Revelation

Panting and on the biggest adrenaline high I’ve ever experienced, I waited until I was certain that nobody had followed us before I untied Billy. He was already banged up from before he had been brought into the back room of the church, but at least he was alive. Dried blood intermingled with sweat on his brow and ran down his face in a thin stream.

Think Milton, think. Channel Francis, what is the next step? The tape recording, of course! Somehow, I had almost forgotten about it between the realization that my professors were plotting to overthrow the government and rescuing my assistant from almost certain death. I couldn’t go back to my dorm; they would be expecting me there. Billy’s was the next logical place to stay until the storm died down … unless I could somehow capture the storm. From the previous experience of Francis’ filing system and only having one copy of anything, I made sure not to make that same mistake. Billy had copies of everything I had in addition to a hidden third copy of everything, in case of capture or death.

First thing’s first, though. This was way over my head; I had to tell someone who actually had more authority than the professors: the cops. Sure, in movies they always end up coming in at the last minute to save the victim who had originally told them about the crisis, all guns and badges blaring with justice. But this was reality. I just hoped they would listen.

***

“Officer, you’ve gotta listen to me,” I said through gritted teeth. “My professors are plotting to overthrow the current government in order to give themselves more power. I’ve got it on tape!”

“Oh yea,” he sneered. “And just how are they gonna do that? By not letting you pass your classes?”

Damned cop, they’re all the same. They tell you they want to help, but have you wait half an hour in the goddam lobby before you can even file a statement.

“I’ve been here for over an hour,” I persisted. “All I want is some justice!” I pounded my fists on the receptionist’s desk and he gives me a dark glare. His eyes turn to stone as he shakes his head slowly. A button is pushed and out come the dogs to escort me off the premises. I knew the cops weren’t going to be any help. Who else could I turn to?

The trudge back to the campus gave me time to think, but I still couldn’t wrap my head around why Donuts back there wouldn’t even take a statement from me with all the evidence I had brought. I was nearly to campus when that damned cop popped back into my head. And just how are they gonna do that? By not letting you pass your classes? That’s when it hit me, or rather made me fall over it: a sign telling me to remember to vote next Tuesday. Why didn’t I think of that! The election would be the only way to truly overthrow the government without causing a national uproar.

I never read local newspapers, too censored by the government to get a real understanding of what was going on in the world. Current events were read from the most reliable European journals I could find online, though occasionally I picked up a newspaper when the mood struck me. It struck me – like a killer whale landing on me – when I saw last week’s paper lying on Billy’s bed, all marked up in red and black pen. Good work, kid. I scoured the paper looking at the notes Billy had made, and was still pouring over it when he came into the room half an hour later. Dume. You sneaky sonofabitch. There, on the front page of the paper was a picture, and under it said John Michael Dume, current dean/chancellor at John Smith University. He was the Republican choice for Speaker of the House.

***

How I could have missed something as obvious as this was beyond me. So now what I had was a tape recording of someone’s voice admitting to murder and the kidnapping of Billy, various professors involved in a secret cult called ROYALTY, a dead roommate, and no one who would listen to me. Somehow I would have to get the word out about Dume and his minions.

Class wasn’t a concern for me anymore. I hadn’t seen Snovil since Francis’ death. Fortunately, the urban legend about being able to get a guaranteed 4.0 for the year if your roommate dies, actually applied at JSU. Luckily for me, this meant I could devote all my time to the case. But who would listen?

The radio club was a thing of the past, the cops weren’t willing to give up doughnut break to listen, and the professors … well, it was hard to discern who was turned and who was true. But what about the newspaper? I needed something provable, though. Something solid to make all I had undeniable. I put Billy on that task; I needed to concentrate on figuring out Dume’s game plan on how he planned to accomplish anything as Speaker of the House.

 

John Michael Dume, Dean and Chancellor for John Smith University, has successfully established order in the nation’s leading party school as it was known five years ago. Dume’s views on issues such as education, marriage, and health care are borderline socialistic. He gives great balance to the president- and vice president-elect who are to enter the White House in three short weeks.

