Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) Read online

  The dean looked at her and shrugged, “No. Sorry. I’m afraid not.” He smiled politely and closed the door.

  Alone in the exam room, Lucy removed her blouse and bra and stopped to appraise her rash in the wall mirror. The elevated pink circle on her chest hadn’t grown since Saturday, but then it hadn’t gotten any smaller either. And it still looked gross. Hurrying to cover up, she slipped on the ill-fitting, coarse paper gown just as Dr. Palmer walked in carrying her chart.

  “Good morning, Miss Peters.”

  Always so formal. Not that he wasn’t nice. Lucy just wished Dr. Palmer would smile once in a while — like Nurse Matthews.

  “Hi.” Spying the empty blood specimen vials and syringe tucked into the pocket of his long white coat, she asked sheepishly, “You won’t need to stick me today, will you, Dr. Palmer?”

  Palmer ignored the question. Instead he turned to a clean page in her medical record and began to write as he documented her symptoms. “When did you first notice the rash?”

  “Saturday. Actually my friend Anne pointed it out to me. She —”

  “So you hadn’t noticed it before?”

  “No.”

  “It isn’t painful?”

  “No?”

  “Any itching?”

  “No.” The same questions Anne had posed.

  “How have you been feeling generally?”

  “Well, I haven’t really had much of an appetite,” Lucy admitted. “And I guess I haven’t been sleeping much.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  Lucy grew shy. How could she tell him about Chris? Can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t keep my mind on anything but Christopher Oken. “Well, I, uh. It’s probably because uh, because I have a new boyfriend.” There. She said it.

  Dr. Palmer looked at her for the first time. His gaze seemed stern. “Are you having sex with him?”

  Lucy reddened. “Yes,” she whispered, after a moment. The same fear experienced talking to Anne on Saturday now gripped her. She blurted out, “You don’t think this is VD, do you, Dr. Palmer? We ... we used protection.” Oh God, this was so embarrassing, but who else could she ask?

  To her dismay, Palmer only mumbled a noncommittal “Hmm.” He stretched on a pair of latex gloves and began feeling her neck, then under her chin. “This hurt?”

  “No.” She fought back a rising sense of fear.

  He mashed under her armpits.

  She winced. “That hurts a little.”

  “Hmm.” Again.

  He next had her lie down and palpated her abdomen. “Have you been running a fever?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t have a thermometer.”

  Palmer pulled down the front of the gown just far enough to examine the pink circle. Frowning, he pushed, probed, and measured its diameter with a ruler. Lucy was certain from the doctor’s expression that something was terribly wrong. Oh God , it’s VD .

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” Her voice quavered.

  Palmer’s response was not reassuring. “Probably nothing serious, but I’d like to do some tests.”

  A lead weight hit her in the stomach. “What kind of tests?”

  Palmer replaced the paper gown and patted Lucy’s arm gently — the gesture somehow not as encouraging as Nurse Matthews’s. “Nothing to worry about. We’ll have you in and out of the hospital in no time.”

  “Hospital?” Overwhelmed by terror, Lucy struggled to stem the flow of tears.

  “But I have midterms and —” she gulped air.

  Palmer handed her a box of Kleenex. “Forget about midterms for the moment. This is more important.” He picked up the wall telephone and dialed a four-digit extension. “Dr. Palmer here. I have a patient for admission. I’d like you to escort her.” He listened, nodding. “Yes, that’s right. You know the procedure.”

  Replacing the receiver, he turned back to Lucy who was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “One of my assistants will get you settled. In the meantime, why don’t you give me the names of your professors? I’ll take care of canceling your exams.”

  “You mean postponing them?” she sniffled.

  “Yes, of course.” Palmer conceded with a thin smile as he headed for the door. “Oh, and if you’ll give me the name of your boyfriend and roommate, I’ll make sure they know where to find you.”

  “Dr. Palmer?”

  He stopped and faced her. “Yes?”

  “Thank you.” Her eyes were trusting through her tears.

