Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 114, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 697 & 698, September/October 1999

The Naughty Professor by Douglas McKinstry

©1999 by Douglas McKinstry

We’ll let talented debut author Douglas McKinstry introduce himself: “For eleven years, I’ve taught composition and literature at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. I love many kinds of fiction, including mystery, detective, and crime. I’ve taught Poe and Chandler, hut most of my mystery reading has been in magazines such as yours. I have a one-year old son named Adam, also a delightful mystery to me.”

Harry Peeler sat in his cluttered office reading a student essay, nodding off from time to time. A May breeze drifted through the open window and stroked his stubbled face. The door was open for office hours, but with his back to it, and his eyelids lowered to the inpouring breath of honeysuckle, Harry didn’t know he had company. He awoke with a start when he heard his name. The voice was clear and deep.

Harry swiveled slowly around, instinctively depressed at the masculine timbre of the intrusion. He looked up. When he saw who it was, one of his brightest British Literature students, he cheered a little. If it wasn’t a coed, at least it was a thinking being. At this late stage of the semester, Harry knew all his students by name, male and female. This fellow he had known since week two. This one was a talker. Unlike the majority of students, talkers didn’t have to be forced to participate.

“Could I see you for a minute?” the young man asked, standing at the border of the hallway and Harry’s office. He was over six feet tall and heavyset, a mass of muscle and fat, Harry saw, in an unconscious survey of the visitor. He was dressed like many other undergraduate students in May, in an untucked T-shirt, baggy shorts past the knees, white socks, and scruffy name-brand tennis shoes. His dark hair was a week-old buzz. He wore no glasses, and from ten feet away his blue eyes sparkled like sunlit pools. Harry invited him in, indicating a chair for visitors, then stole a glance at his watch. He didn’t mind short visits with intelligent students. Actually he enjoyed them.

“You’re Eric Jamison, right?” Harry asked half cordially, half imperiously. He liked to intimidate students a little, especially burly or athletic males.

“Right,” said Jamison, apparently not intimidated at all. He sat on the edge of the chair Harry had shown him and leaned forward, closing the distance between them. Harry leaned back in his own chair, a deeper and more comfortable one than his guest’s.

“I’d like to talk about my grade,” Jamison said, without the trace of a smile on his mouth or in his glittery eyes.

“Okay,” Harry said gruffly, ready if necessary for a test of wills.

“I really need an A.” Jamison grinned a little, baring a portion of his upper teeth. Harry thought the grin was faintly malicious.

“And why do you need an A?” he asked, only half amused at the gall of a declaration he’d heard a hundred other times in twenty years of teaching, and suppressing, as always, the answer he wanted to give: “Then why don’t you earn one?”

“Because I’ve never made anything but A’s,” Jamison said briskly, as if asserting the conclusion of a logical proof worked out ahead of time. “I don’t make B’s or B+’s. Just A’s.” Still he jutted forward, his meaty head hovering over a front corner of Harry’s desk. But for his attire, Harry thought, the young man looked like an insurance salesman hell-bent on “closing” a client. Above each brown eyebrow Harry saw a thin line of sweat.

In nine out of ten such conversations, Harry would deliver a short lecture on perfectionism and overvaluation of the grade-point average. In this and some other extreme cases, he preferred to go straight to his grade book, which he kept always, along with textbooks and other materials, in a faded black backpack. He sat forward in his chair, promptly extracted the grade book from its crowded home, and opened it to the class roll for British Literature 201.

Scanning the list to find Jamison’s name, Harry glanced across the ledger to see what he already thought to be true: Jamison was borderline B+/A and closer to the A. But Harry disliked pushy students, and would discourage this one accordingly: “Well, the grades you’ve made in other courses have nothing whatever to do with the grade you deserve in this course. You understand that, don’t you?” He tilted his head toward Jamison.

The young man had lowered his eyes, as if studying his upper lip. His mouth had lifted slightly in a sardonic grin. Harry knew the look: indignant pride barely containing itself. He would wait for an answer before continuing.

