Read the Devil's Workshop (1999) Online

Authors: Stephen Cannell

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BOOK: the Devil's Workshop (1999)
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She'd been on the phone late last night for an hour with her husband, Max, who was in Fort Detrick, Maryland. He'd talked her down off her narrow, anxious ledge, getting her back on the ground with sure-handed reason. He reminded her of her academic track record. Throughout her three and a half years of doctoral study, she had carried a 3.9 cumulative G
. P. A
. He promised her she'd be fine. There had been a moment during the conversation when she'd sensed from his voice that something was very wrong and had asked him about it.

After a long reflective pause he'd said, "This isn't anything like I'd expected. I don't think I belong here, and they sure as hell don't want me." He'd refused to say anything more, because he didn't want to distract her with his problems on the eve of the Quals. Her orals were the last hurdle and would determine whether Stacy would end up with a Ph
. D
. after her name.

Dr. Max Richardson was head of the Microbiology Department at USC. She had met him in her first post-grad semester. He ran an open lab on viruses and she had listened to his lectures, marveling at the intricacies of his scientific mind and the strong masculine shape of his personality, and okay, his body too. Their romance caused a furor in the department. Dating students was definitely not allowed. Before it became a full-fledged disaster they'd gotten married, legitimizing it, and everything had died down.

Six months after the wedding, Max's federal research grant came through. He'd been working in a new field of microbiology, evaluating killer proteins called "Prions." Max's research had won him a six-month sabbatical to study at the Army Medical Facility at Fort Detrick, Maryland, with Dr. Dexter DeMille, the leading U
. S
. microbiologist on Prion research.

They'd discussed the bad timing. With Stacy just months from her orals, Max had not wanted to be away, especially since Art Hickman, his mortal enemy in the department, was also on the Advisory Panel, which would be evaluating her. Max and Art had both been up for Department Chair. Max had gotten the job, and Art had been backbiting him ever since. In the end, Stacy and Max had both decided that the chance to work with Dr. DeMille at Fort Detrick was such an incredible opportunity for Max that he should take it. Stacy said she would just study her brains out so that Art Hickman would not be able to fault her performance.

Wendell Kinney was also on her panel. He was a rumpled old Microbiology Department lion and a great friend to both Max and her.

"Remember," Wendell said, bringing her thoughts back, "anything's fair in a Qual. These guys can and will ask you about everything. Courtney Smith loves her Sterilization and Disinfection discipline, so she's bound to ask you something on that. And Art Hickman will drill you on his damned arachnids."

"I wish he'd stayed in the bush with those fucking spiders," Stacy said, letting out a sigh that blew a wisp of her long, honey
-
blond hair up in the air in front of her. She grabbed the strand and tucked it behind her ear.

It didn't help that just about everybody felt that Stacy Richardson was drop-dead beautiful. Immediately after she enrolled in the doctorate program, Art Hickman had tried to become her mentor. He said he wanted to take her under his wing, but it was soon apparent it wasn't his wing he wanted her under. She had efficiently dodged him. Art had taken it okay until she'd fallen in love with and married his departmental rival. He'd been lobbing grenades ever since.

The door opened and Dr. Courtney Smith was standing in the threshold of her office. There was always at least one woman on the Advisory Panel when another woman was up for her doctorate. Choosing Courtney's office for the orals was another extension of that political agenda.

Courtney Smith was a mannish, Janet Reno-sized biologist who wore pant suits that were always several sizes too small, as if she was desperately trying to convince herself she was still a twelve when she had long ago moved into the "generous" sizes. The shoulders in her boxy suit were padded to try to give the impression of a waist, also a lost horizon. She was holding a sheaf of folders against her ample chest.

"Today's the day," Dr. Smith smiled, showing a grayish row of tombstone-shaped teeth.

"Yep. Hope I'm up to it," Stacy nervously replied, as she followed Dr. Smith into the small office.