Dume will be the first to be elected to the office of Speaker of the House of Representatives without having first been a U.S. Senator while being still in office. Dume held the position of Senator for his neighboring state of Maryland from 2003 to 2005 and served as President of the Senate for two years starting immediately after his term as Maryland’s senator. 

 

I had almost forgotten how useful newspapers could be. Sure, I already knew that The House could potentially overturn a veto from the President if enough votes were cast by all the other members, but how could that be what Dume was aiming for? No, he seemed to be after something much more ambitious than being able to overturn a piece of legislature every-once-in-a-while.

***

I went back to my newspaper contact who had approached me after Francis’ funeral to give his condolences and offer his services if ever I needed them. Needing him was an understatement at this point; he was my last shot at blowing this conspiracy sky high.

“Amy, I need a favor,” I approached her desk in the overly cluttered newsroom on campus that reeked of burnt coffee, stale beer, and freshly printed sheet of paper. Hot off the press.

“I’m on deadline Milton, give me five minutes. And make a fresh pot will ya?” She didn’t even glance up at me continuing to peck at the keyboard of her archaic PC that seemed to be bolted to the dilapidated desk in order to keep from toppling over. Arguing with a woman’s a bad idea, arguing with a woman who has the press on her side and is over-stressed, over-caffeinated, and will probably only give me five minutes of her time is a worse idea.

With a fresh cup of joe in her hand, she sat back ready to listen with her notebook hid from my sight, but more at the ready than a cheetah with a gazelle in its sights.

“I have some information that could lead, hopefully, to the downfall of a certain professor who is to hold a government office in the next month,” I told her with a lowered voice in case anyone else was listening, and I’m sure they were trying.

She raised her eyebrow and leaned in closer. “We know all about Dume.” Surprised, I asked just what she knew.

“We have extensive files of him meeting with other professors at various appointed places on and off campus, but nothing substantial,” she said with a grimace.

“Oh I have something better,” I told her. “Much better.” For the next twenty minutes I filled her in about the recording I had, how Billy was kidnapped, the cloaks, the acronyms. “But there’s one thing I couldn’t figure out. ROYALTY. What does it stand for? It might help to uncover what Dume is really after.”

“We don’t have anything on that, but I’ll see if I can get a team to work on it,” she said as names already flew from the tip of her pen to the pad on her lap.

***

Back at Billy’s, I found that he had been doing some intense research into finding the keystone that, if brought forward, would make the entire structure of ROYALTY topple. He stood when I came into the room and sat back down almost as quickly when he saw it was me. He slammed down a single piece of paper on the only free space of desk available and sat back with a smirk. Billy had successfully hacked into Dume’s personal e-mail account and sifted through the mud to find gold.

This was it; this is what we had been looking for: an e-mail from Dume to Snovil. Twelve words that would soon be bigger than Watergate if they became public.

“The presidency will soon be mine. Snipers briefed. Glory for the brotherhood!”

The e-mail had the watermark of the cult’s symbol, the crown, and at the bottom of the message was the answer to my final question: Reestablishing the Order Yielded to the Administrational Leadership to Trap You, or simply ROYALTY.

And just like that, everything fell into place.

 

Two weeks later, I started reading the newspaper again; this time not for information, for justice. The front page had another picture of Dume, but this time he had a slightly different expression on his face than the professional book-jacket look in the first article I had read. This time he looked as if he’d been struck by lightning and had his hands cuffed behind his back.

Sipping on my coffee, I propped my feet up on a chair. Ah, justice. How sweet it tastes.

 

 

 

ROYALTY: Reestablishing the Order Yielded to the Administrational Leadership to Trap You

ROYALTY

There was no answer to my knock. Something had to be wrong; what else could “Wait for MSTRS seven o’clock” mean in Professor Macintyre’s appointment book? Having tried picking the lock with a paperclip and the old credit card trick, both failing miserably since I didn’t actually know how they worked, I was out of ideas. Why couldn’t there be a How to Break into a Hotel Room for Dummies? I looked into the lobby window at the front desk. The only worker was a teenage boy, most likely still in high school, staring intently at a computer screen. I walked into the room and tried to be convincing, “Hey man, I stepped outside for a cigarette and locked myself out of my room. Can I get a spare key?”

