Chapter 3
I t was barely a minute after six PM when Dr. Rakhimov stood at the podium on stage and started talking. It was like she was a different person, one I and my fellow students wouldn’t recognize. Not only was her usually harsh demeanor softened, her eyes and forehead appearing relaxed and light, but even her voice sounded different. Rather than delivering her speech in her typical drill sergeant lecturing style, her voice resembled that of a saleswoman—optimistic, upbeat, and charismatic.
I and the other three students sat in the back row where Dr. R. had told us to wait. As soon as all the talking here was done, we would be leading these people to the precious simulation lab where they could see the Whittiers’s money in action—and, I already knew, that was part of how Dr. R. would get these other folks to open their wallets.
“Ladies and gentlemen, fine people of Winchester, thank you for joining us tonight in what is essentially the dedication of our newest classroom. The new simulation lab as well as this auditorium was made possible thanks to the generous donations of the Whittier family.
“As you know, this public institution is funded by state tax dollars—but those funds never provide enough. Certainly, we can educate our students in the most basic of ways, but capital improvement is often made possible, thanks to the donations of families like the Whittiers…and you.”
Dr. Rakhimov pressed a remote that lit up a screen above her. Although this space had been envisioned for all sorts of activities, Dr. R.’s biggest hope was that it could be a classroom lecture space. While a good majority of classes taught by her and her staff were of the clinical hands-on type, I imagined she had always wanted to teach at a large, prestigious university where one large class might hold ninety or more students—but I knew that even the basic classes that every student here had to take, like English 101, probably wouldn’t fill this space. Winchester wasn’t that big a town. Even with students attending from surrounding towns, that dream of hers wouldn’t be realized.
But that didn’t stop the woman. If it were up to her, this small campus would be double in size by the time she either retired or ran the whole place. As it was, her influence could be felt throughout campus. Because the construction had taken place over the last year, all of campus was in a bit of upheaval, and my very first class changed locations at the last minute—from a classroom in the humanities and arts building to a corner of the media center to accommodate Dr. R.’s Anatomy and Physiology class. Had it been the other way around, my professor wouldn’t have been able to demand a space in the STEM building.
Dr. Rakhimov took the audience through a series of slides that showed the progress of the construction—from breaking ground in April a year earlier—to the finishing touches in the lab that took place just a week ago. I was embarrassed to see that one of the more recent slides caught the side of me as one of the workers was showing me how to operate one of the machines—something I was learning simply so I could demonstrate it tonight. The other three students also had their own stations that they’d learned in order to impress our guests. Dr. R. intended to personally demonstrate the other stations as she walked them through and planned to even encourage guests to test a few things themselves.
Finally, after about twenty minutes, Dr. Rakhimov switched gears. “Before we take a tour of the lab, I wanted to introduce you all to Sinclair Whittier. Of course, you already know him, but you might not have known that the Whittier family have been generous benefactors of Winchester Community College for decades, monumental in terms of helping us meet many of our goals. Even so, Sinclair has taken their mission to heart. The Whittiers have always had a big interest in Winchester and helping our community grow and thrive, and Sinclair demonstrates his dedication to that cause time and time again.” When she smiled, it wasn’t her typical pinched grin that failed to show her teeth; instead, she seemed genuinely happy and pleased.
It wasn’t until Whittier stepped onto the stage that I realized even Dr. Rakhimov had fallen victim to his charms, just like Jenna beside me. Almost like I had until I’d realized he was the devil. I figured Dr. R. wanted him up there speaking, believing that he had an ability to the idea of opening up the audience’s bank accounts to the college even better than her own.
He did have a rich, smooth speaking voice—and, amplified through the microphone, he was captivating. “Hello, everyone, and thank you, Dr. Rakhimov. Leona is not wrong—my family has a vested interest in Winchester County. We own lots of land here, partly because our ancestors settled here during the gold rush. My fourth great-grandfather came for the gold and stayed for all the riches to be enjoyed in Colorado, but it was his son who struck it rich in silver, not gold, and then moved to Denver when it became the official capital of the state.
“Our ties, however, are here in this beautiful, rich community, and that is why we support it.”
