Suicide Med (15 page)

I had hoped that a night of sleep would clear my mind, but the next day I wake up feeling just as uneasy as the night before. I wish Abe were around because I want to talk this out with someone, try to get someone else’s perspective. But it seems like I haven’t seen Abe around the apartment in days. Where the hell is he anyway?

When I
get to school, I check my watch and see that I still have twenty minutes before my first class. When I arrive early, I usually make a stop in the cafeteria for some much needed breakfast and a strong cup of coffee. However, this morning I make a beeline for Dr. Conlon’s secretary’s office, which is right next to his.

Dr. Conlon’s secretary, Anita,
looks like a grandma. She’s short and chubby with poufy white hair and is always offering us “sweets.” I’ve talked to her a handful of times and she’s always real nice to me.

“Hello,
Mason!” Anita says when I walk through her open door.

I
flash my most charming smile. Old women always love me. “Hi, Anita. How are you?”

“
Mason, Mason…” Anita leans forward across her desk. “You don’t have a girlfriend, do you? Oh, I’m sure you do…”

“Actually, I don’t,”
I say.

“Oh?” S
he raises an eyebrow. “Well, I don’t know if you’d be interested, but my niece is a very sweet girl. She’s about your age. I think you’d really like her.”

I
hate it when older women tried to set me up with their daughters, nieces, and granddaughters. But I force a smile, “Sure, give me her number.”

Anita’s face li
ghts up and she pulls out a sticky note to write out the number of some girl named Margo.

“You’ll love her,
Mason,” Anita gushes. “She’s such a cute girl. And so funny! And smart too… oh, but you boys don’t like smart girls, do you? Don’t worry, I’m sure she’s not smarter than you are. After all, you’re a—”

“Anita,” I
interrupt, unable to tolerate another second of hearing about this girl I’ll never call. “I was wondering if you could look up some information on our cadaver.”

Anita looks confused.
“Oh? What information?”

“I was just curious if you have the cause of death listed,” I say.
My stomach flips as I wait for her response.

“Well, we should,” Anita says thoughtfully.
“I mean, we have to know that so that there’s no chance of the person having a communicable disease.”

“So, um…” I bite my lip.
“Could you look it up for me?”

Anita is about to respond, when Dr. Conlon limps into the office.
He looks surprised to see me standing there. I swear silently to myself.

“Hi, Mason
,” Dr. Conlon says with a friendly smile, “what are you doing here? Anything I can help you with?”

I
look down at my hands and see they’re trembling. I’m about to reply when Anita speaks up, “Mason is just trying to find out some information about his cadaver.”

Th
e smile disappears instantly from Conlon’s face. His eyes darken the same way they did before. He looks like he wants to reach out and strangle me.  Or maybe
hang
me.

“
Mason,” he says quietly. “Didn’t I tell you before that all cadaver information is confidential?”

“Well, I
was trying to—”

“Don’t you have a
biochemistry test tomorrow?” Dr. Conlon raises an eyebrow.

“Yes.”

Dr. Conlon looks over at Anita, “Any information on the cadavers in the lab is strictly confidential. Nobody is to receive that information.” He looks back up at me, “Is that clear?”

My stomach feels like lead.

“Yes,” I say. “It’s clear.”

Dr. Conlon is still staring at me in way that is
pretty terrifying. All I know is that one student has to die this year, and at this point, it very well might be me.

But
I won’t go down without a fight.

_____

I’ve been watching Dr. Conlon very carefully recently.

Right now, Abe and Heather
are hunched over Frank’s split-open skull, reviewing the cranial nerves, while Ginny reads from the lab manual. I’m at the other end of the cadaver, flipping through the anatomy atlas, but my mind is somewhere else. Our second midterm in anatomy is in a few days, but I already know the material cold. That’s not my biggest worry anymore.

Dr. Conlon is dressed in
blue scrubs, and he makes his usual rounds from cadaver to cadaver, gripping his cane in his left hand. His cane is cumbersome—made of dull metal and ending in four prongs arranged in a square formation. The fact that he relies on that cane makes him seem really impaired, and I have to wonder if that’s the idea. If he visited a store to find a cane that would enhance his story that he can’t walk very well and isn’t capable of harming a fly, that’s probably the cane he’d end up with.

See, I’m about
95% sure at this point that Dr. Conlon isn’t really disabled at all.

