Slow Death

Mark opened his desk drawer in just the same way as every other day, not realizing he had killed himself. Inside the drawer was a red envelope on top of all the papers he was planning to grade. How strange, he thought. Where did that come from?

His office had been locked. The window was slightly propped open because the heat from the boiler became unbearable on the third floor. Still, accessing the office by way of the window would be impossible for anyone without a climbing harness. He knew because he had imagined trying to use the window as an exit if there was a fire, but only because a three story fall might be better than burning alive..

He picked up the envelope. Probably brought in by…no, the department secretary would have left it in my mailbox. The custodian maybe? He turned the envelope over to open it. The number “6” was written in heavy black permanent marker. Six?

He used his teak letter-opener to slice the envelope open and read:

Despite being an idiot wholly lacking in the capacity to reason effectively, try to follow along, professor simms, on this short exercise of imagination. If you look closely at the drawer wherein you found this missive, you’ll note that when you opened it you snapped a thin red thread that was affixed to the edge of the drawer. Were you to have the insight to do so, you might follow the other end of that thread to a shoebox taped to the underside of your desk. Pretend, dear imbecile, that the thread was the trigger and the shoebox was the bomb. Boom. You died a few minutes ago, you putrescent Neanderthal.

Mark’s jaw clenched as he crumpled the note. He felt his heartbeat throb in his temples. Who would dare? He bent and confirmed that there was a snapped thread dangling from the edge of the drawer. He hadn’t even noticed it as he slid the drawer open. Bending further he could see the shoebox taped far back into the shadows under the surface of the desk. Touching nothing else, Mark pulled his phone from his pocket rather than use the one on his desk, and dialed campus police.

The campus police arrived in ten minutes. Mark was waiting for them in the philosophy department main office, as instructed. The questions started well before the city police arrived.

“Are you aware of anyone that would want to hurt you, Professor Simms? Or scare you?” asked Sgt. Ellis.

“I’ve been wracking my brain since I called you. Nobody comes to mind. I mean…I make a lot of students pretty upset with grades, with assignments, with shooting down their ridiculous excuses. And I teach philosophy, so I challenge their world perspectives a lot even when I’m not thwarting their academic success. But nobody is more or less annoyed at me than any other year for the last fifteen.”

“Your office was locked, you said?”

“Yes yes. Let’s not waste time reviewing what I already said, hey? Do you want to go to my office and see for yourself?”

“DPD is en route too. We’ve asked them to participate in the investigation. Let’s just wait for them right here.”

“City cops too? For a prank? You think that’s necessary? I just want the bastard found and kicked out of school. Nobody has to go to jail.”

Sgt. Ellis glanced at the other officer quickly, but Mark missed his facial expression. Surprise? Doubt? “What makes you think this is just a prank, Professor Simms?” he asked, turning back to Mark. “Have you got any guess how many people would be dead if that was an actual bomb? Or if we go up there right now and it goes off when we move it?”

“Well, of course it’s a prank! It’s a stupid string and shoebox. Are we calling the FBI next? Some fraternity asshole decides he wants to rattle the prof’ and the whole campus jumps? Fuck that kid.”

“Well, let’s be thorough just in case. It is a death threat, and it does mention a bomb. We’ve already got officers discretely emptying classes and not letting anyone enter the building. We’re going to have the entire building cleared in the next few minutes. Which reminds me, do you still have the note?”

“I can’t believe you’re seriously emptying the building for a frat prank. Did you clear that with administration?” Mark pinched the corner of the note in two fingers to lift it off the department chair’s desk beside him and handed it to Sgt. Ellis.

“It’s a bomb threat, Professor Simms. We are going to treat the bomb threat as a bomb threat without consulting with administration.” Noticing the poor condition of the note, Ellis asked, “What happened to this?”

“I wadded it up and threw it away. I fished it out of the trash when the guy at dispatch said you would want it.”

Sgt. Ellis was saved from having to conjure a polite response by the arrival of an officer from Denver Police Department. “Bomb squad is outside. The building is clear except these offices here,” he twirled his finger in a little tornado to indicate the nearby rooms, “and Detective Anders will be here in about five minutes.” The officer turned to leave, then paused, “Oh, and media already got wind of it. They are setting up across the street.”

“Yeah,” Sgt. Ellis said, with some resignation, “campus policy says we have to notify media. ‘Transparency.’ ‘Abundance of caution.’ I just wish it took them longer to get here than our guys. Is Cheryl Waters out there? The campus media rep?”