I had to refrain from scoffing, because it was thanks to my father that I knew they didn’t actually care about Winchester—not one bit. Twenty years ago, the family had opened up a new mining operation. My father had said they were never clear exactly what they were mining for. It could have been gold, coal, silver, uranium, or something else entirely. However, where and how they mined was more than apparent. In the foothills that sat in front of the majestic mountains, the Whittier Corporation was strip mining, its effects still seen even now, eating away the hills one strip at a time. When my father noticed what they were doing, he made many inquiries and was told that the land belonged to the Whittiers, so he could do nothing about it. But my father had always been environmentally minded and had read all about the atrocities of coal mining in West Virginia and other states nearby where they engaged in a practice literally known as mountaintop removal .
He fought for close to ten years, sometimes almost like a voice shouting in the wilderness, before the Whittiers finally decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. Before the family pulled up stakes, my dad had plenty of Winchester citizens on his side, because he’d convinced them of the potential ecological damage that could be done—and it was easy to see how it was taking away from the natural beauty of the town. If a person looked to the south, north, or east, they could ignore it, but as soon as you looked west, there it was, a huge scar along several hills, a gash in the earth. My dad had since told me that he didn’t necessarily demand that they stop but that they instead engage in sustainable practices.
When the Whittiers stopped mining, I was young—eight or nine—and everything seemed fine at first. But then people who’d worked for the mine started complaining. My father said there were fewer than one hundred people who’d been employed in the operation, but they couldn’t find work in Winchester with their skill sets that paid as much. My father had worked for Winchester Human Services at the time as a Food Assistance technician—and he was helping several of those people who were out of work. He understood their plight and felt bad for them. After all, that had not been his intent. Instead, he’d wanted to goad the Whittiers into doing the right thing.
If that had been all, the anger and frustration might have eventually blown over—but my father said that a smear campaign took place after that. On the week before the mine shut down, he’d been at a county board meeting, again voicing his concerns…business as usual. But after the meeting, Augustus Whittier—this man’s father—had approached my dad outside and told him he would ruin him. My dad said the Whittiers had had to spend quite a bit on legal fees and to pay for studies, but my father had seen the financial statements. They continued to operate in the black, regardless of my dad’s crusade.
There was never any proof that the Whittiers were behind what happened next, but my dad knew it was Augustus making good on his threat. Public sentiment turned against my father—against my entire family. It started with certain local businesses refusing to serve us, restaurants, auto repair shops, but there were others. Law enforcement started pulling my father over more frequently for supposed infractions, and people frequently damaged our property. One time someone painted the word ASSHOLE in red spray paint on the sidewalk in front of the house. Another time someone put a big padlock on our mailbox outside the house, so my dad had to buy a heavy bolt cutter to open it. We never knew if random dents and scratches in the car were caused accidentally or intentionally.
Although my parents shielded me from much of it, I felt it myself at school. I became the target of bullies echoing their parents’ thoughts and, although it was usually just words, I occasionally got my hair pulled or my face spat upon. At first, the abuse had been very specific and focused but, by the time I was in high school, I was merely treated as an outcast.
At that point, I was glad for it. By then, I was considered insignificant and unimportant—and that was far better than being openly hated and mistreated.
The worst part, though, was losing my mother. She and my father had talked multiple times about leaving Winchester, and that had been the plan. They’d begun saving up for it, but with my father’s modest government-worker income and my mom’s earnings as a part-time store clerk, it was slow-going. One day I came home from school and she was gone. She’d packed a couple of bags, taken the reliable vehicle instead of the lemon my dad drove, and, even though my father never said it out loud, I was certain she’d also taken the money they’d been saving. My dad, however, was not to be deterred and again promised me we’d leave.
He hadn’t counted on getting sick.
I’d been so disengaged from Sinclair Whittier’s short speech, instead reliving my history in my mind, that Jenna prodded me with her elbow. Dr. Rakhimov was back at the podium, announcing that it was time for a tour of the simulation lab. Afterward, she promised, they would return to the lobby to enjoy champagne and refreshments (and the hardest sales pitch of the evening, no doubt). The job of us four students was to open the doors to the auditorium and sort of contain everyone until Dr. Rakhimov and Whittier could lead the way.