For starters, if you watch him walk,
it’s clear he’s faking—he alternates which leg he limps on. Sometimes it’s his right, sometimes his left. I’m pretty sure of that. And the pretense that his right hand isn’t functional is equally bullshit. In his short-sleeved scrub top, it’s clear that all the muscles in his right arm are intact. I admit, he holds his hand in a way that makes it look impaired, but if I bend my wrist as far as it will go and curl up my fingers, it doesn’t look so different from his hand.

Of course, I can’t
actually prove anything. I followed Conlon out to his car a few times, hoping to catch him in the act—like, tossing his cane aside and walking without it. I had my phone ready to snap photos the second he did it. But he’s really dedicated to the illusion of appearing disabled or else he sensed someone was watching, and he never abandoned that cane. He’s even got handicapped plates on his car—not that those are hard to get. My father says half his cardiac patients have them.

“Dr. Conlon!” Ginny flags down our professor as he “limps” by our table.

Dr. Conlon stops and smiles at Ginny. Lately, everything about Dr. Conlon seems ominous to me, even his smile. “Yes, Dr. Zaleski?”

Ginny launches into a question about the Circle of Willis, and my stomach clenches as I notice how close Dr. Conlon is standing to her.
He needs to back up at least a foot, seriously. Ginny seems pleased by the attention, but she doesn’t get it. Dr. Conlon’s attention is
not
something she wants. If he takes an interest in her, she may as well draw a target on her chest. And Ginny is so small and sweet and vulnerable.

I
f he touches a hair on Ginny’s head, I swear to God, I will kill him.

I didn’t even realize I drifted asleep until the ringing of my phone jogs me awake. I’m sitting up in bed, my laptop resting on my legs, still in the clothes I had been wearing last night. I recall a dream I had been having about Frank, although I can’t remember the details. I fumble for the phone and hold it to my ear.

“Hello?”
I mumble.

“
Mason? It’s April. Where are you?”

April…
shit! I completely forgot we were supposed to get together for an early lunch today at a coffee shop a few blocks from my dorm. I look at my watch and realize I’m fifteen minutes late.

“I’m sorry, I…”
I try to come up with an excuse and my mind goes blank. “I’ll be there in five minutes, okay?”

April reluctantly agrees
and I quickly shove my feet into my shoes. No time to change clothes. I pull on a light jacket as I hurry out the door, since the weather has started to get pretty nippy lately. I can’t believe I managed to stand up my first real date since starting med school. Lately, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to focus.

When
I pull up to the coffee shop, I see April through the window, sitting in a booth and glancing down at her watch as she pouts. This is not a girl who is used to being stood up. I again search my brain for a plausible excuse for not showing up. I can’t think of one. And I can’t exactly tell her I forgot all about her.

I
yank the door open and nearly trip over a chair hurrying over to her table.

“Hi, April,”
I say breathlessly. “Sorry I’m late…”

She looks
up at me, obviously ready to give me a piece of her mind, but her jaw falls open slightly when she sees me. I didn’t look in a mirror before leaving the apartment and now I’m sorry—I probably look like a mess. I self-consciously run a hand through my hair in a halfhearted effort to comb it out.

I
slide into the seat across from her.

“I’m really sorry,”
I say again.

“You know, some guys will actually put on clean clothes for a girl,” April says.
“And shave.”

I
touch the stubble on my chin and try to recall the last time I took a razor to my face.

“Sorry,”
I say again.

Although
I’m beginning to realize I’m not all that sorry. I couldn’t care less about April. She’s pretty, yeah. But so what? There are thousands of pretty girls out there.

And anyway, she
’s got nothing on Ginny.

I
wouldn’t have been surprised if April had gotten up and walked out on me. But instead she leans forward and crosses her arms.

“So how
was your big exam?”

I
struggle to come up with an answer to her question. The anatomy exam was two days ago and I’m only slightly distressed by the fact that I barely remember it. It doesn’t seem important anymore. My life is
in danger
. Doesn’t she get that?

No, I guess she doesn’t.

As April babbles about something or other, my mind wanders. I can’t help but think that Frank is the key to all of this. Frank was a cop and I bet he knew something. He must have been investigating the suicides and he figured out what’s going on. That’s why Conlon had him killed. And it’s clear that Conlon is willing to get rid of anyone who’s on the verge of figuring out his secret. And now that includes me.

