Calamity Jayne Goes to College (3 page)

"Where? Where?" I said, craning my neck to look around.

"Oh, good grief," Dixie snorted. "Did you miss the word 'covert' in Dawkins's presentation just now? You might as well slap
a big sign on your forehead that says 'I've got my beady eyes on you!'" she said.

I slouched down in my chair, feeling somewhat chastened. I was still new to all this espionage-type stuff. To make matters
more difficult, I was pretty much a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of girl. And let's face it. I'd never been very good
at watching my p's and q's--whatever that entails.

"At the table. Near the condiments," Frankie said, keeping his eyes on the people at our table. "His name is Trevor Childers.
He's wearing a brown bomber jacket, khaki-colored baggy carpenters, and an orange-and-tan-striped shirt.

I ran a hand down the back of Frankie's head, trying to discover the eyes there. "How'd you do that?" I asked.

Frankie shrugged. "It's a gift," he said. "Besides, I noticed what he was wearing in class earlier today. A very tasteful,
well-coordinated, and accessorized ensemble."

It was Dawkins who winced this time, and I figured he'd never heard a prospective cop talk like that. He was probably hoping
for something more along the lines of:
"There was just something about the dirtbag that got this copper's radar hummin' like a son of a bitch.
"

Or maybe not.

"What should we do?" I asked Dawkins. "Go over and ask him his zodiac sign?"

"Yeah, you do that, Turner," Dixie said. "The rest of us could use a good laugh."

"Got a mirror?" I asked. "That's quicker."

"He's pretty much a loner in class," Frankie went on. "Rarely talks or interacts with anyone. Seldom adds to the discussion.
Just sits and takes notes."

Personally, I didn't think this qualified as particularly suspicious. After all, it was almost a carbon copy of what I did
in class most days. Minus the notes. And my little catnaps, of course.

"Don't a lot of serial stalkers and killers keep to themselves?" Frankie asked Patrick. "You know. Antisocial. Emotionally
shuttered. Incapable of real human connection and attachment?"

I stared at Frankie. "Have you been reading about Ted Bundy again?" I asked.

"FBI psychological profiling," he answered. I frowned.

About that time Trooper Dawkins's radio squawked, and he pressed the microphone clipped to his shoulder tab and responded.

"I've got to go," he said, picking his hat up and putting it on his head, then securing the back strap. "Ten fifty P.D."

"Motor vehicle accident. Property damage," Dixie and Frankie translated in unison. I looked at them. With these two around,
I'd never need to memorize ten codes.

"Frankie, I'll give you a call and we'll get together to head out to the academy obstacle course. I'll put you two through
your paces," he said. "We'll have you lean and mean by the time the selection process rolls around."

My ears perked up. "Obstacle course?" I questioned. "Sweet!" This sounded entertaining. Especially the part where I got to
watch Dixie crawl under barbed-wire fences--uh, make that
roll
under barbed-wire fences--and scale tall walls in a single bound.

"Bring her along," Dawkins said, motioning to me. "We'll see what the cowgirl's made of."

"Bullshit," Dixie suggested with a laugh. I flipped her off under the table.

"Later," Dawkins said, then did that trademark pole-up-the-back trooper walk across the student union and out the front door.

"He's leaving!" Frankie exclaimed.

"Yeah? So? He got a call, Brainiac. A ten-something or other. And just when I thought you were so observant," I told Frankie.

"No!
He's
leaving!" He pointed to his sharply attired classmate across the way. "We should follow him," my cousin suggested. "See where
he's going. We have to start somewhere."

"Uh, isn't it going to look really suspicious if the three of us follow him?" I asked.

"Remember what Dawkins said. We shouldn't spy solo."

"But don't you two have class shortly?" I asked.

Frankie looked at his watch. "Damn. You're right."

I gathered my stuff. "Let me take a whack at him," I said. "It's broad daylight. What could happen? All the bad stuff happens
at night, right? Besides, I've got my cell phone and I can call for help if I need to."

"I dunno..." Frankie said. "It's not SOP. Whaddaya think, Dix?" He turned to his "little" woman.

She gave me a tight-lipped smile. It was more of a sneer, really. "Like Calamity here said, what could happen?" she echoed.