He wasn’t too happy that I had interrupted his video games and told me, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need to see some ID and credit card information before I can give you a key.”

“I left everything in the room; I didn’t expect to get locked out obviously. Please, it’s really raining hard out there. I’ll bring the key back in a few minutes.” After looking around, seeing no upper management, he handed me the spare key. Wow, I can’t believe that worked!

I slid the key into the slot and opened the door to find some answers. Much to my disappointment, though admittedly slightly to my relief as well, the hotel room was vacant. No mistress, no bag, barely more than a few wrinkles in the sheets, but the TV remote on the bed showed that someone had been here. I had almost given up searching, when I noticed the blinking red light on the telephone. I called the front desk for the messages. “Do you want just the new one or the old one also?” the oh-so-excited desk clerk asked. I requested both, hoping some clue would be in these messages.

The new message was left at 9:15 p.m., “Everything is in place,” a deep, scratchy voice tickled my eardrum, making every hair on my body stand on end. After this brief statement, the old message started, left at 6:58 p.m., this time a somewhat familiar voice came on the line, “Meeting starts tonight, retrace steps. St. John’s 10:45.” I looked at my watch, 10:25. I knew where St. John’s was, the Red Heart Inn was close to it, but Professor Macintyre’s car drove off in the other direction. Retrace steps? What could that mean?

I didn’t have time to sit and think so, after returning the hotel key, I raced to St. John’s. I carried Francis’s tape recorder with me, knowing that if he were still alive, he would have flipped out if I heard anything worth while and didn’t get it recorded. It was dark and looked deserted. The doors to the main church were locked, but a room to the side of it had a piece of tape on the knob, keeping the door slightly open. I peeked inside to see if Macintyre was getting ready for a meeting, but there was only a table and some chairs. 10:35. I was debating leaving and looking for another St. John’s when I saw headlights pass by the window. I ducked and ran for the closet, locking myself in.

I could hear the door to the room open, footsteps going towards the table, back to the door and light switches flip. There was a stream of light in the closet, and I saw an air vent a few feet away. As quietly as I could, though my heart was pounding so hard I thought it sounded like the bass of a stereo turned up all the way, I shifted towards the vent and looked into the room. 10:40. The owner of the footsteps was not my view, but the empty tables and chairs were, as well as the window. At least there was a beautiful view of the White House through the window from my position.

10:43. The footsteps moved towards the table, and I saw the owner, sort of. The back of a cloaked figure anyway, like the ones I saw that fateful night. I was low to the ground and could not see the emblem on the hood, but at least I was at the right place at the right time. Damn, I’m getting lucky tonight. Perfect timing. More footsteps became audible, this time there were multiple people. I turned my phone to silent, learning from my past mistakes.

10:45. All ten figures in matching cloaks finally stood around the table in my view. The figure’s faces were barely more than shadows with the hoods pulled over their heads. I turned on the recorder, hoping it would be strong enough to pick up the words from inside the closet. I was trying to see if I recognized any of them when the meeting started, right on time. The one I assumed was the first figure I saw came around to the front of the table, “My signal to rendezvous succeeds,” the same familiar voice from the hotel message started off. “There are serious problems at hand, which all of you know is the reason for this change of location.” Please, just pull back the hood a little bit, so I can see your face. “Before we get too far ahead of ourselves, Macintyre, have you heard from our government contact yet?”

One of the cloaked figures on the leader’s left hand side, Professor Macintyre, replied, “Not yet. He was supposed to reply by 9:00, but I have no doubt he will have everything in place.”

