Resolve (8 page)

Jacob had his post-run routine down to a science. He owned an expensive running belt that exhibited a series of elastic pouches that were perfectly sized for his gel packs. That way, Jacob could pull out particular flavors of mushy calories at the specific points his cyborg brain had computed that his body would need the energy. Whenever we went on training runs, he popped out those gel packs one at a time, going straight down his neatly planned-out row. After every run, the first thing he did, once we returned to the locker room—even before showering—was to prepare his running belt for the next run by reloading the silver carbohydrate bullets vertically into the pockets. The ceremony resembled a legendary hunter getting ready to go out on a safari the next day. He carefully calculated at what points he would squeeze the calories into his system and stuck with it religiously. Calories replaced verses calories burned.

In spite of my smart-ass urges, I never gave him a hard time about his obsessive preparation. Jacob was all business when it came to preparation and I had to respect his ritual, if for no other reason than I got the feeling that it would be like teasing General Sherman about playing with matches. He knew exactly what he was doing and it was probably best if you didn’t get in his way.

Randy was the first one to finish up, and he grumbled a goodbye to all of us as he carried his damaged demeanor out of the locker room. Aaron soon followed, allowing enough time so he wouldn’t have to walk out with Randy, and he mumbled something about running off to teach a
useless
business ethics class.

Jacob had made his way over to the mirror and adjusted a Windsor knot in a silk tie. “Are you just going to stand there half-naked or are you going to hit the showers?” he asked while eyeing me in the mirror.

Taking his age and life’s work into account, Jacob was the unquestionable star of our running group in terms of both stamina and academic reputation. He served as the senior faculty member in the Psychology department; and because of his track record in obtaining huge research grants and his close friendship with Clyde Silo, the Dean of Academic Affairs, he was undoubtedly the most powerful professor at Three Rivers. That explained why the Department of Psychology somehow thrived at a school that was more oriented toward specific vocations.

Every time I was in here with Jacob, I felt a ridiculous discomfort—like a boy standing in a locker room full of men. My physical conditioning certainly wasn’t the reason for this feeling. I’m not embarrassed to walk around shirtless. Other than a long scar on my right forearm from a homeless guy’s box cutter, I look to be in good shape. I mean I’m not going to be on the cover of
Men’s Health
or anything, but as far as college professors go, I’m above the mean. And I’m not shy about what’s below the waist. I mean I’m not going to be on the cover of—well, you get the picture.

Of all the silly things, I feel weird about my tattoo. I have the scales of justice tattooed on my left shoulder with the word justice in block letters below the base of the scales. When I was twenty-two and trying to feel tough while working the Front Street area of Baltimore, getting some symbolic ink seemed like a fine idea. It was a reminder that regardless of what evils I encountered, I still needed to pursue the ideal. The ideal what? I’m not sure. The ideal system? Outcome? Cause?

Regardless, I have always felt idiotic when talking to Jacob and having the scales sitting there in plain view. The scene has always brought to mind images of Cooter from
The Dukes of Hazard
trying to have a conversation with Gregory Peck. You wouldn’t even be able to follow the conversation, because you would just want them to return to their normal environments so everyone could feel comfortable again.

Wishing I hadn’t taken my shirt off, I told Jacob, “I’ve got a problem. I messed up and word is going to get around real quick.”

Jacob turned from his reflection and uttered in his best conspiratorial tone, “I really hope you’re not going to confess to murder, my boy. I may be able to give you tips on building an insanity defense, but I can’t make any promises.”

I thought he was serious until one side of his mouth started to curl up.

“No, of course not. But my talk with the detectives didn’t go well.”

Jacob waited stone-faced for me to continue.

The locker room door behind me swung open, and we both remained silent until a student passed by on his way to the urinals. The pause gave Jacob a moment to think of something else, and once the visitor was out of earshot he broke the silence.

“You didn’t . . . I mean you weren’t . . . Cyprus, did you . . . do something with that girl? Like . . . sexually?”