“Can’t say I know her, but there was a short redhead in a grey pencil skirt and blazer over there getting a lot of cameras in her face.”

“That’s good, she’ll keep the circus managed on that end, anyhow. When we get these folks out, can you send the squad in?”

“Listen, I’ve got a lot of work to do. I have a stack of papers on the durability of human morality in a media-saturated society to grade,” Mark interrupted.

Stevens frowned at Mark, quirked an eyebrow at Ellis, and said, “I’ll tell them you’re ready.”

Ellis also ignored Mark and addressed the other officers in the room. “Time to get these folks out of here. You guys head out with them and send Anders in when he gets here. I’m keeping Simms here in the building until we can tell if he’s in danger.”

“You’re keeping me in the building with a bomb?”

“Professor Simms" Ellis said slowly, "you said it was a prank so I’m sure you’ll be fine. What we don’t want is someone shooting you from a nearby building, live on the news.”

Anders strolled into the room just as realization dawned for Mark. “This whole… fiasco… isn’t just some exercise? This isn’t just putting on a good show so you get more funding? You think I could get shot?”

Anders replied before Ellis could, “Sure! Just blowing you up along with a hundred other innocents might not be the plan. It makes great sense to cause a ruckus, get the media here, then blow your brains out on TV. Just one person dead and a lot of questions about why all the effort to kill you. What kind of ugly skeletons will we find in your closet if you get your brains splattered? Anything you want to tell us?”

Ellis shook Anders’ hand warmly. Mark saw Ellis’ grin and felt certain he approved of Anders bullying him. “I was told five minutes. That was more like three.” said Ellis.

“Turns out there is a shortcut through campus if you swear and honk enough. I didn’t want to miss the chance to be on the news.” he smiled broadly.

Anders turned a cooler face toward Mark, “I’m Detective Anders. From your crazy hair and the fact that you are the only civilian within four hundred yards of here, I’m betting you’re the victim. Professor Simms was it?” Not pausing long enough for Mark to answer, he pressed on, “Pretty great day for you, not being dead and all. You should probably buy a lottery ticket or something. Listen, we are going to detective the heck out of this…so if there is something you think we should know, or something you would rather we didn’t know…now would be a great time to just spit it out. We’re all friends here, just trying to help each other out and make sure nobody goes home actually dead. Whattaya say, Mark?”

Flabbergasted by Anders' rapid-fire questioning, Mark sputtered “About what?”

“See, Ellis, I knew working with a professor would be a treat,” Anders said. Turning back to Mark, Anders gave his shoulder a gentle pat and launched another barrage of conversation, “Great, I’m glad you’re willing to give us your full cooperation. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate that, so I won’t. The crazy lads on the squad are up evaluating the device, then we can let everyone back in and we’ll head up to your office. You won’t be able to use your office for a few days obviously, since it is a crime scene. While we are waiting, maybe you can tell us who wants you dead?”

“Nobody wants me dead…”

“Jeeze that would be great if it was true. Let’s all agree to keep hoping that’s true, right? But for the sake of us catching this guy, let’s pretend somebody wants you dead. Let’s pretend there is a guy right now, sitting in a barely open window of some classroom in an adjoining building, just salivating with the thought of getting to crack open your expansive forehead with a bullet. You know your forehead is pretty big, right? That wasn’t a surprise was it? One of the great things about working with me is I’ll always tell you the truth if I think you won’t like it. So that guy out there,” Anders pointed to a spot almost as if he knew the actual location of a killer “...who could that be, doyathink?”

Mark felt like he was at the wrong end of a conversational firehose. “But nobody …”

“Right. This is pretend, remember. We're going to assume some crazy bad-guy actually is out there right now. That's how we keep you safe. That's how we keep from getting blown up. We imagine the worst case and take some precautions. We don't eliminate suspects just because we can't think of any. Obviously there is a suspect, just not a suspect we know. So we can't really say 'nobody' can we Mark, because there is clearly somebody. If somebody did want you dead, who would it be?”

“Like I keep saying, it would have to be some knucklehead from my undergrad classes. Some tough frat boy who can’t keep up in class.” Warming to the idea of getting to be a profiler, Mark continued, “Probably some rich kid who is used to having everything always go his way. Well not in my class! I don’t care what your family name is! So he’s going to reassert his power physically and through intimidation.”