“This is a complex plot, Macintyre. You assured us he had the ability to set up the traps properly. They all need to go off at the same time, and be traced back to foreign terrorists groups. Do I need to remind you what will happen if you fail us?” The cloaked figure on the right hand side of the leader spoke harshly and condescendingly to Macintyre. I had no doubt this figure was Snovil. Not only was his voice familiar and his nose crooked, he was in the habit of being an ass to everyone, including his colleagues.

“We have tested his capabilities and loyalties time and time again, Snovil, I have no doubt he will succeed.” The leader calmly affirmed my suspicions.

“Yes, of course Sire.” Snovil for once was silenced into agreement.

“Back to the problems of which I was speaking earlier, we know that a student named Francis was accumulating too much information about us. He is now, thanks to our deadly little Nicola, deceased, but we do not know the information he acquired or to whom he released it. We do not know how much he heard in the meeting he infiltrated, or his follow up, but he knows about ROYALTY.” Nicola? Thanks to Nicola? They thought Francis was in the meeting. He was murdered for finding out about ROYALTY. “It seems he did release at least some of this information, because we found a spy following Macintyre.” As he said this, the door burst open and I saw Billy being dragged in by a woman. As the cloaked figures turned to look at my intern, the light hit their faces perfectly and I recognized every single one. Dean Dume sat at the head of the table, with Snovil to his right, Macintyre to his left, and every esteemed member of the faculty sitting around the table.

Everything happened so fast, as I watched my young friend. His hands were tied and he was interrogated by the same people who not only killed my roommate, but are plotting somehow against the government, all the while giving me my college education. They violently asked him over and over how long he had been working for Francis, and what he knew. They asked if anyone else knew about ROYALTY. Luckily, with all his practice of not talking in the investigation, he couldn’t get a full sentence out, which gave me a couple seconds to think. I couldn’t leave him unattended with a group of powerful murderers, but they also didn’t appear to be armed, though they could be hiding anything in those cloaks.

I had evidence against them, even if it was just the torture and interrogation of Billy, if the tape recorder worked. I knew their acronyms, not what ROYALTY stood for exactly, but I could probably figure that out. MSTRS didn’t seem to be too difficult, some sort of code. It was at the hotel at 7:00, ‘Meeting Starts Tonight, Retrace Steps’ MSTRS, and again it was the first sentence at the meeting ‘My Signal To Rendezvous Succeeds’ MSTRS. The real problem was trying to get away before they caught us both, and possibly killed us. I don’t know which was stronger, my fear of the powerful, dangerous teachers standing before me, or the anger I had towards them for murdering my friend, and apparently making some sort of assassination attempt in the near future. I looked at my perfect view of the White House and knew I could not just hide and watch them torture Billy. Before I knew what I was doing, I had unlocked the door, ran out, to the surprise of everyone in the room, grabbed Billy and made a run for it. I looked back for a brief moment, to find 20 furious eyes glaring at me.

My World Turned Upside Down

 

When I got back to the dorm room, Francis was pacing around highlighting cut-out newspaper articles and writing notes on a legal pad. He was mumbling something about a pattern and didn’t notice my entrance.

            As ignorant to reality as Francis is, eventually he noticed my expression of fear. It was a fear he knew himself; an alloy of paranoia and bewilderment.  He questioned me. Slowly, I began to explain my peculiar findings, but it didn’t seem to surprise him. He reacted as if all I had told him was corroborating some theory he was formulating.

            Before responding, he turned away and began to feverishly flip through the legal pad until he reached a sketch of ten people standing in cloaks. He held it up to me. They were doing what I had described. I nodded to him weakly.

            He told me not to tell anyone, and I knew from my movie watching experience that no one could be trusted, so I trusted no one. Francis’ boat was so far from the dock that no one would believe him anyway.

 That night, strangely, I awoke around three and Francis was sitting in the corner of his bed leaning against his wall. The only illumination was the moon cracking through the drapes and the glowing embers of his cigarette. He looked at me and said “I’ll look into this cult business. It need not concern you,” as he took a final long drag of his cigarette and turned his head to the sky and exiled a cloud of white as I drifted off back to sleep.

            (I didn’t notice it until a few weeks later but there was an ominous certainty of those words. The syllables almost tinged with a sad awareness of what had to be done.)

