Chapter Seven - Richard Bellamy
CHAPTER SEVEN
Richard Bellamy
BELLAMY EXITED THE student union with a fresh cup of coffee in hand, as he reflected on the strange encounter with his lab assistant, Ethan Hernandez. A rare exception to the droll mediocre undergraduates he had come to expect from this university. Ethan was the other half to Jason — a romantic match made in the confines of his sterile lab. It would warm Bellamy’s heart if that part of him hadn’t died alongside her.
The soft rustle of leaves accompanied him as he strode across the campus’s central quad. The air nipped at his face and contrasted with the stiffness in his fingers grasped around the warm paper cup of coffee. Students shuffled in his clusters as the Summit Spiral chimed the change of the hour. After finishing his morning lecture notes, he made his way towards the Henderson building, towards Dean Kerrigan’s office.
Bellamy adjusted the strap of his leather briefcase with his free hand. He inhaled deeply as he approached the steps of the Henderson building. Despite appreciating the crisp Colorado autumn afternoon, his gaze lingered critically at students milling around. Their hoodies, ripped jeans, and phone screens dominate their attention. The amount of distractions in this world — too many to count. If they only knew what those devices did to their attention spans.
Summit State University was no Harvard. Not by a long shot. The campus had its charms, but it lacked the history, the gravitas, and the fierce sense of ambition of his alma mater and former teaching institution. After finishing his doctoral work in clinical psychological science at Harvard, he was awarded a prestigious post-doctorate and eventually a tenure-track teaching position. Before he was surrounded by Nobel laureates, cutting-edge researchers, and Pulitzer prize winners — true leaders in their fields. Here he dealt with small-town politics and middling academic standards.
Recently, the university instituted a “College-For-All,” campaign aiming to make college tuition free for anyone able to gain admission to SSU — which wasn’t difficult. The university accepted anyone with a pulse and fledgling GPA. Bellamy thought the whole campaign undermined the notion of merit-based academics. It removed the stakes. If students did not have to work hard to gain admission, what was the point of seeking “higher” education? Thankfully, Bellamy had distanced himself from those efforts through a series of multi-million dollar grants that afforded him the power to have his courses taught by graduate teaching assistants.
He paused to glance at the Summit Spire before entering the Henderson building. Something ached in his chest. The frame of the spire against the clear blue sky nudged a sting of regret inside him.
He ignored it, as he always did.
Bellamy reached the administrative wing of the Henderson building. He wanted to divest himself of this meeting with the dean as quickly as possible. Lecture notes, grant proposals, and data analysis, all occupied his mind as he walked down the carpeted corridor to the dean’s office suite.
He entered and the door clicked shut behind him as he stepped into the reception area. It was a plush, well-furnished office space. A young administrative assistant glanced up from her computer and offered a practiced smile.
“Dr. Bellamy?” she asked brightly, though her eyes showed no real interest. “Dean Kerrigan will see you soon. Please take a seat.” She gestured towards the large leather sofa adjacent to her desk.
Bellamy nodded, offering little in the way of acknowledgment. He scanned the room, his gaze settled on a large oil painting of the college’s founder— Jonathan Summit. He sneered inwardly, that couldn’t possibly be his real name. Finding a seat, he lowered himself with a sigh and set his briefcase beneath him.
The leather sofa was stiff, unyielding — much like the conversation that awaited him within Kerrigan’s office. He imagined the double doors of her office, perched on her overstuffed leather chair, her face glowering. The assistant returned to her typing, the rhythmic clatter filled the otherwise quiet lobby. Bellamy closed his arms, his irritation rising. He stared blankly at the wall ahead of him, his thoughts wandering to the email subject line, “ Recent concerns.”
Regret stung him again, this time he couldn’t dismiss it. He glanced at his hands, faint wrinkles beginning to set in. He wondered— not for the first time— where had things gone wrong?
The dean’s office door creaked open slicing into his thoughts. A voice from inside, sharp and nasal, called out, “Dr. Bellamy, please come in.”
He leapt from the chair, grabbing his briefcase, and coffee. Stealing himself he entered Dean Kerrigan’s office.
Dr. Regina Kerrigan sat behind an expansive mahogany desk wearing a sharp expression. Sharp enough to cut glass. Her gray hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and her piercing green eyes gave her the air of a bird of prey ready to strike.
