Mental State, page 5
“This isn’t about you, Alex.”
“Oh, I know, I get that. I’m just saying, I think this could be a bad PR move for the school. ‘Conservative professor flunks out local kid from the projects’ isn’t exactly the story you want to see on the news.”
“I don’t want to see, or you don’t want to see, Alex?” Her tone was exasperated.
“I’m not being selfish here. Come on. I don’t get it. Why are you so set on failing this kid?”
“Because he doesn’t belong here. He shouldn’t graduate. He didn’t earn it.”
“You want to talk about earning things, Sylvia? Let’s talk about earning things. Did Marcus earn his spot in this school or was it given to him in the first place because of . . .?”
“What’s your point, Alex?”
It was a knee-jerk reaction typical for Alex. It was Fox News talking points. And it was one that worked against his cause in this particular case. He regrouped.
“But it’s beside the point,” he went on. “We can’t fail this kid. The experience of black students here is not that of their white peers. Black students have told me that whenever they open their mouths, they feel like they are representing their race. When the average white kid from Iowa does badly, no one draws conclusions about white kids from Iowa. But if Marcus gets an F, the implications go far beyond him. I don’t like tribalism any more than you do, but it is kind of baked into the whole situation.”
“Fail him, Alex. That is the end of it.” She was cool. “I’m not overriding your judgment on this. I’m merely applying the scores you gave on each question to the curve you provided. It is purely mechanical. I won’t let you make value judgments laced with your own ethical views or what you think the school’s ethical views are or should be. Your job is to grade the answers, mine is to decide what kind of school we are. Understood?” During the entire speech, she didn’t break eye contact with him.
She rose and put out her hand. Alex knew it was a sign to leave. He wanted to fight, but he’d lost track of what exactly he was fighting for. He had no brief for Marcus Jones. Alex remembered him for a handsome smile and because he sat in the front row and took copious notes on a dingy old laptop. Alex had called on him several times, and he seemed eager and interested, as keen as the average student in the class. Marcus had come to office hours a few times and asked reasonable questions that suggested he was doing the reading and comprehending the lectures on the gun-jumping rules and the elements of securities fraud suits. If asked to predict Marcus’s grade before grading exams, Alex would have said a solid B, even an A-minus, not an F. But he earned an F, and now the dean had given him permission to do what he’d wanted to do anyway.
But as he walked back to the elevator, Alex sulked. He lost the argument, even though he thought the outcome was the right one. And he got caught up in it too. His boss was upset with him, and he demonstrated values at odds with those she was now telling him were in vogue at his school. He also thought less of Sylvia now, and he hated when colleagues disappointed. She was manipulating this situation, although Alex wasn’t sure why or to what end. He’d always known Sylvia was a climber and a tool, but to see it so clearly upset him. She’d built her mind around her ambition, and that was the most dangerous thing Alex could imagine.
The worst part was that he was now going to bear the brunt of the aftermath of telling Marcus he’d failed. Waiting for the elevator, he played out how he’d break the news and tried to guess how Marcus would react. What would Alex say when he was asked to regrade the exam? What if the student confronted him in person? Students these days had easy access to their professors, and Marcus had this more than most. He had been to Alex’s house twice—once for a reception Alex hosted for a conference in which Marcus was a student volunteer, and once for a book club that Alex had for students interested in the recent financial crisis. He’d also accompanied Alex and several other students on a clay-pigeon shooting trip Alex donated to raise money for student scholarships. Marcus had been in his car, met his kids and wife, and could find Alex at pretty much any time of day. This frightened Alex, but he tried to put these thoughts out of his head, since he worried he was thinking them only because Marcus was black.
Back in his office, Alex decided to get ahead of the problem. He opened his laptop, and typed out an email to Marcus:
Mr. Jones,
Shortly, you will hear from the registrar that you earned an F in Securities Regulation. I take no pleasure in this, and, in fact, deeply regret that this is the result for you. I would like to help you in any way I can. If you want to come talk to me about this, please let me know. I’m happy to try to work through this unfortunate result together.
Prof. J.
As soon as he pressed “send,” Alex regretted sending the email.
CHAPTER 10
April 2015
Chicago, Illinois
The headlines of all the papers in the lobby of the Courtyard Marriott mentioned his brother. The Chicago Tribune declared “Prominent Professor Dead.” USA Today led with “Friend of Court Nominee Kills Self.” The New York Times devoted a story on A10 to “Apparent Suicide of Professor Reverberates in Washington.” Royce swore under his breath, popped four Advil to make last night’s sleeping cocktail go away, and headed for the exit. The day-two story was morphing from an apparent suicide of a professor of modest acclaim to the suicide of a friend of the future chief justice.
He called for an Uber using his personal cell phone, then checked email on the government-issued Blackberry to see if his investigation was live. It wasn’t. Five minutes later, he was on Lake Shore Drive headed south toward Alex’s home. The Uber exited at 47th Street and headed into the historic Kenwood neighborhood. The home was on two city lots in a comely neighborhood that felt more like the suburbs than the city. Streets were lined with tall shade trees, and the houses, all built right around the time of Chicago’s World’s Fair in 1893, evoked wealth and power.