  Palmer’s smile tightened and his voice cracked as he turned away with a crisp, “You’re welcome.”

  Moments later, Palmer stood on the other side of the exam room, his smile replaced by an agonized look that reflected inner turmoil. What had he done? What else could he do?

  He stared at Lucy’s chart, knowing the answer. The truth was, he’d already made his choice. He had started down this path. There was no turning back.

  1:00 P.M.

  “Where’s the cart?” Sammy anxiously rummaged through a pile of eight tracks and papers, scattering several on the floor of the studio booth. “Chaleria!” she cursed in Yiddish. “Where did I put it?”

  Accustomed to Sammy’s frenetic preshow ritual, Larry reacted with amused detachment. “Which cart?”

  “Those interviews I spliced last night. They were cued up and ready to go. How am I supposed to do this farkakte show if I can’t find the stupid cart?” She shuffled through the pile of tapes once more.

  Reed entered amid the chaos. “Calm and in control as usual, I see.”

  “It’s five minutes to air,” Sammy snapped, not bothering to suspend her search to properly greet him.

  “Hi, yourself. Pleasure to be here.”

  Ignoring him, Sammy shouted toward the engineer’s booth. From behind the glass, Brian McKernan was taking a final draw on a cigarette before starting the show. “Did you touch my carts? They were right here!”

  The engineer shook his head, then put his arms over his head in mock terror while Larry failed to stifle a grin.

  “Actually, I had to change my entire schedule to do this, but how could I turn down a chance to help out my very best friend?” Reed was saying while Sammy, in a growing state of panic, muttered to herself.

  “There it is!” Spotting the elusive cart, she grabbed it and spun around triumphantly to face Reed. “Well, don’t just stand there.” Her finger pointed to a rickety chrome-and-vinyl stool. It was set up close to an enormous desk microphone which, rumor had it, antedated the “temporary” World War II building that housed the campus station. “Hurry.”

  While Reed ambled over to the stool, Sammy tossed the tape to Larry, who left the booth and raced to the engineer on the other side of the glass partition. Larry nodded as Brian grabbed the tape and shoved it in the player.

  The clock on the wall flashed thirty seconds to air.

  Sammy shuffled her papers and pulled Reed down next to her. “Come on, sit.”

  Lowering himself onto the stool, a loud squeak echoed off the walls of the tiny booth. “Sorry.”

  “Try not to jiggle around too much,” Sammy advised, focusing on the DJ in Studio B just beyond Brian’s room who was ending his midday show. “This Wednesday, live from the plaza grounds outside the Nitshi Research Institute. W-E-L-L will bring you full coverage of all the festivities, including the Nitshi Day Parade.”

  When the announcement was over, the DJ signed off, then rose and packed up his records. Sitting next to Brian, Larry faced a bank of phones with paper and pencil in hand, waiting to screen incoming calls.

  Now the second hand swept up to twelve. Sammy nodded at Brian, who hit the button to play the introductory tape.

  Instead of the bulletin sounds of her standard intro, strains of gentle, haunting music wafted through the speakers. Sammy closed her eyes for a moment, drawn into the magical world of Sergio’s composition.

  With the timing instincts of a professional, she opened her eyes just as Brian faded down the music into background and gave he
r cue.

  “Good afternoon. This is The Hot Line . I’m Sammy Greene,” she began. “The beautiful piece you just heard was written by an Ellsford student, Sergio Pinez. It was the last piece of music he ever wrote. On Friday, Sergio jumped from the clock tower in the quad to his death.”

  She motioned for Brian to bring up the music once more. After a moment, she continued. “Suicide is a major cause of death among young people. It’s become the second leading cause of death behind accidents. Suicide painfully touches us all.” She paused. “As most of you know by now, this past weekend, Ellsford lost two of its best and brightest, freshman Sergio Pinez and Professor Barton Conrad.”

  She nodded to Brian who started a second tape with eulogies from friends and faculty.

