Chapter 29

Charles half expects Julian to have contacts at the police station, but when he thinks about it more seriously he realizes it’s nothing more than a phrase from a mystery novel: “my contact in the police.” And of course the Julian Ellsworth of Young Sherlock had all the resources and access he needed, because that is how television works. All the difficult everyday things, phone calls and bookings and negotiations and the smoothing of ruffled feathers, happen offscreen, tasks performed by presumably underpaid production assistants and the like, and the doubts that most adults must have had when confronted with a twelve-year-old “detective” would have been assuaged by the presence of cameras. Charles wonders what the people whose cases the young Julian solved on TV believed about the authenticity of Julian’s talents. He realizes now that of course they might not have needed to believe anything; perhaps the “cases” were set up in advance, the answers already known, the clues already planned and planted. Since getting deeper into Lu’s case Charles has hardly thought about the mystery that plagued him so much when he had first seen Julian behind the desk: had Julian really been solving mysteries on his childhood TV show? Now the question floods through him once more.

                   He thinks of the police taking in Francis Pace for questioning. Slow as they were to pick up on the possibility that Jack Hart’s murder was rooted in departmental conflict, Charles can’t shake the feeling that maybe it’s good they’re getting involved now. When Piper described the way the police had behaved when they’d been at Schenley that morning—“Like they fucking owned the place,” Piper had said, tears thick in their throat—Charles had understood why that was upsetting to them, but he can’t help but appreciate that the police have actual authority. They have the power to do things, to make people talk, to get warrants and bring people in for questioning and access all sorts of records and files—and—and Julian doesn’t.

Uncomfortably, the inadequacy of their position strikes Charles. What have they really done, so far? What have they found out? How have they helped Piper, or Lu?

What if—

He shakes himself. No.

But the thought still comes. What if Julian isn’t really a good detective?

What if he never has been?

“Charles.” Julian’s voice across the office makes Charles start guiltily. He snaps to attention, hurrying to Julian’s side.

Julian points at his computer screen. “Piper just sent me this.”

It’s a Twitter link to a Medium post: “An open letter to anyone considering enrolling in Schenley University’s English graduate program.” The tweet has been shared 358 times. As Charles looks on, the number goes up. 359. 367. 380. Julian clicks the link.

An open letter to anyone considering enrolling in Schenley University’s English graduate program:

Don’t do it.

You may have seen the email posted on an online forum recently, the one sent to a prospective PhD student encouraging them to go elsewhere. That email referred to the department as “kind of messed up.” I didn’t send that email, personally, but I know who did (thanks K&K), and the only thing I disagree with is the descriptor “kind of.”

The department is extremely, extraordinarily, “messed up.”

Honestly, even that is an understatement. The reason is this: beyond all the faculty infighting, the petty squabbles, the grad students at each other’s throats, the personal conflicts getting in the way of actual learning and teaching, the bad reputation Schenley has amongst its peers (which include, of course, institutions that may be conducting job searches when you go on the market)—beyond all of that, the department is becoming downright dangerous.

That isn’t an overstatement. Someone was murdered here recently: a graduate student. The police believed it was the work of a random stranger. Now, they aren’t so sure.

One of the senior faculty members in the department was recently taken in for questioning. It sounds incredible, doesn’t it? Incredible as in, “impossible to credit.” I understand; I feel the same. I have trouble believing it, too.

Another one of the graduate students has gone missing. They say she simply dropped out. No one has seen her for weeks. No one knows where she is. We worry, daily, that we will find her, too, with her throat slit, in the hallway where we work and study and learn. Sometimes we worry that we will be the ones bleeding on the floor.

If all this sounds melodramatic—something out of a Jacobean revenge tragedy, perhaps, backstabbing and blood, incestuous violence and petty politics turned lethal—well, then, think, instead, of the professional repercussions of your decision. One of the current PhD candidates who is on the job market this year had an interview a couple of weeks ago with an excellent school (I won’t name them, but it was a tenure track job at a big research institution, which are of course nearly impossible to get these days) and it went well until the hiring committee started asking about Schenley—oh, you haven’t worked with Dr. so-and-so? Why not, if they’re in your department and work in your field? We’ve noticed these major scholars in your field you don’t cite; why is that? How do you negotiate disputes with colleagues? Describe a moment when one of your colleagues strongly disagreed with your politics or opinions—how did you handle it? How do you contribute to a safe and healthy working environment?

Those are not a standard set of interview questions. This candidate was not invited for a campus visit.

Protect yourself. If you have other options, take them; if this is your only one, seriously consider waiting another year and reapplying elsewhere. It’s not worth the damage it might do to your career—or your life.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

“Holy shit,” says Charles. “I hadn’t realized how scared people are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well. ‘Throats slit.’ ‘It could be us next.’”

Julian waves that away. “No. That’s fearmongering. They may be scared, but the warnings in this letter are just as strategic as anything else we’ve encountered in this absurd departmental conflict so far. You know what’s really important about what they wrote, right?”

“Uh.” Charles looks again. He’d clocked it initially, but all the talk of murder and danger had distracted him. “K&K.”

“Kevin Ng and Karen Gavras.”

“The historicist grad students. They wrote the email that got posted online.”

“According to this person, anyway.” Julian taps his fingers on the desk. He sits forward, narrowed eyes focused on the screen. “I wonder if Kevin and Karen wrote the graffiti, too.”

Charles cocks his head. “Why?”

Julian shrugs. “Same tone. A pretense at casual language, brief, an attempt to sound relatable. Different from this letter, by the way; I doubt it was their handiwork.”

“So you think they wrote the graffiti…what, so they could mention it in their email to the new admit as proof of the departmental schism?”

Julian shrugs. “Possible.”

“Assuming this person is right,” Charles says, nodding at the screen, “how would they have known that Kevin and Karen sent the email?”

Julian taps his fingers again, a rhythmic sound against the edge of the table. “That’s a good question,” he says. “An important one, I think.”

“Yeah?”

Julian nods. Then he stands and reaches for his coat. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” Charles asks, hurrying to keep up with the suddenly-in-motion Julian.

“I can’t think here anymore. I need a change of scene.”

Charles laughs, startled—because the energy is there again, the Julian energy from his childhood. A brief, suspended moment: Julian grins at him, a cowlick in his pale hair, as they hover in the doorway: and then the bubble bursts. Julian’s face wipes itself of all expression. Charles is left to follow him, heart in his mouth, trying not to think the word love.