Failure is Fatal (3 page)

“Slow down a bit. Good heavens, you came out here in the cold without your coat. Freezing to death just to get me to read another crazy response among our results isn't necessary. Detective Pasquis and I were just on our way back.”

“You're just not gonna believe what I found. Boy, am I glad Karen went back to the room.” Paula paused and seemed prepared to shift gears yet again.

“Just what was so unusual that you thought you should run all over campus without your coat to try and find me?”

Der removed his overcoat and wrapped it around Paula's shoulders. She smiled her thanks at him.

“Well, it sure wasn't another story with pornographic details, that's for sure,” she said. “It was a story about Marie's murder.”

Chapter 3

Der and I hurried back to the lab.

I took out my key and opened the door Paula had locked. On the large worktable in the center of the room were the packets of materials the research team gave the subjects to read. I walked to the table reaching for what I saw was a story ending written by a subject.

Der stepped in front of me, preventing me from picking up the story. “Let's be cautious. Fingerprints, maybe,” Der said.

Der and I stood over the table and read what was written on the paper. Paula poked her head between the two of us. We read the macabre and inappropriate story ending:

She lay across the seat like a sleeping princess awaiting a prince's

kiss to waken her. At first glance it looked as if a ruby necklace

of some great length trailed down her dress and wound through

her fingers. Her tiny waist was cinched with a silk scarf of matching

color. It pooled gracefully in her lap. Closer inspection revealed

the necklace and scarf to be rivers of blood, hers, of course. Her recumbent

pose was that of a dead body, not one of a sleeping princess. Who

do you suppose did this ghastly deed and, most of all, why?

It was a horrifyingly accurate description of Marie Becca's murder.

The writing was bold and accomplished with a broad point felt-tipped pen. The story lead typed at the top of the sheet was the same as the one Karen showed Der before, the hypothetical case of the young man asked by his female professor to meet her in a bar. I pointed this out to Der.

“This story ending was written by a guy, right?”

“It sure looks that way. But it's totally inappropriate to the story lead of sexual harassment, really grisly.”

I was interrupted by Paula. “It was found with the test results we collected last Thursday, a day before Marie Becca was killed.”

“The murderer or someone who knows details about the murder found his way into your group of subjects,” Der said. His lips closed in a tight line. He turned to me and something else crossed his face, hope followed by anger. “It's not only a lead, but it's also a threat. To you, Laura.”

I saw what he meant. Why place the story into my research results? Despite the fact that the lab was warm and stuffy, I shivered at the violence of the act described in the story and its similarity to the murder scene. A look of fear appeared on Paula's face and made her once merry brown eyes shift from side to side as if expecting a phantom to materialize in the room.

“It's not just personal and in my face. It's much more than that. All research has to pass through the Human Subjects Committee. The Committee reviews the project with respect to its adherence to ethical principles, such as anonymity of subjects and potential physical and psychological harm to participants. The problem is that if the Committee finds out about this story ending,” I gestured toward the table, “they'll surely make us stop our work.”

“It's just crazy. Some guy participates in your research on Thursday, writing a description of the dead woman and then goes out and kills her on Friday?” Der said.

I sank into the chair in front of the table. “A young woman is dead, and this research is somehow involved. Why? How?”

“Yikes!” Paula said. “It just hit me. We may have been in the same room with the killer last Thursday.”

“Yes, you might have been. So your memory of what happened during that testing session is important. Who ran the testing session a week ago Thursday?” Der asked.

“Karen and I did. I don't remember anything out of the ordinary happening. But maybe Karen did, and it just slipped her mind, what with this past awful weekend and all.”

“Walk me through the entire procedure,” he said, gesturing toward the chairs. Paula sat beside me, and Der grabbed a chair, which he turned backwards and straddled.

Paula gathered her thoughts and began. “We place a sign-up sheet on the psychology bulletin board located in the main hallway on the first floor in this building. Students from Introductory Psychology sign up to participate in research. They're required to do that as part of what they learn in the course.”

Der interrupted her. “Kind of like human guinea pigs?” I could tell he was not impressed with this research angle on psychology.

“Important human guinea pigs. In the case of our research, we truly do want to find out what college students think about sexual harassment.” Paula sounded just like me, a bit defensive about this line of research.

“Sorry for the interruption. Go ahead,” Der said.

“Most of the work with subjects is done in the evenings when we can find an empty classroom in which to test the participating students. Last Thursday we used the large classroom next to the psychology main office.”

“Then what?” asked Der. “I mean, after the testing is over.”

“We bring the test packets back here and lay them on this table.” She swept her hand toward the table. “A week ago Thursday was the last session of the week, so those results were placed in a pile next to the results from two other sessions from earlier that week.”

Der turned toward the table.

“It looks as if you're pulling the testing packets apart. One part is clearly the story ending this subject wrote. But what's this other part, which appears to have been stapled to the front of it? The one turned face down on the table.” He seemed about ready to turn over the first sheet, when I jumped out of my chair and placed myself between him and the table.

“That's the consent form, which explains to the subjects what kind of research they will be participating in. Every participant signs a form. We detach the consent forms from the story endings subjects write to protect the identity of the subject. Otherwise we'd never get people to tell us what they're really thinking and feeling.”

“So there's no way after you've separated the consent form from the story ending to tell who wrote what ending?”