“Dr. Bellamy,” she said, her tone clipped. “Please have a seat.” She gestured towards the two chairs positioned in front of her desk.
Bellamy sat, his back stiff as a board. His throat had suddenly gone dry.
“Let’s skip the pleasantries and get to it. Shall we?” Kerrigan said reaching for a stack of papers on her desk, she pulled out a glossy-covered academic journal. “This,” she said, as if presenting smoking gun evidence in a court trial, “is what has donors in an uproar. They’re calling my office in a frenzy.”
Bellamy’s stomach sank. He recognized the edition of the journal, which contained his most recent scholarly publication, Retrocognition & Temporal Perception: An Investigation into Neuropsychological Basis of Nonlinear Memory Recall and Temporal Displacement.
The article was indeed provocative. He had to call in a favor with the journal’s editor for it to see peer review and he pulled more strings to have it published. He had expected pushback, people rarely understood innovation at first. They often resisted it. But he hadn’t anticipated it so quickly, nor did he expect the dean to catch wind of it so soon. Bellamy figured it would be like any other new academic theory — it would be debated at academic conferences, papers would be written in rebuttal, but it would eventually enter the academic discourse.
“Psychic time travel, Richard?” Kerrigan continued. She flipped open the journal with a flourish, “This is not science. It’s barely pseudoscience. This is an embarrassment to the university, and, frankly, it's beneath you.”
Snapping open the journal, she read aloud one of the more speculative claims Bellamy made, “If retrocognition represents the mind’s ability to access memory-like imprints of future events, this suggests that human consciousness operates, at least in partial, outside the constraints of linear time.”
Bellamy's mouth was dry as he spoke “Dean Kerrigan, with all due respect —”
Kerrigan’s hand flew up in a sharp gesture, “I’m not interested in a debate of the merits of your research, Richard. I’m telling you that your work and time here is under scrutiny.” She threw the journal on her desk and leaned back in her chair, “When I brought you on, it was because no other university would look at you. I did this as a favor to you . The agreement was you’d keep your nose clean and bring grants and good press to the university and in return, we’d allow you to pursue your research— no questions asked, and leave you alone. But this, this is...”
She jabbed a finger at the article, “Is how you repay us?”
Bellamy felt his face go flush, he held his tongue. He was not accustomed to having his research excoriated nor was he used to being spoken to so directly.
“I wouldn’t call my work unconventional, Dean Kerrigan.”
Again, she held up her hand, “I don’t want to hear it, Richard. This university is working to rebrand itself as a serious research institution. This has no place here.”
Bellamy summoned his courage, “My work is groundbreaking. Uncharted waters. I’m a leader in my field. I have brought this university millions of dollars in grant funding — private, government, and military contracts.”
“Uncharted waters? This reads like the ramblings of a mad man, you’re losing your grip, Richard. It is turning us into a laughingstock!” Kerrigan snapped. “And it’s not just this research. There’s also the issue of Naomi Halston.”
The air rushed from Bellamy’s lungs. He stiffened at her name.
“Yes, Richard, I’m talking about the graduate student who worked in your lab— the one who disappeared and our campus police department is currently investigating. There are rumors that the city police are going to get involved. The university attorneys are keeping them at bay for now. There has been no link to you, but the optics are terrible.”
Bellamy balled his fist as they sat in his lap, “I had nothing to do with that. Naomi was —”
Kerrigan interrupted, “I don’t care about your excuses. Considering your history at Harvard, these crackpot theories, and the disappearance of that girl — if a journalist finds out about this, it will jeopardize more than our donors.”
Bellamy's fist clenched tighter.
“I will be convening an inquiry into your research activities. There will be a faculty panel conducting the investigation. Your funding is at risk, and if you’ve implicated the university in any way, the piggy bank is going to slaughter.”
Bellamy sat stunned, his breath shallow.
“I mean it, Richard. If you have so much as used a university-purchased Kleenex wrong, I’ll pull your lab’s funding and you won’t be able to rub two pennies together.”
The room felt warm, the air thick as Bellamy absorbed Kerrigan’s threat.
“Your job may have the protections of tenure,” Kerrigan added, she leaned forward lacing her voice with venom, “And I can’t fire you. But I can make your remaining time at this institution wildly unpleasant. Do you understand?
Nodding stiffly, Bellamy stood.
“Good,” Kerrigan said leaning back. “Now get out.”