Chapter 12
"Dr.Barnes! Dr. Barnes!" the student repeated. Pamela snapped out of her reverie and was drawn back into her classroom. She was leaning against her desk at the front of the small classroom on the second floor. It was Thursday morning, not long after the sunrise faculty meeting, and she was trying to lecture to her undergraduate research class, but not having much success.
"Now," she said, "where was I?" She grabbed her coffee cup and took a quick sip. This was a teacher's trick she used to give herself a moment to gather her thoughts--thoughts that were roaming far from the class discussion today.
"Dr. Barnes," said the girl, with increased emphasis, "you were talking about human subjects." The young woman smiled self-righteously as she looked around the room.
"Yes," said Pamela, "now, being as how we psychologists conduct our research primarily on human beings.... I know, I know, Dr. Goodman would include all those animals too. But, for the most part, psychologists deal with humans and when we gather data we collect it from humans. That presents us with certain problems that other scientists don't have to deal with, right?" She looked around the room expectantly. Several hands rose.
"You have to be really careful with people," said one young man.
"That's true, Michael," responded Pamela, "how so?"
"You can't do anything to humans without their consent," added a girl, seated close to Michael.
"You mean," posed Pamela, "that if I got someone's consent I could do anything I wanted?"
"No," continued Michael, the ball now in his corner, "psychologists can't just go out and start conducting experiments on people because they want to."
"They can't?" exclaimed Pamela.
"No," added the girl, "psychologists have to get permission before they do an experiment." She nodded, satisfied with her answer.
"Permission from whom?" questioned Pamela, smiling, "The government? The head of their department? Their parents?"
The class giggled and looked around. No hands were raised. Most students now focused on their desktops. Pamela recognized the "I don't have a clue what the answer is" stare.
"Where do you think they should get permission," she suggested.
"The police," said one of her smart-alecks by the window. The entire class laughed. Pamela, however, was immediately drawn back to her personal thoughts. The last thing she'd told her husband before they went to bed last night was that she'd take the CD of Charlotte's murder to the police first thing this morning before the 7 a.m. meeting, but she hadn't done so. It was still in her purse in her office. True, she'd planned to do it-she'd even driven towards Police Headquarters on her way to work, but then, she'd suddenly changed her mind--she didn't know why--and backtracked to campus.
Now, here she was in her Thursday morning class feeling guilty that she hadn't kept her word to Rocky and wondering what she should do about it. She knew she must take the disk to the police, but she was procrastinating and she didn't know why.
"Dr. Barnes," whined the same girl who'd interrupted Pamela's daydreaming earlier. "Dr. Barnes, what should we do?"
"What?" asked Pamela, suddenly confused. It was almost as if the student was privy to her thoughts and was asking her what she was going to do about the CD.
"Dr. Barnes," said the girl, "you don't seem like yourself today."
"No, Dr. Barnes," agreed another student near the front. "Maybe you're having a delayed reaction to Dr. Clark's death."
Delayed reaction, oh my, Pamela thought. Students never failed to toss in some tidbit of knowledge they'd picked up in one of their other classes.
"Dr. Barnes," said another, "maybe you should go home and get some rest. You look a little drained."
For heaven's sake, Pamela smiled to herself; she'd better pull it together. "I'm just fine," she said. "Now, what I think you're looking for is The Human Subjects' Committee. Every large research university has one and it's devoted to reviewing any proposed research that involves humans. We have one here at Grace University. The Human Subjects' Committee is somewhat like an enforced conscience for researchers. It ensures that all research is ethical. What do you think about that?"
"I think it's really important," said one young woman, "because you sometimes hear about scientists who are more concerned with their studies than with the people involved."
"Right," agreed another girl, "just because a person is a scientist doesn't mean that they're automatically ethical."
Pamela nodded. Just because a person is a scientist doesn't mean they're automatically ethical, she thought, nor does it mean they automatically know what the ethical thing to do is in any particular situation. She bit her lip. She should just hop in her car and take the CD to Shoop right now and be over with it.