When five long seconds had passed, Jamison looked up, his eyes squinting and his mouth still smiling bitterly. Before speaking, he leered at Harry for another long second. Harry’s heart fluttered with excitement. He hadn’t seen such a menacing face in twenty years of teaching.

“I’ll put it this way,” Jamison said, his voice an articulate growl. “Either you give me the grade I want, or I’ll put a stop to you. Do you understand that?” The mouth lost its grin, but the eyes were still blue arrows aimed straight at the wide-opened windows of Harry Peeler’s soul.

“Get the hell out of here! Now!” Harry wasn’t conscious of having risen from his chair. He stood over Jamison, and he felt his left arm pointing toward the office doorway. He also felt ablaze with heat, and the whole room was white with fire.

Jamison rose slowly, never taking his eyes off Harry. Outside himself, beyond the white flames filling the room, Harry knew a third person was standing at the doorway, watching. But he couldn’t think about that. He was about to blast another expulsive command when Jamison suddenly brought a fist down hard onto Harry’s desk, making a thunderous thud that reverberated to the base of Harry’s spine. “You give me the grade I want,” the young man said again, more audibly than before, “or I’ll make sure — personally — that you never harass another student.”

He was already walking out before Harry could summon his breath. “Get the hell out of here!” he finally managed, as Jamison brushed past Don Elkins and disappeared into the hallway.

Elkins had occupied a next-door office the entire twenty years Harry had been at the university. He was Harry’s closest male friend in the department. With eyebrows raised and a downcurling whistle blowing through his lips, Elkins strolled into Harry’s office and stopped in front of the desk. “What the hell was that?” he asked, chuckling, his mouth open in sympathetic embarrassment.

Harry was still standing behind his desk. He watched his office slowly return to its natural colors: the muted shades of old textbooks lining his walls, the brighter hues of newer volumes, the copper-stained wall paneling above the bookshelves, a burgundy carpet, an off-black personal computer, the red-cushioned chair where Jamison had sat. Harry looked at Elkins. They were the same age, forty-six, but Elkins appeared much older. Though he was slightly shorter than Harry, he was far heavier, bald on top, and a more conservative dresser. If he didn’t often wear a coat and tie, he also avoided Levis and tennis shoes. He was a husband and father, and, fairly or not, to these job assignments Harry attributed his friend’s conspicuous middle age.

When Harry didn’t answer his friend, Elkins repeated the question: “What the hell was that?” Elkins still gaped with amazement.

“I don’t know what that son of a bitch is talking about,” Harry said, still not hearing the question. “I haven’t touched a student in ten years at least. Not until the semester is over — that’s been my policy for over ten years. That son of a bitch is crazy.” Harry looked down, running a hand over the top of his head, feeling the thick crop of hair, still dark brown, give way like a soft brush. He kept his hair short. Students had told him he looked younger that way.

“What about last spring?” Elkins grinned like a co-conspirator.

Harry seemed to realize for the first time that his friend had entered the room. Still thinking about Jamison, he looked again at Elkins. Then, as if by delayed broadcast, he finally heard the query.

“Last spring? No — well, it was the last day of class. They had just written their final paper. Everyone else had left. She had turned in her paper. I didn’t even kiss her. All I did was let her know I wanted to. Unmistakably let her know.” In spite of himself Harry smiled, remembering that warm afternoon less than a year before. Then he remembered Jamison, who was not a pleasant memory. Elkins, still grinning, shook his head slowly.

It was no trouble to check Jamison’s record, to see if he was lying about his grade-point average. Harry suspected he was. Harry took the stairs, as always, to the plaza of McCall Tower, walked to Student Records, got Jamison’s transcript, scanned it in the hallway, and saw instantly that Jamison had told the truth. In a two-year undergraduate career, he had nothing to show but A’s. Harry was relieved. Maybe it was about grades. Maybe that’s all it was.