As Jenna and I opened the auditorium doors on our side, I reminded myself once again that this night was almost over…but my fate had already been sealed.
I just didn’t know it yet.
As the group approached the lab, Dr. Rakhimov was projecting her voice. She was almost walking backward, enjoying her moment in the spotlight. Soon it would shift to the wonders of the simulation lab. I also suspected that a couple of the wealthy wives wanted a few moments to chat with Sinclair Whittier.
I wasn’t sure how much Dr. R. would allow that, though. She seemed to have her own designs on him, even though he had to be at least twenty years younger. Once again, I found myself repulsed and incensed at how most of these people found money to be so intoxicating. What a person did should be more important than what they had—and while I had to admit on the one hand that the Whittiers had actually freely given their money to help the school, I also suspected they weren’t walking away empty handed. The money they spent here was likely a tax write off or would serve as a way to boost their standing among other elites.
“Our students will be located at various stations to demonstrate the depth and complexity of several of the machines—and I’ll be your guide. I’ll even show you several of the machines myself. If any of you are so inclined, I’ll let you play a student health care worker examining a patient.” She laughed as if she’d just told a joke and a couple of people in the audience chuckled. At the main door to the lab, Dr. R. swiped her card and the click of it unlocking was audible to those of us close by. She pulled it open, waving in Whittier first, followed by us students.
The lights automatically brightened, illuminating what could best be described as a disaster. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first—because when I’d last been here, everything had been as it should have. Now, though, it was nothing short of a crime scene. The first room, set up almost like a reception desk at a clinic or a hospital, had been torn apart. The computer monitor on the small desk had been shattered and one of the drawers on the cabinet against the wall was hanging on by its hinges. The floor was strewn not just with many of the “supplies” found deeper in the lab—things like syringes and cotton balls—but also with trash.
Dr. Rakhimov almost sobbed. “What in God’s name happened here?”
Sinclair Whittier’s voice could be heard above the gasps and murmurs of the crowd. “Sabotage.”
Sabotage? But who would destroy the lab? I could picture several students who hated Dr. R. passionately, taking out their anger and frustration with a baseball bat taken to the lab—but as we made our way in deeper, I found it hard to believe that it was the work of just one person. Dr. Rakhimov picked up a phone handset on the wall in the second room and called campus security. As I followed the other students surveying the damage, I noticed that there was nothing left untouched.
The last room smelled like dog poop, and we found that there was a bag of it in a corner. Someone had also spraypainted in black a big letter A in a circle, something I found out later that night stood for “anarchy.”
As we students continued looking, Whittier said, “Don’t touch anything. It’s evidence.”
One of the rich wives behind us said, “Who would do such a thing?”
Hearing the word evidence made me nervous, and the other students must have felt the same way, because soon we were all heading back to the front of the lab. By the time the security guard arrived, Dr. Rakhimov had already regained her composure. She briefed the security guard who said he was going to call the police. After punching in some numbers on his cell phone, he disappeared into the depths of the lab, probably so he could pass on his assessment to the dispatcher.
Meanwhile, Dr. Rakhimov was back in form, addressing the crowd bunched up in the hallway. Her voice was again firm, her height, accentuated in sky-high heels, commanding. “I regret that you were only able to enjoy the simulation lab in photos. Obviously, we will have to cancel the demonstrations we had scheduled to take place in here until we’re able to make repairs.”
One older man asked, “Is the lab insured?”
“It is—but I don’t know if an act of vandalism will be covered. I also don’t know how much the college will be liable for in terms of cost.”
Whittier’s face was like stone, but there was no way to miss that he was angry. In fact, the way he controlled himself seemed to give away that he was on the verge of losing it. Still, he kept it together when he said, “We’ll pay for the repairs. The whole point of this lab was to give nursing students a hands-on experience without the pressure or risk of working with real patients until they were ready. If this damage is covered by insurance, you can reimburse the foundation. But I want to know who is responsible for all this. I don’t know if this sort of thing is covered by insurance.”