Stacy had given up wearing skirts and dresses in favor of blue jeans and sweatshirts in an effort to disguise her figure. It was hard to be taken seriously while tenured department morons like Art Hickman referred to her as Max's "Hood Angel."

For her qualifying orals, she had chosen to wear loose flannel slacks, which did nothing for her, and a T-shirt under a blue blazer. She had her hair pinned up with a brown plastic clip and wore no makeup.

She looked fantastic.

The office was small and stuffy. It was April, but the Santa Anas had been blowing a hot wind across the L
. A
. basin, driving the temperature up into the mid-eighties.

Courtney motioned to the window. "They never have the air
-
conditioning on this time of year and that window got painted shut around the turn of the century, so I called maintenance to bring us a fan. They should be here any minute."

"It's okay. It's fine, Dr. Smith," Stacy said, her heart jack
-
hammering, her hands flapping around her like small bony sparrows. She told herself to calm down. After all, she'd been having breakfasts with the entire panel at least once a week, all through the year. She knew them all well.

It was the practice for doctorate students to get as close to their advisors as possible. The faculty viewed this exercise as an attempt to make friends, so students could come to them with study problems, but any post-grad would tell you the real reason from the students' perspective was to psych out the advisor's pet projects or pet peeves. Hopefully one could discern what might be asked on the oral.

Now Art Hickman appeared in the doorway, pushing his new swivel chair. He was heavy-set, and his blow-dried, combed-over blond hair tented a patch of open scalp. A sharp, clipped mustache seemed a misplayed note in a symphony of fleshy curves. "Am I the last?" he said, then turned to Stacy, grinning wolfishly. "Well, Mrs. Richardson, are we ready?" Using her married name was a slap not lost on any of them. Art glanced in Courtney's office. "Where's H
. R
.?" he asked, referring to Dr. Horace Rosenthal.

"Here," a voice caroled from down the hall, and then Dr. Rosenthal appeared, a large, worn briefcase in hand. He was tall and slender and always wore bow ties. He was "Mr. Plant Virus." Rosenthal could talk for hours on vegetable diseases, soil antigens, and whatnot. Stacy had read all his published papers, searching for his pet theories.

"Stacy. Big day," Horace said, smiling. He had ivory-white skin. Blue veins roadmapped under a papery complexion that suggested he rarely got outside. His bow tie this morning was a cherry
-
red number with, of all things, a pattern of tiny clocks on it. Who was it that said, ' 'Nobody ever takes a man in a bow tie seriously,'' Stacy thought nervously.

"Let's get going," Courtney said. "Horace, you can drag that extra chair over from the window."

Rosenthal grabbed the oversized upholstered chair and tugged it around like a rusted gun battery to face the room. Stacy was offered a metal student's chair, but she elected to remain standing. Wendell Kinney winked at her and kicked the door shut.

"Okay," Art Hickman said. "To begin with,
"
snaps' on a great Written. You really aced that puppy." He liked to try to sound hip, using the vernacular of his students. "But, as you know, the qualifying orals are intended to be a much wider-ranging set of questions. What we're trying to determine is, not your technical or book expertise, but more how you will deal with the broader, less defined concepts of microbiology."

"I understand," she said.

"Any of us might interrupt you at a given point in your answer and ask for definitions or elaborations of your thoughts, or perhaps even redirect you. Don't view that as criticism. We are only searching the corners of your knowledge," he continued.

"Yes, Doctor, I understand."

"It'd be nice if we could be finished by lunch. I hate sending out," Dr. Courtney Smith said.

Wendell Kinney shot Stacy a slight smile. He sure called that one, she thought. If she passed her Quals she would only have her doctorate thesis left, and most of them had already read sections of that emerging document entitled "Neurotransmission in Rhabdovirus Infection of Raccoon Species." It promised to be an exceptional piece of student science.

"So, let's get started," Wendell Kinney said, cheerfully.