His face was the picture of concern and I was taken aback by it. Surely he knew that Kaitlyn meant everything to me and that I meant everything to her. He had met her on several occasions, and he and Tabatha had had us over for dinner more than once. Since his wife’s death we hadn’t visited him, but that was to be expected. I instantly forgave his suspicions because I supposed that at his age he had seen plenty of men screw up their marriages for three minutes of pleasure. I mean thirty minutes. If it were me, of course.

“No. Nothing like that.” I chose not to tell him about her interest in me. “But they started asking me about Lindsay possibly having a relationship with Steven Thacker.”

“The graduate assistant you can’t stand?”

I thought about arguing about my level of dislike for Steven, but I quashed the thought, remembering how many times I had bitched about him to Jacob.

I nodded in affirmation.

“So? Was he seeing her?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive . . .” I tried to continue but Jacob beat me to the punch.

“Because you know you never really know a person. He could have been hiding it from you. He is a graduate assistant after all, and the university policy . . .”

I couldn’t go through this again.

Keeping my voice to a loud whisper, “He’s gay, Jacob. He wasn’t seeing Lindsay. I’m sure. One hundred percent—no doubt about it—would bet my house on it—certain.”

Jacob raised his eyebrows and gave a slight nod. His expression then became quizzical.

“Well then, what’s the problem? You weren’t involved with her and neither was your grad assistant.”

There was a flush, and we waited while the relieved student passed by our aisle and left the locker room. He didn’t wash his hands. I hate that.

I explained how Steven was not openly gay and how I had managed to broadcast his sexual preference on a Goodyear blimp. Jacob sat on the nearest bench, looking down at the tiles contemplatively. I could tell that he was playing out multiple scenarios in his head.

“It’s going to get around, you know. This university isn’t as sensitive to political correctness as most, but this could cause big trouble for you. Especially if Steven makes a formal complaint against you.”

“I know. I was thinking about trying to get in front of this thing.”

“Absolutely.” Jacob agreed. “You may as well be open and contrite now. You made a mistake, but this isn’t the end of the world. You need to take this up the chain and explain the circumstances.”

“You’re forgetting that I’m not exactly considered the golden child over at Castle Silo.”

I was referring to the impressive-looking Whitlock Building that housed the Office of Academic Affairs. Dean Silo had never been a fan of mine and the feeling was mutual. The university’s unique regulations allowed the individual academic departments to hire and fire their own faculty members, and Silo was relegated to only making recommendations. During my employee orientation, I had met with him and immediately picked up on some feelings of animosity. Subsequently, I would run into him at various faculty functions and the negative vibes only worsened. So I spent most of the first few months at the school slightly curious as to why I rubbed the dean the wrong way, but it honestly didn’t bother me too much.

At some point I made some offhand remark about the dean’s lack of affection for me to Jacob, who I knew was close with Silo. Jacob confided in me that Silo had been pushing for one of his close personal friends—a very well-known professor at Duke—to get the position that I eventually obtained. Despite having achieved a pretty good reputation for my PhD work, on paper alone, I wouldn’t have stood a chance against this guy.

We were both interviewed for the job, and the Criminology staff felt my competitor brought with him the attitude that he was going to come up to the Steel City and show the local, small-time professors how things were really supposed to be done. The man from North Carolina carried on for forty-five minutes about “fixing” the department, while sharing his vision of producing the state’s best legal scholars and topnotch law students. He cited numerous studies he had conducted and books he had written. At one point, without any prompting, he actually got up and handed the panel autographed copies of his latest book—about the Social Threat Theory. This prompted another twenty-minute speech in which he condescended to his audience, while elaborating on a theory that any second-year Criminology undergraduate student would have grasped immediately.

