enough to get me into the cougar’s den.
My tools included a screwdriver, a tension wrench and an old Swiss Army knife, but before I began my first attempt at breaking and entering, I placed my hand on the doorknob, praying a swift twist of the wrist would do the job.
Thankfully, Professor Quinn was of the belief that St. Elizabeth students were good, wholesome students, incapable of committing a feat as reprehensible as breaking and entering because her office door opened with a meager push. It appeared my Jason Bourne skills would have to be used another day.
I wasn’t one to visit professors if I could prevent an encounter; however, of the few offices I had visited, Quinn’s turned out to be better organized than most. There was a cedar cabinet filled to capacity with books of various genres including sociology, psychology and a few popular novels relating to economic issues. On the other side of the room sat her beautiful mahogany desk covered with notebooks, folders and class textbooks. In one corner of the desk, neatly organized supplies such as pencils, notepads and other office essentials were aligned in an orderly fashion, and to the left of those supplies stood a four-foot tall file cabinet.
The room was void of a desktop, leading me to conclude that her laptop was presently in her possession, but since I had yet to become a computer hacker the lack of a desktop was of no bother to me.
Slipping on Arthur’s biking gloves once again, I began the delicate procedure of weeding through the various files in Quinn’s cabinet, in search of past grading workbooks or similar documents that might prove her discriminatory nature.
The first drawers I rummaged through contained old syllabi, instructional sheets on projects, and an array of assorted classroom papers, but as I continued searching throughout the file cabinet towards the back of the final drawer, I came across two tattered grade books.
Cautiously removing the slim leather-bound grade books, I set them on the carpet and began to peruse through the material. Like an Excel spreadsheet, the information was in an easy-to-read format. A student’s name was placed in a small box on the far left side of the page and diverse assignments and test scores filled the rest of the sheet, leaving the student’s overall class grade in a small box at the far right.
At first, the grade distribution showed a slight favoritism, but nothing too substantial. However, as I continued to examine the two grade books, it became evident that the Cathys, Marias and Sues received the A’s and B’s, while the Davids, Toms and Joes were left with C’s and D’s. Occasionally, a bi-gender name such as Taylor or Devin would throw a wrench in the results, leaving me to speculate about the student’s sex, but for the most part, the results were rather straightforward. For whatever reason, this sociology professor seemed to hold a grudge against men.
This information aligned with my preconceived notion that Quinn was a sexist bitch, but at the same time, the evidence wasn’t overwhelming. Maybe her dad slapped her around as a child or her previous husband had upgraded to a younger, more voluptuous trophy wife. Whatever the reason, she certainly hated men, but was that cause to kill her? Her prejudiced actions were certainly lowering male students’ GPAs, but the female population at St. Elizabeth worshipped the ground she walked on. Was it necessary for me to even the playing field, or would I be overstepping my boundaries if I opted to take matters into my own hands?
I wasn’t sure, but with the precious minutes I had left, I slipped her old grade books back in the file cabinet and began sifting through her desk drawers. Perhaps she had scandalous letters stashed away after a brief affair with a colleague. Maybe she was secretly a lesbian who traded grades for sexual favors. If I was to go through w
ith this ordeal then I had to find something more substantial than just an unfair grading policy.
I shuffled through a university policy handbook and teacher textbooks until I found a single purple folder hidden beneath the rubble. Trying my best not to bend or damage the folder, I gently eased it out of the drawer.
After quickly skimming the document, I knew I had hit the jackpot. Well, not the jackpot but this was at least worth additional investigation. If Cheryl Quinn had filed a restraining order on some poor sap, then the matter merited further scrutiny. Writing down the guy’s name on the inside of my forearm with one of Quinn’s pens, I careful placed the purple folder back under the school handbooks and made sure the room looked exactly as it had before my arrival.
Once I was one hundred and ten percent sure everything was in its original spot, I softly slipped out of Quinn’s office, darting into the hallway and quickly down the stairs.
Chapter Eighteen
The name scribbled on my arm was of a former St. Elizabeth engineering student named Gordon Rogers. Googling his name didn’t lead me to much, but when I entered his name into Facebook, thanks to the mutual friends we shared (mostly professors and Holy Cross members), I was able to locate his homepage.
Fortunately for me, Rogers hadn’t adjusted his privacy settings, which allowed anyone to view his posts, friends and any dirty laundry that might be present. After reading a couple of uninteresting posts, I clicked on his information tab. Rogers had his St. Elizabeth email address, a personal email address and a number that I guessed was his cell. It was a start.
Although I was confident about my recent success, I was still paranoid about being discovered, and since I was a movie junkie, I knew the police were capable of unearthing a perp’s phone records. Thus the reason, I ended up calling Rogers from Anna Banana, a popular local coffee joint near campus. I was probably being too cautious, but if anything did develop with Quinn or Rogers, I had to look out for number one.
A Mexican mocha in one hand and a cordless phone in the other, I made the call to Rogers.
“Hello?”
“Hi, can I speak with Gordon Rogers?” I asked.
“This is Gordon.”
“Hi, Gordon, I’m with the University of St. Elizabeth paper, The Gazette. I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time.”
Like those creepy Scream movies, I heard breathing on the other line but Rogers remained quiet. The prolonged silence forced me to speak. “Mr. Rogers, are you there?”
“What do you wanna know?”
I figured tiptoeing around the issue would be a waste of time and I’d eventually have to explain the reason behind the call.
