“Stuff’s heavy.”
“Forty-five pounds with the ceramic rifle plates. Plus your Advanced Combat helmet. Plus your ECWCS — seven layers of tactical pouches, pockets, and vests holding enough equipment to outfit a Boy Scout troop hell-bent on destruction. It’s a lot of gear, but you’ll be glad you have it. Wouldn’t want to get your arm blown off…”
Leigh Nelson entered Ward 27, the physician heading straight for Master Sergeant Trett. “What happened, Rocky? What spooked him?”
The double-leg amputee sat up in bed. “I don’t know. He had the usual nightmares, then started freaking out about an hour ago.”
“Suicide threats?”
“No, not since that first day. This was different. Don’t forget what day it is.”
“September 11…”
Rocky nodded. “There’s a lot of us who enlisted because of that day. I’m guessing your boy was one of them.”
“Thanks, baby doll.” She left him, heading for the ward bathroom.
There were fist-sized holes in the drywall. One of the three community sinks had been torn from the wall, a mirror shattered. Two male orderlies had wrestled Patrick Shepherd to the ground. A nurse struggled to inject him with a sedative.
“Stick him already!”
“Hold him steady.”
“Wait!” Leigh Nelson positioned herself so that her patient could see her face. “Shep! Shep, open your eyes and look at me.”
Patrick Shepherd opened his eyes. He stopped struggling. “Leigh?”
The nurse jabbed the hypodermic needle into the left cheek of Shepherd’s buttocks. The one-arm amputee’s body went limp.
Dr. Nelson was livid. “Nurse Mennella, I told you to wait.”
“Wait for what? This man is a walking billboard for post-traumatic stress. He shouldn’t be in the VA, he should be in a sanitarium.”
“She’s right, Doc,” added one of the orderlies, palpating a fresh welt over his left eyebrow. “The guy’s a bull. From now on, I’m carrying a Taser.”
“He is still a veteran. Try to remember that.” Leigh Nelson gazed down at her inert patient, the knuckles of his right hand bleeding from punching the walls. “Put him back in his bed and use the restraints. Keep him sedated for the rest of the day. And nurse, the next time you take it upon yourself to ignore my instructions, you’ll find yourself on bedpan duty for a week.”
The nurse capped the hypodermic needle, waiting until Nelson was out of earshot. “Big deal. You want to pay me $45 an hour to clean bedpans, do it.”
The injured orderly helped his associate lift the sedated patient off the floor. “You did the right thing, Veronica. The doc’s just having a bad day.”
“No, that’s not it.” She grabbed Patrick’s right wrist, checking his pulse. “Nelson likes him.”
Founded in 1754 as King's College by the Church of England, Columbia University was a private Ivy League school that occupied six city blocks in Morningside Heights, a neighborhood situated between Manhattan's Upper West Side and Harlem.
Professor Pankaj Patel exited Schermerhorn Hall, accompanied by a female graduate student representing the Columbia Science Review. “I do not have a lot of time. Where do you want to do this?”
“Over here.” She led him to a park bench. Aimed the palm-sized camcorder, framing Patel’s face in her monitor. “This is Lisa Lewis for the CSR, and I’m with Professor Pankaj Patel. Professor, you’ve written a new book, Macrosocial Evil and the Corruption of America. Maybe you can begin by telling our bloggers what macrosocial evil is.”
The balding forty-three-year-old intellectual cleared his throat, unsure of whether to look at the girl or the camera. “Macrosocial evil refers to a branch of psychology which examines the pathological factors that are found among deviant individuals who, through the manipulation of wealth, political affiliations, and other affluent associations, prey on what they consider the moral weakness of society in order to rise to power.”
“In your book, you call these people psychopaths with power.”
“Correct. A psychopath, by definition, is an individual who engages in abnormal activity while lacking all sense of guilt. Imagine living your entire life having no conscience… no feelings of remorse or shame, no sense of concern for others. When it comes to morality, you’re essentially without a soul, ruled by a sense of entitlement. Are you concerned about being different? Not at all. In fact, you consider it an asset, a strength — you are a wolf among sheep, acting while others hesitate. Sure, as a child, you were punished for microwaving the pet hamster or feeding firecrackers to the local duck population, but being a devious sort, you learned how to blend in, to appear ‘normal,’ all the while using your sociopathic tendencies to charm and manipulate your peers. For you, society’s laws have no meaning, you are governed by the Law of the Jungle… if you want something, you take it. And if you happen to be born into the right family, the right social class, well then, the sky’s the limit.”
“What about political figures? You’ve actually named names on both sides of the political spectrum, including a certain former vice president. Are you worried about being sued?”
“What I worry about is a world run by members of the military-industrial complex who believe they have the right to kill innocent people in order to achieve their objectives.”
“The book is called Macrosocial Evil and the Corruption of America, the author is Columbia’s own Professor Pankaj Patel, and I am Lisa Lewis for CSR online.” The reporter powered off the camera. “Thank you, Professor.”
“That was a good interview. Did you enjoy my book?”
“Actually, I only read the inside flap. But I’m sure it’s a great read.”
He sighed, watching her leave. Crossing Amsterdam Avenue, he headed straight for the blue lunch truck parked along the curb. “Yes, I’d like a turkey sandwich on wheat, lettuce and tomato—”
“—and a bottled water, got it.” The proprietor handed him his usual brown bag lunch, then swiped his debit card.
Making up for lost time, Patel ate as he walked, heading for Low Memorial Library. An hour of research, then an hour at the gym before my last class. I should call Manisha again. September 11 is always a difficult day for her and—
“Professor Patel, a quick question please?”
He turned, expecting to see the reporter, startled to find an Asian beauty in her twenties. Dressed in a black suit and chauffeur’s hat.
“How many letters are there in God’s name?”
The jolt of adrenaline seemed to electrify the pores of his skin. “Forty-two.”
She smiled. “Come with me, please.”
Suddenly feeling numb, he followed her across the street to an awaiting stretch limousine, his legs trembling beneath him. She opened the rear passenger-side door. “Please.”
Unsure, he looked inside.
The car was empty.
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace close. You will not miss your next class.”
He hesitated, then climbed in back, feeling like Alice entering the rabbit’s hole.