“How many suspects do we have there, Mark? Are we talking three per semester that you piss off? Gimme a ballpark.”

Mark was both surprised and relieved that Anders had given a short and clear question. “I teach two sections of Philosophy 101, with one hundred students each. Probably 30 kids from each class aren’t ready to be in university. They are spoiled and undisciplined. Or their prior education is so shoddy they…”

“You fail sixty kids per semester? What happens to them when they fail your class? I bet they get pretty angry. I know I would be angry if I moved half-way across the country to beautiful Denver, rented an apartment, had my future all mapped out and then got kicked in the nads in my first semester. I can imagine other folks get upset too, yep. Like, punching things and pulling out hair angry, some of them. Drinking and telling all their friends what a jerk you are kind of angry, probably. Do you get threats very often?”

“Usually they come to my office and beg and plead because failing means they end up on academic probation.”

“It isn’t just a bad grade then. Students groveling like that must be a real trip, I bet. Hard to tell whether a guy might feel terrible or powerful having that much power over others,” Anders stated rather than asked, more to himself than to Mark. “So somewhere near a quarter of the freshmen you meet each semester end up in trouble for their grades and might be pretty miffed at you? Or desperate? You end up on the shitlist of one hundred and twenty kids every year?

“Well, not counting summer session. The classes are smaller, but they are more intense so the students struggle more. And not including Philosophy 102…”

“Aww for Chrissake, Mark. So you personally jeopardize the scholastic dreams of three hundred or so kids each year, and you have no clue why someone might want to kill you? Is that a normal fail rate across campus? I'm surprised I'm not down here every week for some professor getting punched in the nose. The school could make a fortune with a dunking booth or paintball range or something. I wonder how many kids from families that have high achievement expectations go home and talk about how you flunked them out. I suppose we can add another hundred or so parents each semester that are angry at you too?”

Anders rattled off a mix of assertions and questions so rapidly Mark lost track of what he was supposed to be answering. He just responded to the last question, “Angry at me? It is their little darling that fails! I don’t fail kids, they fail themselves! They don’t make the effort! They skip class!”

“Mark Mark Mark, I don’t want to victim blame here. I mean you’re the dead guy. It would be in really poor taste to suggest that your draconian grading policies and lack of insight was the likely cause of your death. I apologize if it seemed like I was saying that pissing off five hundred people a year wasn’t the point of education. Your hands are sort of tied. It’s pretty much in your job description to make enemies!” Anders said in a conciliatory tone.

Ellis added “Plus you have grad students who work with you, committees you work on, the entire philosophy department here, colleagues all over the world… Some of them might also be suspects, I suppose.”

Anders squinted at Mark. "Oh right, other skeletons in the old closet there, Mark? Jilted lovers? Secret affairs? Drug deals? Blackmail?"

“Hey Anders! Bomb squad says it’s clear. Just a shoebox with the word “Boom” written inside,” said an officer leaning around the doorjamb.

“That was fast.”

“Looks like it was intended to be. One side was mostly cut out so they could see right in. They pulled it down as evidence and are rolling out already.”

“Huh. Intended it to be easy to clear,” Anders mused. “Thanks, Henry.” he nodded to the man in the door.

He turned back to Mark and said “Let’s go have a look at your office. Actually, Ellis and I are going to look in your office and you are going to stand in the hall and see if peering in there jogs your memory at all. Sometimes returning to the scene of the crime helps people remember what they did. You can tell us all the things you put your fingerprints on this morning. Step by step. Oh. Speaking of, wasn’t there a note? Let me have a look at that as we head upstairs.”

Ellis pulled an envelope from his vest and handed it to Anders. When he saw the poor condition of the note he looked at Ellis with mock concern. “Is this how campus cops treat evidence now?”

“It looked like that when I got it!” Ellis smiled, pointing an accusing finger at Mark.

Anders set a quick pace to the elevator, reading the note simultaneously. As they waited for the doors to open he said “I dunno, Mark. The language used in this is pretty advanced. Hardly seems like somebody that would fail a class. ‘Putrescent.’ That means you are sort of stinky and rotten, yes? If your theory holds this note should be full of spelling errors and be written in crayon. Probably written in text-speak. Are there any grammar errors? I wasn't very good at grammar. Math, history - I was great at those. Pretty sure the guy we're after didn't flunk out, Mark.”