At home that evening, Harry studied the image in the bathroom mirror. His eyes were a striking slate blue, his other facial features more or less classically formed, except perhaps for a too-thin upper lip. He wasn’t as good-looking as he would have liked, but he’d always been pretty well satisfied. The people who knew his age told him he looked ten years younger, and he had to agree with them. He’d realized for some years now that he had a certain boyish charm, and that he always would, even at seventy-five. He wondered sometimes if the boyishness wasn’t just emotional immaturity. Deep inside he doubted he could ever marry again, not after his little two-year effort fifteen years before had failed so miserably. No, he doubted he would try that road again, though the alternative prospect sometimes scared him more.

Most of the evening he sat on his couch, alone as usual, grading papers. He’d thought all day about Jamison and about the female students he’d even remotely harassed in the last several years. He remembered three or four in the two years since Jamison had been a student. He hadn’t forced himself on any of them. In every case he’d waited until the last day, and never — even in the old days — had he so much as considered discussing grades for sex. That was the point, really: In recent years at least, he wouldn’t have needed to, anyway. In recent years, he’d made sure to wait for clear permission before moving in. There was no point trying to find out who knew Jamison and who didn’t. More than likely he didn’t know any of them; Harry knew his own reputation. Grade-mongers might use any leverage they could. He would just have to wait Jamison out. At any rate, he would give him the grade he deserved.

The next morning Harry stood in the second-floor bathroom of McCall Tower, two minutes before class. He was checking himself in the mirror, mussing his bristled hair — to perfection. He seldom neglected this show-business responsibility, if only because his audience always included girls. He was more nervous than usual, though, worried about seeing Jamison. Like most other A students Harry had seen, Jamison made class attendance a steady habit even if it wasn’t an honest passion.

When he walked in, Harry looked instinctively to the back row, to the third seat from the door. He wasn’t there. A black pall lifted from the room. Harry thought he might see Jamison anyway, an hour later, in his office, but now at least he might enjoy this last class meeting before the final exam. With a sudden respite, as it were, from ominous circumstances, Harry felt a rush of gladness fill his throat: glad to be teaching at a university, glad to teach a subject he loved, glad he had tried hard, for the most part, to be the best teacher he could. Midst a swelling optimism, Harry decided Jamison meant nothing by his threats, that he was just an overwrought perfectionist having a bad day. If Jamison came to his office again, he would probably apologize to Harry for the tantrum. Harry would accept the apology. He understood pride and ambition well enough. After all, these had been giant motivations in his own career, despite all the romantic opportunities that had presented themselves, quite unforeseeably, on his first entering the ranks of college teaching.

Harry stood behind a long table at the front of the room, surveying the class while removing a textbook and his grade book from the backpack. There was no denying it: The scenery this time of year was exquisite. From now until October most of the girls would be about half dressed: sandals, shorts, and assorted upper pieces often shrinking by summertime to beachwear. In their own way even the few grunge chicks, usually as pretty as normal girls, liked to show what they could, replacing boots with Birkenstocks, leather jackets with gaping smocks, and rolling up their dungarees or swapping them for ratty cutoffs barely clinging to a jutting pelvic bone. The grunge girls never made a play for Harry. Besides being old, he wasn’t wild enough. At his age he didn’t catch much serious attention from the straight ones either, even if he did look younger than his years. He still enjoyed looking, though; and there were always a few marginally normal ones out there who simply liked older men, or who tolerated old age because they saw other qualities they liked. Most classes had one or two such girls. This class appeared to have two.

Jennifer Mobley, a petite and pretty brunette, had sat front and center since day one. Her friend Lisa Randolph, a jovial blonde more cute than pretty, sat to Jennifer’s left. Both appeared to like Harry very much. Jennifer mostly just stared up at him, smiling sweetly. Lisa liked to ask questions and make funny remarks. She liked to ask Harry what he’d been doing, and she had a running joke with him about Shakespeare. Harry liked Lisa plenty, but he liked Jennifer better. Whenever he bantered with Lisa, he felt Jennifer’s dark eyes watching him. Her face drove Harry to distraction. But he was attracted to Lisa too. He would welcome time alone with either of them.

He leaned over the table, checking attendance, still relieved by Jamison’s absence. As he placed the lower-case “a” by Jamison’s name, Lisa spoke to him: “So what have you been doing?”