Yellow crime-scene tape came into view. A single police cruiser was parked in front, and a middle-aged police officer sat behind the wheel looking at her phone. Royce had the Uber stop fifty yards down the street. He got out and approached perpendicular to the squad car and slightly in front so he’d be observable, even to someone lost on Facebook. The car’s window was down.
“Good morning, Officer.” He tried to sound cheery and benign, even though he wasn’t feeling either.
She looked up momentarily, seeing a middle-aged man with a buzz cut in a Penn State sweatshirt and holding a briefcase. She nodded and went back to her phone.
Sloppy and lazy. The wrong guy, she’d be dead. He felt a muscle twinge in his arm, an automatic reflex from reaching for the Glock 9mm service revolver in the fanny pack slung on his waist.
“I’m Professor Johnson’s brother. The deceased. I’m here to take charge of his affairs.”
“This is a crime scene, sir, and I can’t let anyone in the house. I can get you the information about where to claim the body. There’s a contact number.” Her answer was pat, eyes on her phone.
Royce flashed his badge through the open window.
“Special Agent Johnson, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m not sure you heard me, I’m here to take charge.”
The officer barely looked up, and Royce could tell she was a danger to her fellow officers, in addition to being rude.
“Are you asserting jurisdiction here? ’Cause if you are, that’s the first I’ve heard of it.” She knew the FBI didn’t come to take over crime scenes like this.
Busted. His tone went from bold to begging in a flash.
“I’m not here in an official capacity, but obviously I’m not going to contaminate the crime scene. I lost my brother yesterday, and it would be helpful to be in his house for a few minutes. You can come with me if need be.”
“Sir,” she said with the most disrespect possible, “We don’t give guided tours of crime scenes.” She didn’t even look up at him. “Even for feds.”
This wasn’t a fight worth picking, so he walked over to the low stone wall in front of the neighbor’s house, sat down, and pretended to look in his bag for something in case the officer tried to shoo him away.
His phone dinged—an email from his ASAC. The National Security section chief had approved the NSL an hour earlier.
He knew not to go right back to the officer and pull rank. Better to wait for a shift change when he could start fresh.
There was other work to be done. Chicago PD would have already taken statements from the neighbors, but they weren’t looking for what he was looking for. They were worth a visit. The investigation began now.
He started with the house closest to Alex’s, a white-brick house that looked a bit more run down than the others on the block. The planters in front were empty and the window frames were molting. Royce pushed the bell, but heard nothing inside, so he raised the brass pineapple knocker, and let if fall heavily to the door. Thirty seconds passed, and then the door creaked open. Talk about the fattening of America; he’d taken down some giants, but the man standing before him was bigger than anyone he’d ever seen. The man took up the entire doorframe.
“I’m Alex Johnson’s brother, uh, Royce.”
“Oh my God, yes, I recognize you.” Within seconds, the massive arms of Alex’s neighbor enveloped him. The behemoth patted him on the back and whispered in his ear, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over again. When he finally released his grip, it was like surfacing after holding his breath under water.
“Thanks, that means a lot to me.” Royce said through gasps. “I didn’t know you and Alex were so close.”
“We weren’t, I mean, no more than neighbors typically,” the neighbor said through gentle sobs. Tears ran down the side of his nose. “Please come in.”
The house was filthy and cluttered, but the moldings were broad and carved with careful detail, and there were several stained-glass windows within eyeshot. The man waddled through the mess and sat down on a large leather couch. He pointed to a wooden chair.
“Please, make yourself at home.”
Feeling at home would have included picking up all the dirty dishes and newspapers off the floor, and an army of workers with garbage bags and Lysol to purge the place.
The man tried to sit forward a bit to show his sincerity and empathy, but his girth made this difficult. The fat rolls bulged like…Robert Earl Hughes—the fattest man in the world, according to the Guinness Book of World Records 1979. As a child, Alex had talked about him so much that forty years later, Royce could recall that his record-breaking weight was one thousand sixty-nine pounds. The way the neighbor looked right now was just how Robert Earl Hughes looked in that grainy, black-and-white photo on a dog-eared page in the book Alex carried with him everywhere as a child. Royce smiled at the thought but suppressed it so as not to offend his host.
A half-hour later, Royce had no new information to help the case, but the big man had exonerated himself as a suspect. Tears, sobs, and massive quivering showed how much the lonely giant depended on the occasional smile and kind word from next door. He would never have killed a source of emotional sustenance.
Royce moved on. He visited several other houses that morning, talking to nannies of Polish, Guatemalan, and Swedish descent. He learned nothing more than Officer Dziewulski told him on the phone—a few people heard a loud bang around 11 a.m.; no one saw anything suspicious.
A few blocks away on 53rd Street there were places to eat. An hour and a bowl of ramen later, he was back in front of the house and ready for a confrontation with Officer Facebook. But she was gone, and all that remained was the yellow police tape tied to the low wrought-iron fence that surrounded Alex’s property. Ducking under the tape, Royce walked up to the front door. An antique mailbox was stuck to the house next to the door, and in the lid he found a spare house key, right where Alex had always told him to find one in an emergency. He broke the police seal on the front door, and keyed in. The alarm keypad hung by a wire, disarmed by police after they forced their way in.
