Dead Med, page 22
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.”
Erin is giving me a strange look. “Are you okay?”
Okay? No, I’m not okay! My anatomy professor is a drug dealer and a murderer, and I’m probably next on his hit list.
She squints at me. “You look like you’re on drugs.”
“On drugs?” I repeat. “You have no idea how far off you are.”
But the weird thing is that as she says it, I start to wonder. My thoughts have been racing lately in a way that they never have before. And Conlon clearly has access to an arsenal of substances. What if he’s been slipping me something? I’m not sure how he’d do it, but I’ve eaten plenty of meals in the hospital cafeteria. I’m sure he could pay someone off to get access to my food.
“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 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.
70
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 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.
My eyes drift 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. Maybe Conlon really is slipping me something.
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.
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 rise. “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. Something is wrong. Something is really, really wrong.
How could I have failed an exam? I’m the best student in the whole damn 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…” Dr. Conlon struggles to his feet. Or at least, he pretends 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.
71
On Thanksgiving, Abe stays at the dorms because he’s working at that student health clinic again on Black Friday. His family isn’t loaded like mine, so he’s always trying to pick up extra shifts—presumably to support his very expensive relationship with Heather. He’s not home yet when I go to bed for the night on Thanksgiving Day, 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 has already left for the clinic. My heart sinks when I notice that his bed is empty. I had wanted to talk to him before he left. Now, I’ll have to wait until tonight, and he often gets home very late from the clinic.
Just as I’m stumbling into the common room to see what there is to eat in our mini fridge, there’s a knock on the door. I can’t even begin to imagine who would be coming to visit us on the morning after Thanksgiving. I’m certainly not expecting anyone.
I throw open the door, and a classmate of mine named Victor is standing in front of me. He’s a tall, skinny guy who always looks like he’s had a bit too much coffee to drink. He raises a hand in greeting.
“Hey, Mason,” he says.
“Hey.”
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie sweatshirt. “Uh, is Abe around?”
I didn’t know Victor and Abe were friends. I don’t even know if I’ve ever seen the two of them talking to each other. “No…”
“Aw, seriously?” His face falls. “Well, will he be back soon?”
“Probably not. He’s working at the student clinic.”
Victor’s eyes light up. “Oh, it’s open today?”
“Uh, yeah…”
“Awesome, awesome.” He nods to himself. “I’ll get it there, then.”
With those words, he disappears down the hallway, a new skip in his step.
What the hell was that about? Why was Victor so desperate to find Abe? And what does he think he’s going to get at the clinic that he’s so excited about?
Oh. Oh shit.
I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner. The student health clinic is a perfect place for med students to get drugs illegally. And Conlon even has it advertised prominently on the bulletin board outside the anatomy lab. That’s how he must be spreading drugs to the students at DeWitt.
And Abe works there.
I can’t believe I almost confided in him. I don’t know exactly how much he is aware of or if he is just part of the totem pole of distribution, but it’s clear Abe can’t be trusted. Which means there’s nobody out there that I can trust.
I can only trust myself.
72
Forty hours. That’s about how long it’s been since I’ve last slept.
I would pay any amount of money just to get an hour of solid sleep. Not that I have any money, but I’d find a way. Hell, I’d take twenty minutes of sleep. But every time I close my eyes, my thoughts race. Dr. Conlon. My exam. Frank…
I wish I could turn it off somehow.
I check my watch—it’s close to midnight. Abe is lying in his bed, his breaths whistling between his lips. Even though he’s asleep, he’s not sleeping soundly—he tosses and turns and occasionally cries out. Once, he punched the wall in his sleep, hard enough to crack the plaster. It makes me nervous to be in the room with him.
Abe. What is his deal?
I thought Conlon might have been drugging me via the cafeteria food, but I recognize that’s a wild idea. But Abe and I have shared a lot of meals together. He has had numerous opportunities to slip me something to cloud my brain.
I notice that I’ve been absently scratching at my arms. I pull up my left sleeve, and there’s a rash running up the length of my forearm, covered in deep scratch marks from where I’ve been rubbing at it. The scratch marks are so bad that a few of them are oozing blood.
I lift my other sleeve—there’s a similar rash on my right forearm. What the hell? Why am I breaking out in weird rashes?
I pull up my pants legs and lift my shirt, but I don’t see anything similar there. It’s just on my arms. And it almost looks like a rash from being allergic to something. What have I been touching that would make me break out in a rash like this?
Shit. It must be Frank.
A shiver goes through my body. What has Frank’s corpse been contaminated with? What are we being exposed to?
Finally, I struggle to my feet, grab my car keys, and head out the door. I’ve got to get a look at Frank, away from prying eyes. I stumble down the stairs and manage to make it to my car.
I’m driving like shit, which is no big surprise, considering how tired I am. I keep weaving in and out of my lane—I probably seem drunk. My only saving grace is that there are no other cars on the road and no cops lying in wait. If there were, I’d probably land myself in jail.
I reach the hospital lot and park crookedly across two spaces. I hurry into the building, the sound of my sneakers slamming into the pavement, echoing in the silent hallways. I continue running until I find myself outside the anatomy lab. I stare down at the combination lock on the lab door. I punch in the code shakily—I have to do it three times before I get it right.