“Who’s Frank?” April asks.

I stare at her. “What?”

“You just
said something about ‘the case Frank was investigating’ or something,” she says. I hadn’t realized I had spoken out loud. Wow, that’s a little scary. “What are you talking about?” she asks.

“Believe me, you don’t want to know,” I
say.

April
is giving me a strange look. “Are you okay?”

Okay?
No, I’m not okay! My anatomy professor is a murderer and I’m probably next on his hitlist.

“If you’re going to talk nonsense, I’m leaving,” she says
. She punctuates her statement by standing up.

I
look up at her as she stands there for a moment, her arms folded across her chest. I know I could stop her. I could maybe say something charming and she might agree to stay and have lunch.

But instead, I just let her leave.

It’s three in the morning.

I
stumble to the bathroom, intending to just splash some water on my face. But when I see my reflection in the mirror, I’m a little shocked by how bloodshot my eyes are. I guess it shouldn’t be such a surprise though—my vision has gotten really blurry in the last hour.

I
stumble back to my bed and stare at the screen of my laptop. I’ve been scouring the internet obituaries for anyone who seems like they could have been Frank. So far, it’s not going that well. A lot of people have died lately, believe it or not. But I can’t give up.

I
feel my eyes drifting shut. I want to sleep so badly, but every time my head hits the pillow, my heart begins to pound and my thoughts race. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.

Before
I know it, the sun is peeking out from under the horizon. I notice that a new email has appeared in my inbox. It’s from Dr. Conlon: “Mason – please come see me in my office this afternoon at two.”

Maybe
he’s ready to confess.

Or maybe he wants to feel me out, see how much I know.
Maybe he’s going to threaten me. Or maybe he’s trying to figure out the best way to kill me.

Still, it’s worth the risk.
I want to know what he wants.

I visit Dr. Conlon’s office that afternoon.
The door is slightly ajar and I walk inside without knocking. At first, I feel nervous about the idea of being alone with this sociopath, but then I realize we’re not alone at all. Patrice Winters, the shrink, is sitting in a chair in front of Dr. Conlon’s desk. She turns when I enter the room and close the door behind me.

Why the hell is Patrice here?
Is she in on it too?

“Mason
…” Dr. Conlon looks me up and down. Maybe sizing me up.

“What?” I say.

“How have you been doing, Mason
?” Dr. Conlon says. His voice is gentle and there’s a crease between his black eyebrows.

Of course, I know
this sensitive professor shit is all an act. Probably for Patrice’s benefit. I’m hoping she’s a neutral.

“I feel great,” I
say.

“Is everything all right at home?” Patrice pipes up.
“With your family? Mom and dad?”

“Yes, of course,” I reply tightly.

Patrice’s thin eyebrows raise. “Girl problems?”

I shake my head no.
“I’m fine. Really. I don’t know what this is all about.”

Dr. Conlon and Patrice exchange looks.
Finally, Conlon says, “Mason, you failed the last exam. You know that, right?”

The room gets really quiet.
Did I know that? I don’t know anymore. I feel sick to my stomach. Something is wrong. Something is really, really wrong.

How could I have failed an exam?
I’m the best student in the whole goddamn class! I got a perfect score on the first practical. I knew the material backward and forward. There’s no way I could have failed.

Of course, Conlon was the one who graded the exam.
So if he says I failed, who’s going to doubt him? He’s showing me that he’s not messing around, that he has the ability to wreck my life. Except I’m not messing around either.

I stand up.
“I have to go.”

Patrice stands up too.
“Mason, don’t go. We need to talk.”

“What’s there to talk about?” I say through my teeth.
“Dr. Conlon messed with my exam and failed me on purpose.”

It’s almost enjoyable to see the way Conlon’s
blue eyes widen and his jaw falls open.

“Mason,” he manages.
“I would never…”

“Mason,” Patrice says, “this is a really serious accusation.”

I shrug.

“Mason…” I watch Dr. Conlon struggling to his feet.
Or at least,
pretending
to struggle to his feet. I’m more convinced than ever that his disability is all an act. “Please sit down. Let’s talk about this.”

“What’s there to talk about?” I practically spit at him.
“You’re trying to destroy me, aren’t you?”