Dr. Rakhimov used the damage as another way to ask for money, and, donning her saleswoman mask, she moved forward, persuading her audience again to open their wallets. After a few minutes, the security guard emerged from the lab and said, “Crime Scene Unit is on the way. No one is to leave here until they get here.”
Dr. R. turned and said, “Rodney, you can’t make these good people stay here all night. They all arrived just before our presentation and they were only in the auditorium until we brought them here.” Lowering her voice, she walked over to him and spoke so softly that none of us could hear—but it was obvious that the wealthy crowd appreciated what she was doing.
When she was done speaking with him, he said, “You,” pointing at me and the other three students. “All of you need to stay here.”
I could feel the wrath of the other three directed at me, because they all knew I was the one considered responsible for the lab—but I couldn’t understand how it had happened. More than that, I wondered why.
Dr. Rakhimov began leading the crowd back to the auditorium, probably so they could drink the champagne—this time to drown out sorrows rather than to celebrate. Sinclair Whittier stayed behind and asked the guard, “Are there cameras in the lab?”
“Not yet. They were scheduled to be installed next week.”
“What about elsewhere on campus?”
“We have cameras in the hallways and at various locations outdoors.” He pointed up toward a camera located at an intersection. “There are also cameras at every entrance, recording who walks in.”
“Then it should be easy enough to figure it out. The lab has no windows and just this entrance here. Unless people can actually enter through the two emergency exit doors.” He posed his last sentence as a question.
“No. You can’t enter that way—and, if anyone exited through one of those doors, an alarm would go off.”
“I would like to review the footage once the authorities arrive,” Whittier said, obviously not expecting no for an answer—and the guard wasn’t about to refuse him.
The male student standing beside Piper said, “Look, this is the first time I’ve been down here today. Same with Piper. The only ones here earlier were Jenna and Annalise, so I don’t see why I have to stay here.”
However, the security guard was not afraid to let us students know we had no say. “We’ll let the cops clear you. Just tell them what you know.”
But the male student’s complaint had directed Sinclair Whittier’s attention to all of us. When he looked at me, his gaze was not unkind, but it was certainly more guarded than it had been earlier when I’d led him to the auditorium. “Would you all mind telling me your names?”
“Jenna.”
“Jenna what ?”
“Jenna Clausen. I’m starting my second year here at WCC.”
When his eyes shifted to me, I said, “Annalise Miller.” His eyes narrowed a bit hearing my last name, but the name Miller wasn’t exactly rare, so he didn’t dwell on it.
He then finished with the other two and then asked, “Are any of you nursing students?”
None of us were—and I wondered if he thought nursing students would have more interest in preserving the lab than others. Two uniformed officers entered at the end of the hallway and soon approached the security guard. Based on what they said, I realized more people were on the way, people who would take fingerprints from the lab and examine what Whittier had called evidence .
One of the cops approached the four of us and said, “We’d like to get your fingerprints. We’re assuming you all had access to the lab, so it would be helpful to clear you.”
The other officer said, “Not necessarily. That wouldn’t clear you but it could explain why we’d find your fingerprints.”
My stomach was boiling over with acid which was probably why I actually spoke. “You’ll find mine and Jenna’s prints all through the lab. We were the ones in there setting up for tonight’s event.”
They continued collecting our names and other information but, in the middle of it, the male student spoke up again. “What if I don’t want to give you my fingerprints?”
The first cop raised an eyebrow and his voice seemed to deepen. “That’s your choice, but if you refuse, I’m gonna guess you have something to hide. It would be easy enough to get a judge to order you. Or we could skip the middleman and just arrest you for suspicion of vandalism and get your fingerprints that way. It’s up to you.”
The student frowned but didn’t say another word. Like the rest of us, he’d received the message loud and clear.
Two plainclothes officers showed up then. There was some discussion among law enforcement, and they agreed that the uniformed officers would question each of us one by one in the security office while the detectives began scouring the lab, looking for clues. The security guard introduced Whittier who then began talking with the detectives while the four of us were escorted to the main building where we would await questioning.
So much for this night almost being over. I was beginning to suspect it had only just begun.