Jacob couldn’t help but laugh when he recalled the rest of the story as it was told to him. According to Jacob, one of the members of the selection committee, who happened to have been a rather serious-looking former Secret Service agent named Brent, waited for the lecturer to lose steam, and then asked the interviewee one question. He inquired if the renowned professor was familiar with the Proximity Pummeling Theory. The professor cocked his head so far that his glasses slipped down his nose. After a moment’s thought, he replied that he had not heard of it. Brent then stood up, leaned forward, his hands tightly seizing the oak table in front of him, and told the prospective employee that if he didn’t get his ass out of that room and back down I-79 he was going to become an ideal case study on the topic.

As the enraged academic piloted a silver
BMW
through unapologetic Pennsylvania hills, I pulled onto the campus in my used Jeep Wrangler. I took my turn with the committee and was amazed that my down-to-earth disposition struck a chord with them. I think the job offer was cemented when the man I would come to know as Brent Lancaster looked slyly at his fellow committee members, and asked me if I had heard of the Proximity Pummeling Theory. I responded by telling him that I was once bitten on the neck by a coked-up auto mechanic during an arrest. I had been trying to cuff the guy when I unexpectedly found myself wrestling with him in a tiny closet inside a moldy apartment. That’s when he decided to go Pac-Man on me. I explained to Brent that I had practical experience in testing the theory in a controlled environment, and that I found the theory to be useful if applied properly.

Jacob put on his suit jacket and started for the door. “Don’t worry about Silo. I’ll have a word with him before you head over there. Today’s Friday, and he’s usually tied up in the afternoons. I’ll speak to him this weekend, and then you should make an appointment to see him on Monday.”

I agreed and Jacob secured his locker before heading out the door.

The steam in the locker room had vanished and a rush of uncomfortably cool air from the hallway had rushed past Jacob on his way out. I realized that as naked as I felt now, Monday would probably be worse.

After I showered and dressed, I headed back to my office and tried to get some work done. I had a stack of essays to read from my Introduction to Criminology class. I feigned interest and picked up a stapled grouping of white sheets. This course, and the Victimology class, kept me more than busy since I typically required students to submit research papers and essays rather than simply giving them multiple choice exams. I gave up after my fifth attempt at reading some freshman’s essay on the disparities between the prison sentences of white collar criminals and typical street offenders.

The fact that some CEO can steal a quarter of a million dollars and get a few months in a minimum security facility, while a guy who takes two hundred bucks from a convenience store register gets several years in the state pen, is inexcusable. But regardless of the topic, I couldn’t focus on the words and I soon lost interest.

Kaitlyn was going to be home this afternoon, so I decided to call it an early day. She had managed to set up a pretty successful private practice near our home in Wexford, and she met with patients in a modest office that was only five minutes away. If she didn’t have any appointments scheduled, she could simply work from home with her assistant, a brown beagle mix named Sigmund.

Being a workaholic, it was always a safe bet that Kaitlyn was being productive regardless of her environment. Even on weekends, she volunteered at the local children’s hospital counseling terminally-ill kids and their families. The hospital staff absolutely loved her, and she managed to draw billboard-sized smiles out of sick children and desperate parents with ease. On a few occasions, I had accompanied her to the hospital and personally witnessed her rock star status in action. To watch her cast her spell was intoxicating in itself. On this day, she would need to brew a very special potion to lighten my darkening mood.

After a quick fifteen-minute drive, I pulled into our subdivision glad that our two-story home was far from the highway. The west end of the development was where the houses had some room to inhale. It was nice being close to a city and all of its urban amenities, yet still spot the occasional deer walking past the yard. Sigmund was a huge fan of the arrangement since our backyard—enclosed by a natural wood picket fence—allowed him to see the wildlife and unleash his devastating beagle bark on Mother Nature whenever he saw fit. As I pulled into the driveway, I saw a floppy-eared head pop up in the front window like a prairie dog searching the horizon for activity. When my key hit the front door, I could already hear toenails tapping in rapid succession on the hardwood floor. I entered the house and was immediately attacked by two front paws and a wet nose. Unfortunately, due to Sigmund’s height, when he lunges at me his paws and nose tend to strike me in the id, ego, and superego. In this instance, I turned away sharply and narrowly avoided several minutes of being doubled over in pain.