“I’ve been doing my best,” Harry said, glancing back and forth between the names in his grade book and the palpable presences, or absences, corresponding to them. “What have you been doing?”

“Oh, you know, I reread Shakespeare’s plays last night. I can’t get enough of him.”

“So what did you do the rest of the evening?”

“I wrote a couple of research papers.”

“For college credit, or just for fun?”

“For fun.” Harry grinned at Lisa, who grinned back. Then he looked at Jennifer, who was grinning too. He told the class to open their books to page 2420, to Boswell’s The Life of Samuel Johnson, L.L.D. Lisa said, “Can’t we just watch the video?” Two other students, both males, asked if the class could go outside. Harry remarked that these were excellent questions, and he promised satisfactory answers to them by final-exam time. Throughout his forty-minute lecture he made repeated eye contact with every student. Occasionally he glanced at the floor, at Jennifer Mobley’s white sandals. It was a good lecture, and a beautiful time of year. He let the class go two minutes before the bell.

Harry forgot about Jamison until halfway back to his office. He stopped by the mailroom, removed a few pieces of mail from his box, and checked to make sure there was no message from or about Jamison. There wasn’t. Then he made his way to room 327, his private sanctuary, made open to the public three hours a week. Harry sat at his desk, took a deep breath, and swiveled toward the window. It was another gorgeous spring day. Spring was Harry’s favorite season. He loved the smell of the air, the impossibly green grass, the ecstatic songs in every tree. It was the time of year he felt closest to God. It was the time of year he most wanted to marry again. To find a woman he could live with. One woman. A reason not to look at other women. But he could hardly imagine such a woman. If she existed, she wasn’t of this world. Maybe in a monastery somewhere, but not here in the world. Only a monastic life could stop his lustful eye. Maybe Jamison knew about his lust. He hoped Jamison would stop by. Maybe they could go drink a beer. They would talk about life, love, literature, and girls. He would explain everything to Jamison, and Jamison would understand perfectly. He hoped Jamison would stop by and give him a chance to explain.

Harry woke with a start. For a moment he didn’t know where he was, until he saw the library looming in the near distance. He swiveled in his chair. Jamison was standing in front of his desk. The office door was closed.

“What can I do for you?” asked Harry, sitting back. His stomach was churning.

Jamison looked tired, and Harry remembered the clothes from the day before. The shirt was badly wrinkled. It was solid red except for the words VELVET UNDERGROUND in white block letters across the breast. The letters “VET” were stained brown. In a hoarse voice Jamison asked if he could sit down. Harry motioned toward the vacant chair.

Jamison seemed to relax, his back against that of the chair. Today he looked sad, or confused. To his relief, Harry sensed an apology forthcoming. If he was right, he would tell Jamison, in turn, that he was sorry too. He was sorry that students as bright as Jamison wasted their time worrying about grades, and that there wasn’t some other way to earn college degrees than racking up so many grade points for four, six, eight years at a stretch. He was sorry he couldn’t guarantee Jamison an A, but he saw no reason why Jamison couldn’t get the A he wanted — or “needed” — so badly. Harry leaned forward. He thought he saw a tear leaving Jamison’s left eye. He hoped the apology wouldn’t get messy.

Jamison cleared his throat. He wiped his eye with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry about all this,” he said, looking down. “I really am.” Harry felt a smile tugging at his mouth. He could hardly believe the turnabout. Such arrogance one day, and now this. He felt pity for Jamison.

“Let’s just forget about it,” Harry said, smiling. He longed to say something more comforting, but he feared Jamison might start weeping. He could watch a weeping female, but that was different. No man-tears, please. Not in this office. “Let’s forget all about it,” he said again.

Jamison was quiet for half a minute. Harry started twice to say something, but decided to give the young man some time.

“I’m sorry about all this,” he said again. “I can’t just forget about it. I can’t forget what you did. I wish I could.”

Harry wasn’t sure he heard right. “What did you say?” he asked, his pulse quickening.

Jamison looked remorseful as he spoke, his squinting eyes creasing both temples. His speech was slow and slurred.

“You knew my mother. Twenty years ago. Do you remember Laura Harris?” He paused before adding, “She remembered you.”