“That's right,” I said. I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

“Oh, but there is. We keep them in order in the two piles. Consent forms turned face down like the one here, and the corresponding story ending in this pile,” Paula said, gesturing toward the story. Karen started doing the forms this way, and we've all just followed her lead. I guess just in case something happens and we might need to pair a name and a response form. I don't really know why.” Paula's voice trailed off in doubt. “Not too smart, huh, Dr. Murphy?”

We all looked at the forms as they lay on the table. The description of the murder scene lay turned up on the right, and we now all knew that the name of the person writing it would be revealed if anyone turned over the consent form to its left.

“Don't touch it, Der,” I warned, still standing between him and the table. “We're assuming that the person who wrote that story is the murderer, but we don't know that for certain. Until you can come up with a connection that a judge will buy, I am obligated to protect the anonymity of my subjects.”

“Get a court order, right?” he said. “Geez, Murphy, you used to be so cooperative. Not like all those other intellectual fuddie duddies. What's going on here?”

“I'm ethically bound to protect the well-being of my subjects. Part of that is affording them the anonymity to answer research questions anyway they want without regard for social correctness or psychological normalcy, or any of a long list of things people would rather not have the world know about. If I can't do that, there's no point in my doing research, because it will only say what my subjects think I or someone else wants to hear.”

“You may be protecting a killer,” Der said. “How will you feel if that's the case?”

“It's not likely that the killer was stupid enough to sign his name to the consent form. Think about it, Der. Besides, there are any number of ways you can get the information you need without connecting names with responses. You know that. The names of those who participated in the study are public knowledge. I'd be more than happy to give you the list and you can interview them. It's more work than one name, yet it doesn't violate anyone's civil rights.”

He sighed and tapped his foot. “Okay. So you got the list of names for me?”

I nodded to Paula and she went to the file drawer and pulled out the names of the students who served as subjects for the testing time last Thursday.

“Make certain that the list you give Investigator Der is the sign-up sheet posted on the psychology bulletin board.” I turned to Der. “I can't be sure all of these students came to the testing, but these are the students who said they would show up.”

“Don't you have a list of those who did show? Give me that.” Der noted the expression on my face. “Aw, Murphy, you aren't saying that's protected under research ethics.”

“I can't be certain if it is or isn't. Besides, that list isn't generated until we separate the packets. So we wouldn't even have it yet. I'll have to talk with the college attorney about that. All I know is that those who participated probably have some privacy rights. I do know that the sign-up sheet is public. It's a beginning. I'll get back to you.”

“Aw, Murphy, you're making this so difficult”

“Think about it. You now have about twenty or so more leads to follow up on than you had when you came in here. Go get 'em.” I pushed him toward the door.

“Before I go, I'll also need the names of all of your research assistants and anyone else who may have had access to the research responses.”

I pulled my list of the assistants' names from another filing cabinet and handed it to him.

“Oh, by the way. Let's keep all of this to ourselves, what was found, how, and the details of the murder description,” he said to Paula and me.

“I guess I was wrong about this murder,” he said. He shrugged into his overcoat.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“I thought it was a crime of passion, but, if the murder wrote out the description prior to the night she was killed, then—”

“Then,” I finished his sentence for him, “it was planned in advance, or someone had access to this lab after the murder and slipped that description into the results.”

“Right. What kind of a person would do either?” Der said on his way out the door. “Hate to do this, Murphy, but I have to bring your president and Captain Rodgers up to speed on these recent happenings involving your research.”

Following so closely on the heels of the murdered coed, this turn of events would not make either of these men happy to see Der. I was certain that I would be hearing from the president myself very soon. The involvement of my research with the recent murder might mean the end of the project.

I told Paula she might as well go on back to her residence hall and that I would be responsible for locking up.

“I know this is going to be tough, but you can't say anything to Karen about this, okay?”

Paula nodded in agreement. “I want you to know that none of us ever went through either pile trying to match up names and responses even though we knew that was possible. And both sets of information are always locked in separate file cabinets. I mean, once we take the names off the consent forms to make up a list of our participants, we just put those forms in the bottom file drawer and never look at them again.”

“You all do great work. The issue of research ethics is not meant to be anyone's problem. It's a protection for our subjects.” I gave Paula a pat on the shoulder and watched her walk down the hall to the outside door.

She turned back to me at the top of the stairs. “But isn't this really cool? We're involved in a murder investigation! I mean, it's grisly and all, but great.”

It was clear that Paula was caught up in the potential for solving this crime. Like me, she tended to get carried away by challenges, even those that involved tracking down a murderer. I hoped that this character trait was one she inherited from her family and not one I unintentionally modeled for her. I shook my head at her macabre sense of wonderment, praying I would not have to answer to enraged parents if their impulsive daughter spent more time playing Sherlock Holmes than studying for her semester exams.

I sat down at the table and looked at the forms, then wandered over to the window and looked across the campus. An argument battled within my mind, but I was fairly certain I knew which side would prevail. Curiosity usually got the better of me, and I would have been surprised if it did not win this time. Damn! I wanted to hold true to what I told Paula. I sighed, locked the door to the lab and walked over to the table where the consent forms and the pile of response forms still lay. The response form with the disturbing account of the murder was now missing, having been removed by Inspector Der for fingerprint analysis. That would come to nothing, except to confirm that numerous prints were all over the page. I extracted the pair of winter gloves that had been left in the lab along with other articles of clothing such as caps, scarves and boots, discarded by student workers over the years. Pulling one over my right hand, I turned over the consent form in question and read the signature scribbled across the bottom.