voluntary.”
“Yeah,” Mark said. “That was a traumatic experience, and I think she blocked it out.”
Ayanadi nodded. “Briggs was testing fear response, one of the favorite subjects of psychologists. On paper, he was conducting a simple maze experiment, similar to the Stanford Prison Experiment in which volunteers divided into the roles of guards and prisoners. They soon socialized and adapted to those roles, so much so that guards turned violent and the prisoners had trouble adjusting back to their regular lives.”
“In other words, the make-believe became real.”
“Yes, and whatever happened out there with Briggs must have been terrible.”
“Out there? The records said the trials were conducted here in the pharmacy school.”
Ayanadi’s face pinched in anguish. “Yes, that’s what the papers say. There was a big hush-hush, so much at stake, lawsuits and funding. The dean and chancellor thought it best to have it appear as a tragic accident. Susan Sharpe’s body was found at the foot of the stairs in the basement, suffering multiple contusions.”
Mark wondered why his wife never mentioned the incident, but he also couldn’t accept she had any part in it. “I don’t understand.”
“Whatever Briggs did to those volunteers, somehow Susan Sharpe was beaten to death as a result.”
“No,” Mark said, reluctant to believe the nation’s oldest university had skeletons in its closet. But he of all people should know that the most polished veneer could hide the most alarming atrocities. CRO bent ethical rules as a standard operating procedure.
“No charges filed,” Ayanadi said. “That would have been disastrous to all involved. The university police handled the investigation, the Board of Trustees negotiated in closed session, and a football booster funded the confidential settlement with the Sharpe family. The official report said she died here from a fall down the stairs. A tragic accident.”
Mark had seen photographs of domestic-violence victims, people who had taken a pounding yet walked away. He couldn’t picture the amount of blows it would take to kill someone.
He now remembered reading about the incident in the Daily Tar Heel. With a student population of 26,000 people, a death was unusual but quickly swept past in the bustle of rock bands, politics, frat parties, and sports.
“Susan Sharpe,” Mark said. “She was a student?”
Ayanadi cocked a bushy eyebrow. “They were all students, except Briggs, who had recently earned his doctorate and was teaching part-time. Briggs couldn’t stay on, of course. He didn’t help himself with his refusal to cooperate. And his personality didn’t lend itself to the support of allies.”
“If these trials were going on in the building, how did he manage to keep it secret?”
“No. His research here was innocuous, camouflage for the real work he was conducting in the Research Triangle. He never divulged the real location.”
“Surely the cops found the lab?” Despite CRO’s involvement, Mark had never heard a mention of the tragedy within the corporation. No surprise there.
“As I said, this was hush-hush. No one looked because no one wanted to see.”
Mark did a quick calculation in his head. That would have been nearly two years before he met Alexis. And, despite her generally positive demeanor, at times a shadow crossed her face as if doom had skirted past without her fully recognizing it. Like most young married couples, they’d been more interested in their future together than the mistakes and secrets of their individual pasts.
“These other…subjects. What happened to them?”
The professor shook his head. “I don’t recall all the names, but I distinctly remember Wendy Leng, because she later joined our art faculty.”
Wendy. Lex’s friend. And they never mentioned the trials…
Wendy had married a man named Roland, who had been in school with the two of them. He and Alexis had attended the wedding, where Roland had gotten embarrassingly drunk and made a fool of himself. Mark wondered who else among his wife’s friends had been involved, and how much that friendship was built around a shared secret.
“One last question, Doctor. Was CRO backing Briggs at the time?”
Dr. Ayanadi stared at the periodic chart on the wall, as if he could rearrange the elements and structure the world into something good, whole, and sane. “CRO has always been a generous benefactor of our program, Mark. A relationship we all hope to continue.”
Mark tapped the counter on his way to the door. “No one looks because no one wants to see, right?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kleingarten held the little orange bottle of pills about six inches out of Anita Molkesky’s reach. The hunger in her eyes was unmistakable. He’d handled his share of drugged-out hookers, and when the need sunk in its teeth, they would do anything for a fix.
Anything.
This Briggs guy was on to something.
“You know you need it, honey,” he said.
“I need it,” she murmured.
She was sitting on the bed like she knew her way around it. She looked a little rougher than she had in the waffle house, just before he’d crashed the car into it. Briggs had called the collision a “trigger” and said it would kick in the necessary adrenalin to juice her brain. Kleingarten had cut him off before Briggs launched into a lecture, but he understood the basic idea. He knew plenty about drugs and hookers.
The only thing he couldn’t understand was why Briggs had gone for the Slant when this gooey candy on the hoof was available. Sure, she’d had some work done, and those melons were inflated by at least two letter sizes, but she looked like she was primed for partying.
He’d picked her up outside the hospital after her appointment with just a few well-chosen words. He’d use them again if he had to.
“Okay, Daddy will fix you up, but I just need you to do one thing for me, okay?”
She nodded. One thing was easy.
Kleingarten looked around the motel room. It was a lot like the one in Cincinnati where he’d killed that hooker while Roland Doyle was in sand land-cheap paneling, a chipped dresser, a single lamppost, and an EZ chair that, despite its obvious age, had no ass print in the seat. Nobody came to motel rooms to sit around in chairs.
He pulled the digital tape recorder from his pocket. He thought about playing with her a little, but the doc had said the recording was an important part of the job. In fact, it pretty much was the job. The rest was bonus.
“Are you going to hurt me?” she asked, her tone flat, like she couldn’t care less one way or another.
“Maybe,” he said, with equal ambivalence. She was taking the fun out of it.
He held the recorder out and hit the button so the red light came on. It was a basic Sony model, but solid, and it would record for a week if he needed it to. He didn’t think he’d need it.
“Here’s what you say, Anita. You say, ‘Wendy, I’m in the Monkey House.’”
“But I’m not in the Monkey House. I’m in a motel room.”
He wondered if she’d been hitting other stuff besides Briggs’s happy pills. Maybe a barbiturate or oxy. He didn’t know how the Halcyon would react with other drugs, but he figured it wasn’t his problem.
“Take two. Say ‘Wendy, I’m in the Monkey House,’ only say it like you’re scared. Like in a panic.”
“I was an actress.”
“Yeah, I bet. Weren’t you with George Clooney in that, whatsit, the Ocean’s Fifteen?”
“No, but I met him once.”
One thing about human nature, you gave somebody a chance to brag and they forgot all about their problems for a second. Kleingarten shook the bottle to bring her back around.
“Wendy, I’m in the Monkey House.”
She closed her eyes, maybe channeling Marilyn Monroe. “Wendy, I’m in the Monkey House.”
“Not bad, but a little more energy. You sound like you’re getting your nails done.” Kleingarten cut the