Harry sat frozen in space. Of course he remembered Laura Harris. He remembered most of his students, no matter their gender, their mediocrity, or their remoteness in time. Harry instantly recalled the long dark hair, the sparkling eyes, and the far-better-than-mediocre intelligence. She had majored in English, after all. Harry had never discriminated against brains, though by no means were they prerequisites. Yes, he remembered everything about Laura Harris. He wanted to tell Jamison how much he’d changed since those early days. But he knew Jamison wasn’t finished. He might as well hear him out.

“She told me about it two years ago,” Jamison said, “the day before she died.” Harry’s throat was aching. “She told me what you did that day in your office. In this office, I suppose.”

Harry tried to speak. He wanted to explain how things had been, and how they were now. And he wanted to apologize. But his throat had closed tight. He could only listen.

Jamison hadn’t looked at Harry yet. When he finally did, his eyes had dried and his voice cleared. His mouth looked bitter as the day before. He leaned forward as he spoke: “You know what happened here, but you don’t know what happened after. She was just a pretty piece of flesh to you, but what you did upset her. And she didn’t have much room inside for upset — not after her childhood, after the things her father did. You were her favorite teacher, but you couldn’t keep your hands off either, and that upset her very much. I guess you didn’t know she dropped out of school. You didn’t know that, did you?”

Harry didn’t know it. All he knew was he had fondled her low back and thigh with his hand, and pressed his leg against hers, during a student conference, a conference she had requested to discuss her 101 essays. She had said nothing when it happened. She hadn’t discouraged him at all. Afterwards, despite Harry’s invitation, she had not returned to his office. And she ignored him in class. She never spoke to him again, not even on final-exam day when he exchanged goodbyes with most students, but had guiltily let her offer the exchange — or not. She had not. A few days later, in a borderline decision, he had given her an A. She had been the earliest casualty in the first phase of Harry’s career, when he occasionally made entirely unsolicited advances. There had been a few other casualties over the years, culminating in the 1989 incident. A report to the English Department changed Harry’s method forever. Harry swallowed hard. He was gathering his voice for an apology to Jamison. It was all he could do.

Before Harry could summon the full force of his contrition, Jamison stood up. He was breathing hard through his nostrils, like a simmering bull. Harry thought he might hyperventilate. “She never got over it,” Jamison said, doing finger exercises at the ends of dangling arms. “She got married and had me right after she dropped out. Her biggest disappointment in life was not getting a college degree. She said so many times. Then she told me about you, the summer before my freshman year. The summer she died. She wondered if you were still teaching here. She never could come back. She said you killed her momentum.” Jamison still breathed hard, and he had teared up again.

“I’m very, very sorry,” Harry said, erect in his chair, sincerely remorseful, and desperate to make amends. He reached for a tissue to hand Jamison. When he offered it, tentatively, Jamison was shaking his head, crying, and his fingers had curled into fists. Before Harry could respond, Jamison was on top of him, driving him backwards in the chair. When it toppled, the two men rolled together onto the floor, with Harry on top. Jamison had his massive hands around Harry’s neck and was squeezing hard. Harry couldn’t breathe, nor could he loosen the grips on his throat. He tried striking a fist against Jamison’s face, but the younger man’s arms, fully extended, placed him several inches out of Harry’s reach. Harry reached back to his desk, aiming for the letter opener he had never used. It was the first thing he felt. The tissue still clinging to his thumb, Harry grasped the handle of the steel instrument and brought it down hard. It went straight through Jamison’s left eye. Jamison screamed horribly, but his hands let go of Harry’s neck. The letter opener rested five inches deep in the socket.

Harry stood up, gasping, shuddering. He heard a voice behind him. Don Elkins stood on the other side of Harry’s desk. Several other professors had entered too. A few of their students stood gawking in the doorway. Harry looked at Elkins. He looked down at Jamison’s hideous head. He looked at Elkins again. He removed the wet tissue from his sweaty hand, letting it fall to the floor. “All I did was touch her,” Harry said, pleading with Elkins. “All I did was touch her,” he said again, and again, to anyone who would hear.