Here we go, Stacy thought, crossing her fingers behind her back.

"I'd like you to explain the possible relationship of herpes viruses to multiple sclerosis," Dr. Hickman began, brushing his fingers across his neat little mustache.

"Yes," Stacy said, clearing her throat to buy a few seconds.

"Take your time, Stacy. You don't have to rush your answers," Wendell reminded her.

"Yes, thank you, Doctor.... According to a recent study, seventy percent of the patients with the most common form of MS showed signs of active infection with human herpes virus six."

"A study, Mrs. Richardson?" Art Hickman interrupted. "What study? The study of California muffler mechanics? Let's be specific."

"Uh, the ... the finding was reported in the December issue of Nature and Medicine, and was conducted at the University of Minnesota. ... And uh ... Research Associates funded it, a government bio-research funding bank. The study was annotated by--"

"That's okay," he cut her off. "Just don't use generalities. Go on." He was still stroking his bullshit mustache.

"Yes, Doctor." She continued, "Representational difference
s w
ere used to search for pathogens in multiple sclerosis brain tissue..."

Joanne Richardson almost hit the University policeman as she pulled her car into the Science Campus lot, parking her red Toyota sloppily across two spaces.

The cop moved to the passenger window of her car and glared in angrily. Joanne was gathering up her purse and had her head down as he rapped on the window.

"Hey! You almost ran me down!" he growled through the glass. When she looked up, he could see that she was crying. Tears were streaming, running her mascara, leaving black clown smudges.

"Where's the Science Building?" Joanne sobbed, rolling down the window.

"You almost hit me," the University cop said, his anger coasting to an awkward stop as he looked at the pretty twenty-year-old.

"Where is it? I have to get there, now."

He finally relented. "The new Science Building or the old Science Building?"

"I don't know, she didn't say."

"You looking for classrooms or faculty?"

"Faculty," she said, choking back a sob.

"First, center this vehicle inside the lines, then go along this walk, past Sprague Hall, turn left at the statue of Tommy Trojan. It's three buildings down, on the left, a big brick job."

She reparked the car, quickly got out, and ran up the street. It only took her a few minutes to find the building. She ran up the steps into an entry that was filled with glass cases. Some contained faculty awards, some had student projects. Years of Lysol had turned the light gray linoleum floor yellow. There was a reception desk in front of the elevators, where an Assistant Professor sat grading papers, guarding the entrance like a soccer goalie.

"I need Dr. Courtney Smith's office," Joanne said, out of breath.

The Assistant Professor looked up at the tear-streaked face across from him. "Third floor, but I'm sorry, you can't go up there. She's giving orals."

"I've got to talk to my sister-in-law, Stacy Richardson. It's important."

"You can't break into her Quals. You'll just have to wait down here."

"For how long?" Joanne asked, her voice cracking pitifully.

"Could be three or four hours, maybe longer."

"I can't wait." She turned, and forgoing the elevators, ran around him and up the stairs.

The Assistant Professor dropped the paper he was grading and bolted after her.

Joanne got to the third floor and ran down the corridor. None of the offices had names on them, just numbers. She started to look for a directory board, but the man finally caught up with her and grabbed her arm.

"I need to talk to Stacy. She's in Dr. Smith's office," Joanne repeated.

"I told you, you can't talk to her. She's taking orals."

"It's an emergency!" Joanne paused to catch her breath. "Her husband just committed suicide!"

Dr. Horace Rosenthal had abandoned his beloved plant viruses to ask a question on HIV infection. "Give us an identification of the chemokine receptor expressed in brain-derived cells and T-cells as a new co-receptor for HIV infection."

"We have isolated HIV-r variants that infect brain-derived CK4 positive cells ..." Stacy began, as there was a knock at the door.

"We're in Quals!" Dr. Smith bellowed at the door. "Go on, Stacy."

BOOK: the Devil's Workshop (1999)
3.29Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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