"I'll meet you back here at two sharp," I suggested.

"You hope," Dixie said with a fiendish look.

I hurried out, finding myself wishing I hadn't been quite so quick in my offer to follow contestant number one in this serial
stalker version of campus Jeopardy. Alex Trebek, I wasn't.

I waited until Trevor Childers had reached the corner of the student union and followed in lukewarm pursuit. A light drizzle
began to fall from low, gray clouds. I pulled my sweatshirt hood up to keep my hair from becoming a sodden mess rather than
just your basic frizzy mess, and kept a prudent distance. Yes, I can do prudent. Sometimes.

We headed south across the campus at a brisk pace. I was glad I had chosen to wear my Nike cross-trainers that morning. Not
that I actually do any cross-training--or any training of any kind for that matter-- but at least I look like I do. And someday,
I will. Really.

We approached a rather new-looking building, long and modern, like a medical or dental clinic. Frankie's "loner" moved around
to the back and down a short flight of stairs. I peeked over the railing to watch him descend before I followed. He approached
a door on the side, hidden underneath a small parking ramp. I slipped to the corner of the building, concealed myself behind
a large potted shrub, and looked on as the guy slipped a card into a slot beside the door and waited for the buzzer. He entered
just as I hoofed it to the door. Whipping a plastic card out of my pocket, I flashed it at him, along with a "thanks, pal"
smile of camaraderie and gratitude. The guy gave me a curious look but didn't perform a closer inspection of the card in my
hand. Good thing, as it was a punch card for a free sub sandwich and complimentary fountain drink.

I pretended to go down a different hall, stopped, then popped my head back around the corner to see which direction Childers
was headed. He took a hallway to the right and I backtracked on tiptoe to peek down it. A door somewhere down that long, long
hallway, which brought to mind an industrially austere hospital corridor, clicked shut.

I headed down the hall, noting the numerous closed doors, many with designations like Exam Room A or B, Storage, Records.
Some had nothing at all.

It was like
Let's Make A Deal.
Pick a door, Tressa. Any door.

I moseyed down the hallway and started with door number one, which was labeled a storage room. It was locked. I continued.
Since I really, really wanted an A in Investigative Reporting, I decided I'd go with Exam Room A next. But I'd knock, too--just
in case some poor soul had her heels propped in a set of stirrups with some white-coated doctor-type between her legs. Ugh.

I rapped on the door, prepared to issue my
"I was looking for my grandmother, I am soo sorry"
excuse to go along with my mortified apologies to all concerned, but received zero response. No doors flew open. No irritated
nurses chided me. Nothing. I took a deep breath and turned the handle and opened the door. The light was off so I slipped
in before I turned the switch on. When I turned around, I was surprised to see the room was starker than the hallways.

Large and spacious, the room was absent of any touches of warmth and color. Not only was there no tile on the floor, but it
looked almost like bare concrete, treated with a high-quality concrete sealer. I looked at the shiny examination table, totally
stripped of pad, cover, or sheet, and frowned. The place looked like the kind of clinic where you'd find Dr. Death and his
patients. Or Dr. Frankenstein. I sniffed. The place even had a fusty smell.

I checked out the ceiling and squinted at the industrial-strength light fixtures with high-wattage output.
The better to see you with, my dear,
I thought. Frankly, I couldn't imagine any patient voluntarily stretching out on this shiny, hard, stainless steel examination
table waiting for Dr. Coldfingers to declare, "Just relax. You may feel a bit of pressure here."

I picked up a box of what looked like paper hair nets and made a face. Next to it was a box that looked like those funny little
elastic slippers surgeons use to cover their shoes in the operating room or nurses stick on patients before a medical procedure.
I looked around some more, opening a couple of the cupboards for curiosity's sake. Strange. For a doctor's office, you'd expect
to find items relating to patient care. You know, those wide Popsicle sticks. Those long Q-tips they swab the back of your
throat with for strep that make you gag big time. Gauze pads. Thermometers. Lubricating gel. That grotesque, cold, metallic
speculum thingy. Eeeow!

What kind of doctor's office was this?