"All right," she said to the group, "Let's see if you've read this chapter on research ethics. Get in your discussion groups and work on the problems on page 246 in your textbook. You can have the rest of the class period to do it and when you've answered all the questions, bring your written responses to me before you leave." The students began moving their desks around into small groups of four or five and were soon talking quietly among themselves.
Pamela returned to the chair behind her desk and continued sipping her coffee. She peered out the classroom window onto the campus grounds. It was a beautiful fall day--the first day of November. From here, she could see Meer Hall, the biology building and Drucker Hall, the math building. Beyond Drucker, was Silverton Hall, the English building, where her husband worked. She could hear students walking on the sidewalks below, chatting and enjoying the crisp air. The gruesome events of two days ago appeared far from their thoughts.
She thought of the CD she played last night on her home computer screen and how the wave form of the recorded sound appeared in the sound analysis program. It was the familiar soft curve of human vocal sound, but there were non-human noises there too. What were they? She really needed to listen to it again. Maybe she could figure out what the sounds were and somehow figure out who the killer was. Maybe Charlotte's choking sounds contained some information--she didn't know what--but something that might provide some information. She wanted to know, to help. But she'd promised Rocky that she'd take the CD to the police today--first thing. And she hadn't. She'd lied--well, not exactly lied. She intended to take it to the police, but she couldn't--she just couldn't.
When the students started to collect their books and put them in their backpacks--always a sign that class was nearing its official end, she checked her watch. The groups started coming up and showing her their work. Virtually all groups had answered the questions correctly. She smiled. She may have been off in dreamland, but the lesson of the day had penetrated.
Saying her farewells to her students, she grabbed her belongings, and headed down the hallway to her office. As she rounded the corner, she spotted Willard in Joan's office chatting amiably. A wave at her two friends and she continued on. After she entered her office and had made herself comfortable at her desk, her phone rang.
"Dr. Barnes," sang Jane Marie, "Are you up to no good?" Pamela was briefly startled because, unbeknownst to Jane Marie, no good was obviously what Pamela was up to.
"No," she replied, "I'm just sitting here. Thought I'd eat lunch."
"If you'd like some juicy news," said Jane Marie, in her lowest gossipy voice, "I think I may have found out who the woman in the photograph is--you know, the one that Dr. Clark put in Dr. Marks's mailbox before she was murdered."
"Who?" asked Pamela.
"I did some snooping," she whispered. "I found her photograph in a yearbook from about ten years back."
"You mean she's a student?" cried Pamela.
"It appears so-or was," said Jane Marie, "Her name is Evelyn Carrier. Does that ring a bell?"
"No," replied Pamela, "I've never heard of her. Why would Charlotte put some former student's photo in Mitchell's mailbox with no note or anything? It's weird."
"Particularly when she's murdered the next day," said Jane Marie.
"Jane Marie," said Pamela, "a question. Did you happen to mention to Detective Shoop about this photograph?"
"No," said Jane Marie, "I figured I'd leave that for Dr. Marks to do. He has the photo--or rather it's on his desk. I don't know if he did or didn't tell Shoop. Do you?"
"No," said Pamela. "Shoop is closed mouthed just like Mitchell. He asks questions, but he surely doesn't offer much information."
"That's for sure," responded Jane Marie.
"Listen," suggested Pamela, "I'm not saying we intentionally try to get Mitchell in hot water, but if Shoop doesn't know about the photo--or about the fight between Mitchell and Charlotte--don't you think someone should tell him?"
"You mean me?" asked Jane Marie, horrified. "I value my job."
"Hmmm," said Pamela, thoughtfully, "Oh, don't worry; I understand if you don't want to get involved, but I think Shoop ought to know. Listen, Jane Marie, please don't say anything about this discussion to Mitchell."
"Don't worry," the secretary replied, "I won't. Bye." Pamela hung up as she heard Jane Marie's receiver click off.
Why hadn't she told Shoop about the fight or the photograph? Maybe she'd gotten so worked up about listening to the CD that she wasn't even thinking about any other potentially important information related to the murder. This, she resolved, was not behaving responsibly--or ethically. She decided she'd do what she'd promised her husband she would--not only that-she'd fill Shoop in on these other tidbits that may or may not be related to Charlotte Clark's murder. It was the least she could do. She was an ethical person, after all.