The frigid air of the anatomy lab hits me like a slap in the face. My eyelids had been sagging before, but now they’re wide open. I look around the room, at the rows of dead bodies under thick plastic. The only sound is the whir of the air conditioner—it’s almost comforting.
I’m breathing hard as I walk over to Table 13. Frank. Like every other cadaver in the room, Frank is covered in plastic. I pull the plastic off the body, not bothering to cover my hands in gloves.
Frank’s dead, and I suspect foul play. It’s obvious he hasn’t been shot and isn’t the victim of trauma. So that leads me to believe he’s been poisoned. Poisoned with something toxic enough to make me break out in a rash all over my arms. I just need to prove it.
Most of Frank’s blood is congealed, but it’s still there. If I can get a sample of his blood, I can send it off to a lab to be analyzed. I’m hoping there’s some way they can check for poisons or other things that might be responsible for his death. And after I can prove Frank was murdered, I can go to the police and implicate Conlon.
I stare down at the cadaver. We dissected Frank’s face weeks ago. It’s barely even recognizable as a face anymore, pulled apart by scalpels and forceps. I wish I’d gotten a good look at him before we did this. It makes it almost impossible to recognize him from photos in the obituaries.
I look down at Frank’s arm, where the tattoo had been only a few days earlier. To Serve and Protect. I remember I came to the end of the last lab to see Rachel dissecting the other arm, but the arm with the tattoo was still intact. But somehow, the tattoo is now ripped apart.
I examine the arm further, and my skin begins to crawl. This arm hasn’t just been dissected—it’s been destroyed. The muscles are ripped apart, the skin is sliced into pieces… and when I look down at Frank’s legs, they’re in the same condition.
Frank’s arms and legs are all ripped to shreds.
Whoever did this dissection wasn’t interested in learning. They were trying to destroy evidence—the very evidence I’d been looking for. And they were extremely thorough.
I’m not imagining this—it’s real. This is concrete evidence that something is going on. Someone has mutilated Frank’s body in order to protect himself.
“You’re close, Mason,” a gruff voice speaks up. “Don’t give up.”
I jump, startled. It’s the same voice I’ve been hearing all along but louder and clearer. I look around the room, trying to figure out where the voice came from. But there’s no one else in the room. It’s just me. Just me and Frank. Frank.
The dead body is talking to me.
Oh Christ. Oh shit.
Without bothering to cover Frank up again, I run out of the anatomy lab. Even the sound of the door to the lab slamming closed behind me offers no comfort. I need to talk to someone, someone who I know for sure is real. But who the hell can I talk to when it’s close to midnight? What other soul would still be awake at this hour?
Sasha. She always studies at the library until it closes at midnight.
I head in the direction of the library. I notice that the student working at the desk gives me a funny look when I first come in, but I flash my student ID, and she nods at me. I hurry to the far corner of the library, where Sasha always studies. When I get there, she is packing up her books, ready to head home for the night.
“Sasha,” I say breathlessly as I reach her side.
She looks up at me, and the horror on her face is a reflection of my appearance.
“Oh my God, Mason,” she murmurs. “What happened?”
“Sasha, please,” I whisper. I fall to my knees in front of her, holding both her hands in mine. “I think… I think I might be losing it…”
“It’s the stress,” Sasha acknowledges. “I feel the same way sometimes.”
“No, it’s more than that…” I lower my head. Tears rise in my eyes. I haven’t cried since I was six years old when my cat died. And even then, I tried to hide it because I didn’t want my father to think I was weak. “There’s something wrong with me. I know it.”
“Every medical student turns into a hypochondriac,” Sasha says in a soothing voice. “You’ve just gotta take it easy. Anyway, people who are going crazy usually have no idea they’re going crazy. So I think you’re safe.”
“Is that a rule?”
Sasha smiles and touches my cheek. “You just need to get some sleep, Mason.”
I close my eyes and shake my head to clear it. Maybe she’s right. Anyone would be hearing things if they had so little sleep. I look up at her dark-brown hair and remember how I’d been surprised, the first time I touched it, by how soft it was. I haven’t touched Sasha’s hair in a long time. I wonder how I let myself screw things up with her. If only I hadn’t brought her home with me that night… maybe we’d be something more than friends right now.
“Sasha, do you… do you want to go to the locker rooms with me?” I ask half-heartedly.
She shakes her head. “You know we have our final exam coming up. I need to head home and get some rest.”
“What if I promise to shower first?” I say, flashing my most charming smile.
Sasha laughs and kisses the top of my head. “Go get some sleep, Mason.”
And just like that, I feel better. I feel like maybe I could go home and get some sleep that night. I leave Sasha and walk back out to my car, my eyelids growing heavier by the second. For the first time in days, my heart is beating at a normal pace. Sasha is right. I’m just putting too much stress on myself.
Or maybe…
I unlock the door to my car, trying to push away the thoughts intruding on my brain. I have to get home. I have to get to sleep. I have to study.
Or maybe she’s in on it too.
73
I didn’t even realize I had dozed off until the phone starts ringing. I open my eyes and take in the darkness of the room. Was it dark when I first went to sleep? I can’t even remember anymore.
I only sleep in snatches of a couple of hours. If I could get a full eight hours of sleep, I’d feel like myself again. I even begged Abe for some pills to help me out, but he pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about, like he wasn’t a drug dealer. Everyone is lying to me.