  “Sergio was an artist. A Jean-Pierre Rampal.”

  “A real talent.”

  “It isn’t often that you find someone who enjoys tackling Paganini concertos as much as I do. We rehearsed the third and fourth sonatas for two weeks. I’ve never had a partner quite as talented.”

  In the background, the concerto continued as Lloyd Fletcher spoke. “He would ad lib these passages, ‘Variations on a Theme by —’ you know, that would wrap themselves around your soul. Brilliant.”

  Again, Sammy nodded to the engineer, who stopped the tapes. Sammy leaned into the mike. “Students and faculty across campus have expressed shock and sadness.” She looked down at her notes. “In a written statement, Dean Jeffries called these losses ‘tragedies not only for the individuals and their families, but for everyone in the Ellsford community.’

  “We’d like to talk to you today about your feelings. We want to hear from you, so we’ve opened our phone lines for call-ins. The number is five-five-five-WELL. On campus, just dial ninety-three fifty-five.”

  She turned to Reed. “With us today from Student Health Services is fourth-year medical student Reed Wyndham. He’ll help guide us through this difficult subject. Reed, welcome.”

  Reed frowned. “Sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

  “Yes,” Sammy quickly agreed. “Let me start with why. Why do people kill themselves?”

  “Trying to find the answer to that question is a lot like trying to find out what causes us to fall in love or what causes war,” Reed began. “Suicide is a complex behavior. We do know that there’s no one stressful event, no one biological marker that can explain it. It’s always a combination of many factors.”

  Sammy pursed her lips and checked her notes. “Are all people who commit suicide mentally ill?”

  “Some are, but not most. Some people may be okay until something pushes them over the edge.”

  “Like?”

  “Alcohol or drug abuse. The risk of suicide among people who’ve been hospitalized for alcoholism is three to four percent. And depression. Once someone has had an episode of major depression, his or her risk of suicide jumps to fifteen percent.”

  “How do you know if someone’s depressed? You know, versus just being sad.”

  “Good question. You see, not everybody who’s got the blues is depressed.”

  “How do you tell the difference?”

  “Sometimes it’s a matter of degree. But with depression you’ve often got headaches, sleep disturbances, body aches and pains, trouble concentrating or making decisions, muddled thoughts, poor appetite, loss of interest in activities that used to be fun.”

  “What about fatigue?”

  “That too,” Reed acknowledged. “Depressed individuals say they wake up more tired than they were when they went to bed or that they run out of steam early in the day.”

  “So how do you treat depression?”

  “Counseling helps. And, in some cases, drugs — medicines can work miracles by correcting a chemical imbalance that may be an underlying cause.”

  “If depression’s curable, then why —?” Sammy left the question hanging.

  Reed shrugged. “A lot of people aren’t comfortable asking for help. There’s still a stigma attached to counseling. For one reason or another, they may be afraid to talk about what’s bothering them.”

  Sammy nodded, thinking of poor Sergio.

  “Each year in the United States, thirty thousand people die by their own hand. The vast majority had at least one thing in common: they saw a physician within a few months of killing themselves.”

  “Like the doctors at Student Health and Counseling?”

  “Absolutely. Outside of family and close friends, the person most likely to have talked to a potential suicide is that person’s doctor.”

  Sammy made a mental note to find out if Sergio had seen a medical doctor on campus shortly before his death.

  “But, all of us can help. If you’ve got a friend or a roommate who’s depressed, and talks about suicide and death, don’t ignore it. Stay with them until they get help,” Reed warned.

  “Where do you go for help?”

  “A family doctor, a clergyman, any trained professional. At EU, you can call Student Health every day from eight a.m. to eight p.m. at five-five-five-HLTH, or go to the ER when we’re closed. Someone trained will take it from there.”

  “Thanks, Reed.” Sammy looked up at Larry who was motioning that their first caller was ready. “Let’s take a call now.” Three lines were blinking, holding. She pressed the speaker button on the telephone in front of her. “Hello, you’re on the air.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Sammy kept her tone warm. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Well, a coupl’a years ago in high school, Dale killed himself,” the caller began. “We were like friends. You know, like, if only I’d done something, you know? But, like I didn’t know.” His voice cracked.