The elevator dinged open and Mark said, “Can we stop on the second floor? I've had a ton of coffee and the bathroom there is the best in the building. They installed new faucets in that one, so you don’t have to touch the knobs where other folks have had their crap-covered fingers.”

Mark pushed open the door to the men’s washroom, followed by the two officers. He flipped on the light switch only to be deafened by an explosion overhead. A shower of confetti rained down on the three men.

“Goddamn it, Mark,” Anders roared over the ringing in his ears, “now you’ve gotten me killed too!” Ellis and Mark were still crouched down and looking around wildly as Anders brushed confetti off his shoulders and stared at the ceiling. He scanned the room for additional booby-traps then carefully opened each stall. In the back stall he found the plastic shields that would usually be installed over the LED light fixtures. He looked back at the ceiling and finally made sense of what he saw - someone had created false covers filled with confetti and rigged a tiny explosive into each one. Triggering the light switch had set off all three and shredded the paper covers, letting the confetti rain down.

Ellis, his hand on his holster, stepped quickly into the hallway and looked both ways. “Clear out here!” He couldn’t tell whether he was too loud or too quiet, his voice muffled in his own ears.

Taped to the back of the bathroom door was a red envelope with the number “5” on it. Mark stood to grab the note but Anders crossed the bathroom in three long strides and interposed himself between Mark and the envelope.

“Hands off, note-crumpler. That’s evidence.” Anders put on black nitrile gloves from his inside suit pocket and retrieved the note. He read it aloud:

Now the light dawns, perhaps? You are a bully and a fraud, and I will end you. You spout nonsense as if it is a gift from Delphi. You treat those around you with contempt to bolster your own mediocrity. You are a blight. How long, professor dumbass? How long until the countdown ends? Enjoy sitting with yourself as you wait for your demise.

Mark slid his back down the tile wall until he was sitting slumped on the bathroom floor. A small whimper escaped before he spoke “Somebody really is trying to kill me. Somebody actually wants me dead.” He looked up at the two officers standing over him. “You’ve got to stop him. He’ll kill me.”

Ellis turned to Anders and said, “Well, now we know a few things. First, whoever did this is local and it isn't just a one-off. Somebody was in this building as they were clearing it and installed those bombs last minute. Second, we know the suspect is not just smart, but also skillful. This was a sophisticated device.”

“Aaaand... third,” Anders interrupted to finish the thought, “we know it is someone who is familiar with the building and knows the professor well enough to be certain he would stop here on the way back to his office. That’s somebody really close to him, that knows his eccentricities. I think this escalates the situation from ‘intimidating prank’ to ‘credible death threat’. I’m going to escort Mark to the station for his safety and for a more thorough interview. I also don’t have any reason to go up to his office anymore. The bathroom and the office now need to be formally treated as a crime scene. Let’s get forensics to have a look." Anders looked around the room. "Maybe prints on the light covers? Nah, doubt it.”

Ellis nodded. “I’ll stay here and make sure it isn’t disturbed if you want to send some of our guys up to secure both rooms?”

“Will do. I’ll let them know on my way out.” Anders helped Mark to his feet and steered him out into the hallway. Mark was lost in thought and required managing as if he was a rudderless balloon floating at Anders’ side.

Six hours later, Mark stumbled out of the police station and peered around the early twilight, sun low on the horizon. Where is Doreen? I called her thirty minutes ago and told her to pick me up, he thought irritably. He dug his phone out of his pocket to call her again then noticed the message she had left earlier. She’s going to be a few minutes late because she has a surprise for me? That's the problem with fucking a grad student - so goddamn immature. I don’t want a surprise, I just want you to do what I told you! he raged in his head. He walked to the end of the block and tried to see her car coming down Ninth Avenue.

“I’m over here, Mark.” Doreen called.

Mark hadn’t spotted the car in the shadow of the building across the street but could make out her arm waving from the driver-side window. She opened the door to greet him.

“What are you thinking, Doreen? I’ve had a terrible day and don’t want any of your silly surprises. Nothing could improve my mood right now,” he grumbled as he crossed the street. Doreen met him in the middle of the street and knifed him four times in the gut.

When the police found him shortly after, they opened the red envelope with “4” written on it. It read:

Delayed gratification is the most crucial tool of self-discipline. Sweet anticipation followed by glorious accomplishment. I will probably regret that my impatience drove me to end it early and miss savoring his delicious despair.