I prepared to open the door and leave when I noticed a white jacket hanging on a hook on the back. I looked around the room--like
I do in the kitchen when I'm about to sneak in and slice off a hunk of frozen cookie dough from my folks' freezer--and pulled
the white coat from the hook and slipped it on, curious as to how doctorish I'd look dressed in it. Okay, let's be honest
here. Haven't
you
always wondered what you would look like as a doctor or surgeon? And how many of you gals have never taken a pillow and stuck
it under your shirt to see how you would look eight months pregnant? And I am so not believing you've never pilfered those
purple latex gloves and taken a few home to blow up and entertain yourself with later. Hmm. I thought as much.

I grabbed one of the paper hair nets and, dropping my hood, stuck one on my flyaway (fly-far-far-away) hair. It took some
doing to get my abundant mane stuck up under the net, but I managed. I bent over and pulled the slippers on over my Nikes,
slipped my hands into a pair of purple latex gloves, and looked at my reflection in a mirror on the wall. I gasped, startled.
My massive hair made my head look the size of a classroom globe. Or an alien's cranium. I looked about as medically savvy
as Dr. Pepper.

I flipped off the light and prepared to proceed to door number two. Maybe this was a veterinary clinic, I considered, thinking
that could explain the lack of amenities. It could be one of those on-campus teaching facilities where veterinary science
students received their hands-on-critter experience. Maybe instead of Dr. Death, we were talkin' Dr. Doolittle here. The possibility
made me feel ever so much better.

I straightened my white coat, opened the door, and stepped back out into the hall--and ran smack dab into another white-jacketed
individual. She slapped a pair of really freaky-looking goggles in my hand as she passed.

"It's about time. Emmy's waiting on you, and you know how she gets when she has to wait," the other person said. "We've got
two up and two in the queue. I'm heading to lunch."

I felt my breath hitch in my throat and managed to mumble something like "Gotcha, enjoy your lunch," then saluted her retreating
back with the goggles.

Emmy?

Curious about who Emmy was and what she had four deep in the queue--hey, I warned you I was nosy--I headed down the hall toward
a room with wide hospital doors with horizontal handles. I shoved the door inward, intending only to take a peek for curiosity's
sake and then hightail it out of there, but I was hailed the second I poked my nose in the door.

"Get over here and help me!" a woman across the room, presumably Emmy and clad in aqua scrubs covered by what looked like
a paper apron, called out. "Where are your scrubs? Never mind. I need you to hold this open while I get a picture."

The room was so bright I almost needed sunglasses to avoid squinting, and was expansive with windows that traveled its length.
Long, deep stainless steel sinks ran along the middle of the room, perpendicular to off-white walls. Fluorescent light fixtures
were in place over the sinks, and more heavy-duty lighting was installed at pivotal points in the ceiling.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

The threads of a smell I'd gotten an unfortunate whiff of not so many months back made its way up my nostrils and I started
to become uneasy. I took a hesitant step forward.

"Some time today would be nice," the woman at the shiny stainless table said, and I blinked when I saw she was standing over
what looked like a naked patient, bottoms up.

I averted my eyes, and on legs that now seemed as sturdy as paper clips, I slowly made my way in her direction. My breathing
was hurried and heavy. By the time I got to her, my goggles were all fogged up. Both inside and out.

"Here," she said. "Hold these flaps back while I shoot a couple pictures."

She motioned for me to take the place of her hands, and I squinted through my goggles so I could see where she was directing.
And so totally wished I hadn't. J found myself staring down into the bloody red, wide-open skull of a human being, holding
back flaps of scalp with stainless steel tongs similar to the ones I use to pick up the crab rangoon and vegetable lo-mein
at the China buffet back home.

"Hold it. Hold it. Right there!"
Snap.
The camera flashed. "And one more. That's it. Perfect!" Another flash. "Super! It's a wrap!"

I looked down at what once upon a time was the epicenter of some poor soul's nervous system, and felt the makings of my recent
meal burn the back of my throat, as it made its way up the down staircase.

I dropped the tongs inside the gaping cranium, slapped a purple-gloved hand to my mouth, threw a salute to Emmy, and flew
toward the door. The last thing I saw before I exited was a big sign on the wall that read SCRUBS, GOWNS, AND APPLICABLE ACCESSORIES