  “That’s why we’re talking about this today.”

  Reed interjected, “You can’t feel responsible. I’ve got to make that point. It’s one thing to recognize a problem and try to help, but the bottom line is people who kill themselves make that choice. It’s not your fault if they succeed.”

  Reed allowed himself a side-glance at Sammy, who seemed intent on her notes.

  The caller’s voice brightened a bit, “Yeah, hey, thanks.”

  “Hello, you’re on the air.”

  Sammy’s distorted voice echoed out of overhead speakers in the Student Health Service as one student finally heard her name called. “Urgent care. Right!” she grumbled. “I’ve been waiting two and a half hours. Some urgent care.”

  Grabbing her books and coat, she stood just in time to prevent the nurse practitioner from calling the next student in line. “I’m here. Wait! I’m here.” She climbed carefully over the outstretched legs of her neighbors as she wended her way through the crowded hall to the nurse’s exam room, looking angrily at the empty corridor down which Lucy had been led hours before.

  “I’ve been listening to you, man, and I don’t know what the big deal is. This is a free country. If someone wants to kill himself, it should be his decision.”

  “You make a good point,” Reed said, deciding to turn what might have seemed a hostile call to his advantage. “A lot of people think suicide is a rational choice, especially when you’re very sick. But, even people with terminal illnesses generally change their minds after they get counseling or treatment.” Terminal illnesses, like AIDS, Reed thought sadly.

  “Besides,” he quickly added, “don’t forget, a decision to commit suicide affects other people. No one lives in a vacuum.”

  “Thanks for calling.” Sammy hit the next phone button. “You’re on the air.”

  This time the voice on the line was tentative: “My, uh, my aunt and my grandfather both committed suicide. Does it run in families?”

  Reed waited for Sammy’s segue. It didn’t come. He finally stepped in. “Another good question. And a great myth,” he added. “The confusing aspect of this myth is that some families have more than one suicide in their history and it does seem to run in the family. That does not mean that suicidal behavior is predetermined by genetics. Rat
her, once a suicide occurs in the family, other family members are at higher risk for committing suicide.”

  “Why?” The girl’s voice was shaking.

  “The suicide victim leaves a legacy that includes permission to choose suicide as an escape from painful life experiences. But, remember,” Reed said gently, “suicide is an individual choice. It’s not inevitable and it’s not passed along from one generation to the next like eye color or height.”

  Bud Stanton briskly ran the comb through his hair and slipped it into his back pocket just as the cheerleader knocked. He strode across the spacious living room of his dorm suite and opened the door with a grunt, motioning the attractive woman to enter.

  “Hey, Bud.” She planted a wet kiss on his lips.

  He returned the kiss. As he inched his hands down her back, the phone chimed and he pulled away. “Couch is yours, babe.” He nodded at the cushioned sofa next to the expensive stereo system, walked over and picked up the cordless phone. “Yeah?”

  The girl settled down amidst the soft pillows and reached for the remote control.

  “About two thousand bucks, yeah.” Stanton cradled the phone between his shoulder and neck and headed to his fridge for two beers. “Not this week.”

  The cheerleader clicked the power button and the radio speakers hissed on.

  “You said there isn’t one reason for suicide. But that’s not true,” the caller was asserting. “Everyone knows the real reason.”

  Sammy sat up. The voice on the phone was male, agitated, and vaguely familiar. “And what is the real reason?” she challenged.

  “The breakdown of family values, the loss of religion in this country.”

  Sammy tried to place the emotion-filled speaker as he started to hyperventilate.

  “If the Ellsford administration spent less time condoning promiscuity and perverted sexual acts and more time teaching God’s word, Sergio Pinez and Professor Conrad would never have committed this terrible sin. They’re atheist demons and they deserve to burn in h —!”