French doors separated the entryway from the living room. They opened noiselessly. There weren’t even any signs anything had happened there the day before. The wood floors were cleaned of any blood or skull fragments, and the place tidied up as if company were expected any minute.
Pulling latex gloves out of his Filson bag, he wiggled them on. The centerpiece of the living room was an oval walnut table. It was a gift from his parents. Now it stood where his brother must have fallen and bled to death.
Circling his fingertips slowly around the table’s edge, he tried to get a sense of what Alex might have been looking at or doing when he died. Two people had been in the room at the time, he was certain. At this point, he couldn’t be sure which way Alex was facing when he fell—was he walking toward the front door or the kitchen at the back of the house? Since the murder happened in the front room of the house, it figured that Alex let the person in—he knew him.
Royce scanned the scene, running through scenarios and looking for anything out of the ordinary. There appeared to be a bullet hole in the wall separating the living room and the kitchen. Black spray paint made a crude circle around the hole about one foot below the ceiling. The ceilings were at least ten feet high, which meant the bullet impacted the wall about nine feet off the ground. Alex was about six-foot-eight, so this was not impossible to imagine, but the location suggested that even for someone that tall, if it were suicide, the angle of the pistol had to be aimed upward. Did a typical person shooting in the temple aim parallel to the ground, slightly up, or slightly down? He didn’t know.
In the kitchen, Royce opened every drawer, every cabinet, and every container. Not looking for anything specific, just something that might inspire an idea. He opened every bottle and used his phone to google everything he didn’t immediately understand. Book titles he didn’t know, messages scribbled on unpaid bills, and matchbooks from local eateries. Moving on, he examined everything on Alex’s DVR and in his computer browser’s history.
On the top floor, the library was a treasure trove. Royce knew Alex spent a lot of hours here, reading and writing constantly. The room was a mess. Books and artifacts and just junk were piled everywhere. On Alex’s desk there were stacks of paper piled high. Royce could tell police investigators had been in this room and rifled through papers. There were forensic footprints all around. But why? Were they looking for a suicide note two floors up? Weren’t they usually found near the body? Suicide notes were designed to be public, not hidden.
Half an hour later, Royce wandered into the bedroom Alex and Claire had shared. Looking at the unmade king-size bed and the socks and underwear strewn about was depressing. And not just because of his penchant for order. The room smelled of his brother. Royce wanted to lie there with him, but there wasn’t time. He paused brother mode and hit play on investigator mode.
What was Alex thinking when he went to sleep two nights ago? Did he know his days were numbered?
“Who was after you, buddy?” he whispered in frustration, bouncing on the edge of the mattress.
The single drawer in the bedside table was, no surprise, filled with junk. Batteries and coins sifted through his fingers until he felt a prick. Pulling back, blood was pooling under the glove on the tip of his index finger. He squinted into the drawer to find the culprit. Under several pieces of paper—a few bills and scraps with hand-written notes—were dozens of used syringes. He picked one up and held it up to the light. Empty. Of what he couldn’t be sure.
He bolted down to the kitchen for a Ziploc bag. The local FBI crime lab was a quick Uber-ride downtown.
CHAPTER 11
June 1998
Chicago, Illinois
Alex sat in the bathroom tugging on the end of his flaccid penis. Nothing seemed to work, despite the fact that twenty yards down the hall Claire was naked and open to accept him. She was lying there vulnerable and totally exposed, cursing his stupid anxiety. Alex got up from the toilet, flushed the empty bowl to maintain the illusion he “had to go to the bathroom,” and walked into the library. He woke the computer and googled “hardcore orgy xxx.” Not even the graphic movies on the screen could make him hard.
“I don’t feel very well, honey. I think it might be food poisoning,” he shouted down the hall to his wife.
The next morning, they both pretended that nothing happened, but the space between them at the kitchen table while they drank their morning coffee was full of unasked questions and disappointment. They each were thinking of steps that would make sure this didn’t happen again—Alex planned to email his doctor to see if he could get a Viagra prescription; Claire planned to make an appointment with her therapist, as she needed someone neutral to tell what an ass her husband was.
On several occasions Claire did get pregnant and they made it to six or eight and even twelve weeks. But miscarriages came on top of miscarriages. As their friends became pregnant one after the other, month after month, they turned to science.
The process was simple in design, but in retrospect, so was the Bataan Death March. Alex administered shots of hormones to Claire’s backside nightly for weeks to stimulate egg production, then, when a sufficient number of follicles appeared, they were harvested surgically. He just had to add some of himself to the mix.
Of course, all this was easier said than done. When Alex first went to the clinic and saw the room where he was to do his part, he couldn’t pull the trigger. It was right on the hallway just paces from the waiting room. There were just few inches of cheap wood between him and dozens of nervous professional women in their late thirties. The last image before going to masturbate was of the other couples holding hands nervously waiting their turn. The husbands seemed anxious and the wives distraught. It was like a nightmare version of group sex.