            The next day I went to class and hoped Snovil wouldn’t remember our meeting so he wouldn’t connect the cell phone he heard to me. I was the most likely candidate, so to assuage my paranoia—and maybe his—I told him I was unable to make it, and I tried to schedule meeting which I did not plan on attending.

            When I got back to the room Francis was still in his pajamas with a large cork board posted up on the wall with pictures of all the professors and assorted colors of yarn drawn from one picture to the other.  He told me he was building a conspiracy web.

When I asked if he had been to class, he said no, “This is too important…no-time-for- class,” slurring the end of his phrase into one word. “See the only way to understand what you saw is to start at the top. I know a girl whose mom is the Dean’s secretary, if I can get to her before they do, I could get a look at his appointment book and see what it says about last night. Then cross-reference it with Snovil’s appointment book because we all know they’re old chums. That’s what I suspect it is. Did you get a good look at anyone there? Maybe approximate height, ethnic group, speech patterns, shoe size, anything of significance, anything at all?”

            I began to say something then he interrupted me to add “favorite color maybe? That can even help.” I told him no. “Hmm, now that they know someone knows they’ll probably switch up their meetings of whatever it is. Listen; can you do me a favor to help with the investigation?”

            “We don’t even know what it is alright, so just calm down,” I said trying to alleviate my fear and seeking his concurrence, but not receiving it.  

            “Well, would there be any other reason other than malfeasance to meet in such a dimly limited room down a hidden staircase?”

            “Maybe it’s a support group for erectile dysfunction. Or maybe they’re all recovering alcoholics who happen to participate in role-playing games involving cults. I don’t know.” The last sentence came out of my mouth so frail and weak the words nearly disintegrated in the air before they reached Francis. My fear was growing—for both of us.

            Francis sat me down on my bed and gave me the Little League pep talk about courage, right and wrong, and hanging in there. I was a little cheered up, but I was ill at ease.

***

Over the next few weeks Francis increasingly began to disappear randomly, and reappearing with stacks of paper in his hands. He said he had been systematically breaking into professors and upper administrator’s offices, looking for files which may be relevant to the situation. Apparently, he never found any papers that were irrelevant because I kept finding shopping lists and sushi receipts.

He began to keep a leather bound journal and make a lot of notes and sketches in it. Once, when I was coming back from class, I saw him put a manila envelope into a hole in an oak tree, all Boo Radley like. When I opened it all it had was cut-up puzzle pieces. I didn’t know what to make off it. I no longer knew where insanity ended and the truth began. Everything began to merge and mix into swirls of a thousand paints.  It was becoming too much.

Then he died. And I was lost. He “committed suicide” by jumping out a window on the top floor of the library and landed in a tree, hitting every branch on the way down. Conveniently, I was the first to see his body lying bloody, broken, and bruised in the wet grass. He had called me ten minutes before and told me he found something in some old newspaper clippings. Something about the Dean’s involvement in a terrorist organization called ROYALTY when he used to go here, but I didn’t learn what the letters stood for. As I was struggling to revive him, his notebook fell out of the window with the pages torn out and it landed threateningly open near his body.  

At the funeral, I heard a man whisper behind me “there’s nothing sadder than a man dying young” almost in my ear then slink away into the dark crevices of solemn faced crowd.  I didn’t know what to make of it or make of anything. The police told me it was suicide and I let them believe he was crazy so they wouldn’t search the room and find his research. I didn’t know how far this would go, but I knew it went higher than just a few run of the mill professors and maybe a dean. No organization could infiltrate a prestigious university like John Smith U without a government contact or two. I swore his death was not to be meaningless.

I needed help on this one. I’m too young, I said to myself. Maybe I could get a private eye. No. I needed someone that existed outside the conventional system of investigation, but someone who could provide some muscle or back up in tight spot, which at this rate was due up soon. I considered a body guard, but it was out of my budget of no dollars and no cents.