“I want to talk to you about Professor Quinn,” I began. “I know the topic may be sensitive, but I promise I will disclose the information only as you see fit. I suppose I’m really trying to discern who the real Cheryl Quinn is, and I believe you may know that better than anyone.”
“Do you know where the IHOP is on Greeley?” Rogers asked, after another lengthy pause.
“Yes.”
“Meet me there at midnight if you want any information,” and with that, he hung up.
†
What a way to spend a Saturday night, going to IHOP to meet Quinn’s former boy toy when I could be out having a grand old time at a house party. I could be drinking beer, dancing with hot freshmen, and having stimulating discussions. Oh, who was I kidding? I was never one for outrageous parties. On occasion, I would go to one to give off the impression that I didn’t have a social stigma, but it was never my scene. I was more of a let’s cuddle on the couch while we watch Hugh Grant’s latest com-rom kind of guy, but the lack of a girlfriend and my abrupt desire to start killing off my classmates put a serious damper on those plans.
Despite the fact that I would have to drag my butt out of bed earlier than usual and put on my Sunday best for the Easter service, staying out later than usual to meet Rogers was worth it. If Quinn had filed a restraining order against him, I bet she likely had a good reason for doing so. Maybe Quinn and Rogers had had an unknown baby from their secret love affair and decided to give the baby up for adoption. Maybe Quinn had hired Rogers to kill one of her ex-husbands, but when he chickened out she got him expelled. Oh, the crazy possibilities were endless.
The Greeley IHOP was only a couple of minutes from the university, which made this midnight adventure a tad more convenient. Personally, I didn’t understand the whole idea of having pancakes for dinner. I was more of a traditionalist when it came to dining. I was not about to fill up on pancakes at midnight, nor was I going to consume steak and potatoes in the early morning, and I certainly will never be able to comprehend how anyone could eat cold pizza for breakfast. Merely the thought of putting cold cheese in my mouth first thing in the morning makes me want to blow chunks.
The IHOP was pretty desolate when I arrived a couple minutes after twelve. A few derelicts were enjoying their bacon and eggs, and a small number of Portland hipsters were sharing a rather massive stack of pancakes. A young man sipping on what I believed to be coffee was alone in a corner booth, and unless Rogers had yet to arrive, I guessed this was my guy.
“Gordon Rogers?” I asked, approaching the lone man.
“That’s me. You must be the guy from The Gazette,” he replied.
“Wayne York,” I said, extending my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Refusing to stand, Rogers shook my hand then gestured for me to sit down. Looking at Rogers, my presumption that he and Quinn had bumped uglies a time or two didn’t seem too farfetched. If it wasn’t for his cleft chin and a visible mole on the tip of his nose, I would have thought I was talking to a scruffy Jake Gyllenhaal. His bloodshot eyes gave off the impression he was up past his usual bedtime or he was a user. Judging from the cup of coffee and his slouched shoulders, I was betting it was the former.
“I already ordered, but the waitress should be back soon if you want anything,” Rogers said.
“Thanks, I’m good,” I said. “I’m not too big on breakfast for dinner.”
“Weird, most people are,” he said, matter-of-factly. I didn’t take offense to the remark because he clearly didn’t mean anything by it, but evidently I was in the minority when it came to ordering breakfast foods at irrational hours in the day.
“You a vegan or something?”
“Do I look like I’m malnourished?” I asked.
“Yeah, kinda,” Rogers said straight-faced.
“Thanks for the concern,” I said dryly. “Just because I don’t like eating pancakes at midnight doesn’t mean I’m a vegan.”
“This is Portland, the city full of granolas and hippies. I was curious, that’s all,” Rogers answered.
The waitress arrived carrying his pancakes, allowing for a break in our less than stirring initial conversation. She asked if I needed anything, but I told her I was fine with water.
“So what can you tell me about Quinn?” I asked, watching as Rogers removed his silverware from the napkin cocoon.
“Since I’m about to eat my pancakes here, why don’t you tell me your motivation behind writing this article?” Rogers said, now drenching his pancakes in maple syrup.
“I’m merely trying to find out a little more about Professor Quinn,” I said.
“I figured that. I wanna know what you know about Quinn and how you came up with my name.”
Given my recent span of dastardly behavior, I thought about coming up with a fabricated story about why I was “writing this piece” but I didn’t see the harm in telling him the truth. I doubted he and Quinn were on speaking terms considering that Quinn had filed a restraining order against this short-stack lover, and really, what was the worst thing that could happen?
No one would slap the cuffs on me and send me to the big house for snooping on a seemingly sexist professor. Sister Robinson might reprimand me for researching a potential story without her knowledge if she happened to find out, but the old nun loved me and the ability to forgive
was essentially written in her DNA. Truth be told, there was no reason why I shouldn’t tell Rogers about my discovery of the grade books, which is why I laid it all out for the St. Elizabeth alum.
As Rogers began devouring his three blueberry pancakes, I told him about my discovery of Quinn’s grade books and the purple folder, somehow managing to forget how I came about conveniently locating such documents.
Once I concluded telling Rogers about the unfair grade distribution, he took a break from jamming maple-enhanced dough down his gullet. “Sounds like you’ve done some fine investigating. I was hoping you hadn’t found my name in her day planner and figured that I’d be willing to help plan her tenure anniversary party or something.” He chuckled in a self-satisfied way and added. “But I’m glad that’s not the case.”