Dr. Conlon just shakes his head.
“Mason, I would never mess with your exam. This is outrageous. How could you ever think that I’d—”

“Matt,” Patrice interrupts him.
“Let me handle this, okay?”

She touches his arm when she says it, and suddenly I get it.
The two of them are an item. They’re in this together. And now they’re ganging up on me. It all makes perfect sense.

“I know what you’re doing,” I say.
“And it’s not going to work.”

With those words, I spin on my heels and leave Dr. Conlon’s office.
I can hear him calling my name, and then Patrice’s voice telling him to let me go.

_____

“You’re breaking my heart, Mason.”

My mother is determined to get me to come home for Thanksgiving dinner. She’s pulling out all the stops, really laying the guilt on thick.

“I’ve got a big test right after the break,” I lie.

“Two hours,” Mom says. “You can’t spare two hours for your family?”

I could.
And I admit that it’s tempting—the food around here is crap and I know Olivia will put out a really great spread. I can almost smell her roasted turkey if I close my eyes.

But the act of dinner is what I can’t deal with right now.
I can’t face my mother’s questions about my social life or my father grilling me about my grades. And I know if I tell them what’s really going on, they won’t believe it. My father would never buy it that my anatomy professor has been targeting me, that he’s made it his business to destroy my life. And that so far, he’s succeeding.

“I can’t,” I say for the tenth time.

“You know,” Mom says, “this will be the first Thanksgiving in your entire life you haven’t spent with your family.”

“I’m sorry,” I say lamely.

Mom is quiet for a minute, then finally she says, “Mason, sweetheart, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly and then get the hell off the phone before she can launch into the third degree.

Abe’s a local like me, so he drives in to see his family for Thanksgiving dinner, then returns the same night, very late. He’s not home yet when I go to bed for the night, but when I wake up suddenly at three in the morning (which has been happening more and more lately), he’s lying in his own bed, snoring softly.

I feel confident that Abe is
safe from Dr. Conlon. He earns decent but not spectacular grades and hasn’t done a whole lot to call attention to himself. Moreover, he’s huge, so even a completely able-bodied and athletic Dr. Conlon probably wouldn’t be able to overpower him. No, Dr. Conlon would never target Abe in a million years.

Abe shifts in his sleep, mumbling a few words I can’t make out.
I watch his broad chest rise and fall with each breath. I’ve known Abe for several months now and one thing I know for sure is that he’s a good guy. A
really
good guy. He’s kind, he’s honest, and he’d never do anything unethical. He’s exactly the sort of person I need on my side.

That’s when
I make up my mind: in the morning, I’m going to tell him everything. He’ll keep my secret safe and then if something happens to me, he’ll be able to go to the authorities. I can trust Abe—I’m sure of it.

_____

The next morning, when I wake up, Abe is already
gone from his bed. My heart races for a second until I hear the shower running. Thank God—he’s still here. I sit up in bed and wait for him, staring patiently at the wall as I plan out what I’m going to say.

Abe
emerges from the bathroom, his short red hair wet and disheveled, wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts. He nods a greeting at me, and starts shoving his legs into a pair of jeans.

“Hey, Abe,” I say.
“Can I talk to you a minute?”

Abe pulls his pants up and zips his fly.
“Uh, I’m sort of… on my way out.”

“Where are you going?” It’s the day after Thanksgiving, so there are no classes and no exams to study for.
Plus I know Heather is gone for the break. I sort of doubt Abe is running out to get a head start on his Christmas shopping.

“I’ve got an appointment,”
he says vaguely.

His face is pale so that the
freckles running down either end of his nose stand out.

“For what?”

Abe frowns and he suddenly looks very nervous. I see his giant hand shaking as he runs it through his damp hair in an attempt to comb it.

“
Just an appointment. No big deal.”

Just an appointment.
No big deal.

I feel sick.
Abe is keeping something from me. Something
important
. I can see it written all over his face.

Holy shit, is
Abe
in on this too?

“Oh,” I say quietly.
“I understand.”

I’m not sure if Abe is part of Dr. Conlon’s conspiracy or not.
But I realize that I was wrong to think I could trust him. I can’t. I can only trust myself.

“Can we talk later?” he asks, glancing at his watch then over at the door.

“Sure,” I say. “Of course.”

Yeah, n
ot a chance in hell.