No funds and no resources, up against presumably an entire secret organization that did who knows what, but they were powerful. They had doctorates. They had tenure. I had an eight by eight foot dorm room and a mini fridge. But I then again unlike them I had no role to pretend to fill, I could go as far as I had to.  I always had the carte blanche of a dead roommate and college alcoholism, that’s a hallmark special on the USA network all ready. Realizing I had no rules, I decided to throw myself into the investigation that killed my roommate because if I didn’t, who else would?

            What to do first, hire an intern.

            I needed some underclassmen to sort through Francis’ files and then organize, categorize, and collate them into neat carefully labeled binders. He would handle the paper trail, I’d handle the end that requiring cunning, secrecy, and testicles.

            The interns name was Billy Baldwin, he was a criminology major and I told him this was a practice in investigation and it would earn him six credits. Hopefully, upon revealing the conspiracy, the new administration would reward him with those credits, but I wasn’t betting on it.

            We began sorting through his papers about a week after the funeral and all the information seemed only to complicate the labyrinth forming from Francis’ hurried notes and paranoid journal entries. I made a mental note to check back with the Dean’s secretary.

I needed an informant; someone who had been wronged by these men after a period of being in their confidence. Old employees wouldn’t work, because as movies have taught me, they’d just say they knew nothing, or “this was bigger than you and me,” or “give it up, you’ll end up like your friend.”

Then, I had a breakthrough idea. Old men with money must have a mistress I thought to myself, and by chance maybe they used them as their alibi for one of their meetings. I put the intern on it right away sifting through their appointment books for times that matched the night I saw the séance or whatever the hell it was. He found in a Professor Macintyre’s book a seven o’clock meeting labeled “MSTRS” a clever code for mistress. His agenda said they met nearly everyone Thursday at a motel downtown called the Red Heart Inn. The intern and I went out on a stake out right away in my rundown station wagon, being in such a seedy part of town it would blend in like military fatigues in a jungle. (By the way, the intern in fact does not talk, that was one of the job requirements in the hiring process).

We sat in the dark, cold, for two hours, the steam from my coffee thermos scarring the frost of the windshield. The rain came in vicious torrents. The only light in the car came from the reflection of the red and pink neon arrow underlining the Red Heart Inn.

The professor came out first, in a trench coat pulled up to his ears and black fedora angled towards the ground like armor from the rain. As he was driving away, we pulled Billy’s bike out of the trunk and I put him on his trail. I would stay with the mistress who was sure to come out sometime. So, Billy left pedaling off into the rain behind the vanishing taillights.

            I waited for the mistress, but no one came out. After an hour I began to think about the possibilities. Based on my experience, there was one of two chances either she was dead and my going in would only incriminate myself, or there was no mistress. Against my better judgment I went to their room and knocked on the door.

The Secret

Standing on my elevated platform, I clicked on the blue bull-horn and began my speech with the fire and zeal that thrilled me week after week:

“The throat of democracy is parched,” I began. “Everyday, the hegemonic rule via proverbial monarchical chokes and suppresses the liberties of this free nation.
“We as individual believers in freedom and democracy demand refreshment. Our long to have our voices heard and be taken into consideration, instead of falling on deaf ears of the powerful oligarchy. We demand our desires for listening be sated.
“I am no longer content to exist living in a soundproof booth of theoretical instead of real democracy. Our votes put these people in power but our opinions remain meaningless. I urge you fellow students to stand and demand an audience with architects of our society.
“As long as the declaration of independence and the constitution lie on the books and state that we are free and that our chosen representatives listen to the demands of the people which his existence is intended to be for: a proxy for the concerns of his constituency not a rogue entity isolated from those that have elected him. As long as those tenants exist we have hope. Don’t allow that hope to be extinguished by apathy.”
I was suddenly aware of the Security guards coming at me from the crowd. They brought me down without a fight. Although I thought of striking the men with my bullhorn and exonerating myself through arguing that it was an act against tyranny, I remained limp and listless as they removed him.

This is where it all began …

Walking back from the cobblestone quad of John Smith University, my current collegial prison, a thought went through my mind, a thought that has been troubling me for the past three months. How can such a controlled university as JSU not have more democratically active students than the handful that turned out? My weekly ritual of reminding students of their civil liberties as United States citizens was becoming more disappointing as of late. It seemed that the regulars were the only reliable listeners. Listening. What was Professor Snovil saying about listening to the heart beat of the majority to find an answer? It didn’t matter; I wasn’t going to pass his class anyways. Political science was my major, but I wasn’t strict enough in my studying to become another uniformed, brainless soldier only adhering to his way of thinking just to pass the class. I wanted my own views to be known and considered at least before he slashes them to bits like a lion with a piece of freshly bleeding meat.

My footsteps on the cobblestone walkway echoed off the concrete walls stretching up like guards. Click, click, click, click. Already the trees have started to become bare in preparation for winter only weeks away. The homey gold and red leaves litter the ground softening the look of the campus. This cold environment based in our nation’s capital used to be such a comfort to me when I started at JSU four years ago and even up until two years ago. But something changed the feeling of this place, something sinister, something cold. The symbol stitched on every uniform here used to fill me with such pride, but no more. Ever since Dean John-Michael Dume took over JSU, the life has drained from these walls like blood draining from the cheeks of a scared little girl.

The walk back to my dorm seemed to stretch out before my eyes; I adjusted my small wooden step under my arm and loosened my tie with my other hand. I should go see Professor Snovil sometime this week to discuss my paper. Regardless that the man is as one-dimensional as a piece of paper, I can’t just sit back and watch him win. From the bottom of the staircase, I can already see Francis is home. A small stream of smoke trailed out the window to join the slight night fog collecting about the building, giving almost an old England feel to this New England district.

”I’ve had a breakthrough! I was looking through some old school newspapers and the student senate … it was disbanded three years ago from next Friday … Friday! He had been asked to step down and focus on school work more, and now he’s just …” Francis said excitedly, not even pausing to greet me first. “Can you believe … I mean, just look! This is amazing, how the hell could they just …” He had ceased to make sense to me; I was lost as to the point of what he was saying.

Locking the door behind me – if I didn’t lock it, Francis would flip and think random people would come to get him – I spotted the layers upon layers of notes scattered around our room and the ashtray on the windowsill filled with ash and butts from only one day’s use. It quickly crossed my mind to ask him how much stress he has been under today, but thought the ashtray showed all too well how much.
”What the hell are you talking about?” I asked, knitting my brow together in utter confusion. Whatever it is, it must be damn important.

“The student senate was torn apart three years ago, under the pretenses of ‘needing to focus on school more.’ The president was told to step down along with the rest of them.”

”Yeah, Francis, I know what happened, I was here for that. It was my freshman year, but I was still here.” I rolled my eyes and nodded in agreement at the obvious. Throwing my homemade wooden step against my bed, I leaned over his should to get a better view of what the hell he was talking about.
”But what you didn’t know was that the president died! It was never solved, but rumor had it that it was murder.” By this time Francis hadn’t even finished the cigarette he was sucking on before lighting up a second. His right leg was bouncing uncontrollably the way it did when he had a new lead in one of his theories. Half eaten candy bars and bowls of mystery food were strung about everywhere, intermixing with the leaflets of notes.

“Murder?” I questioned. “But a murder has never occurred here. Not even when the police had to control the protest rally three years ago and not even when the students started throwing textbooks and ended up shutting the school down in disagreement with the Vietnam war happening.” The thought that anyone had ever been killed here seemed implausible to me. Murder? Something seemed very wrong with this finding.

“Did you find this in the hardcopy archive?”
”No, that was the weird part,” said Francis. “I had to actually email the Editor-in-Chief from the year it was published. Mine didn’t have anything on it, neither did the section editors. The old EIC said he kept it on file, just in case.” In case of what?
I glanced around the room once more at the papers and post-it notes scattered everywhere as if the room were composed of them alone. Francis’ computer screen was hardly visible except for a picture of Professor Snovil in black and white from many years ago. The only way I could tell it was him was from the way his crooked nose bent in three different parts like the treacherous slope of a mountain.

I nodded in direction of the computer screen. “I need to see him this week,” I said to Francis. “I’ve got a paper due and he’s not going to give me another C.” When I turned to look at Francis again, there was something off about his expression, something suspicious and uneasy. He must be on another conspiracy theory tangent. Very often Francis blanked out, lost in his own thoughts of conspiracies, only to come back to have heard and seen nothing during his daze.

Gathering my draft of the paper due, my notebook, my pocket copy of the constitution and shoving everything into my once-white JanSport backpack and slinging it onto my back, I grabbed the door knob and then pulled back. I could feel Francis’ eyes burning into the back of my head. Oh yea, I thought to myself. I have to check the peep hole to make sure nobody’s trying to club me or something. Francis was always worried about people following or chasing him. Because of that, I had to go through his rituals or suffer his wrath of incomprehensible theories and case studies thrown at me a million miles a minute. Obviously more at ease – his leg sped back up to its previous pace – I left the room mentally prepared for the battle that would shortly take place between Snovil and me.

After knocking for the third time and finding the door to be unlocked, I eased my way into the dungeon-like dwelling of Professor Snovil’s office. He only has one hour a week at the most inconvenient time, you think the douche would be in here. I scoped out the trinkets on his desk and the leather-bound texts in the massive bookcase against the far wall. With all these books you’d think he’d be at least a little bit brighter than an ape, I thought. After close examination, I discovered that a corner of the Mao Zedong poster was caught behind the bookshelf. I placed my hand on the bookshelf in order to lean in to have a better look at the trapped piece of paper. The bookcase erupted with an awful groan and leaned backwards until it was lying against the floor, creating a drawbridge joining Snovil’s office to an ill-lit passageway that would have ordinarily looked like any other corridor in the ancient university if it were in a less ominous location. Great, what am I, in an Indiana Jones film now? Are there going to be arrows shooting from the walls and spikes dropping from the ceiling? This was way beyond my belief of what happened in real life.

Looking around the part of the passageway I could see, there didn’t seem to be any immediate signs of danger. Carefully, I mounted the bookshelf and crossed over into this seemingly cliché tunnel of doom. The walls were exactly like those of the hallways that I had walked along everyday on my way to class, with the exception of electrically lit lights dotting the direction I was supposed to move in. Before continuing down any farther, I noticed a wedge of stone that stuck out near the entrance. This most likely the way to close the passage as so students wouldn’t stumble upon it accidentally. How ironic.

No more than a dozen yards from the bookshelf entrance, the hallway opened up into a balcony that wrapped around the entire chamber with four staircases, each positioned across from another one to create a compass effect. By this time, I could hear low chanting coming from up from down below. Not wanting to be seen, I set my backpack down in the hall and lowered myself to the floor, trying to be as stealthy as humanly possible. My breathing quickened as my eyes adjusted to the bright chandeliers of light so concentrated in the chamber. My heart started to beat with adrenaline and fear at what I could see whilst peeking over the edge of the balcony. Ten hooded, cloaked figures stood round an oval table with a particularly prominent figure standing at the head of the table. Emblems were sewn onto the cloak hood, which drooped down to the wearers’ noses. Each emblem was unique to the wearer. The figure who had positioned themselves at the head of the table had a predominantly larger symbol stitched onto his hood: a gold crown.

Ring! Ring! Shit! The members halted in their chanting as the sound of my cell phone ringing bounced acoustically off the barren walls, giving me away instantly. I jumped to my feet and dashed from the room, my heart beating like a kettle drum in my ears and drowning out any sound my pursuers could have possibly made. I hit the stone to open the chamber once more, attempting to catch my breath as I impatiently waited for a space large enough to fit my body through without seriously injuring myself. Shadows danced on the walls of the corridor giving the only proof I needed to know I was in deep shit for being in that chamber. I dove through the crack in the book case and darted out of the office, sprinting all the way until I got back to my dorm.