Chapter 17

“No record Dr. Fischer ever visited the morgue,” Sergeant Harry Abraham reported to Chief Black.

The Chief mulled over the information.

“There’s also this,” Harry mumbled. He pushed a sheaf of printouts in the Chief’s direction.

“What’s all this?”

“Chatter from the student message boards.”

Chief Black scanned the documents.

Sociology 40. Introduction to Deviant Behavior

Nathaniel Littlejohn

T,Th 2:00-3:20

A systematic examination of deviancy as a social construct. The course surveys the ways in which society uses normative ethics as a means of controlling behavior and also explores the concept of deviant groups and their role in revolutions. While some reading is required, the course emphasizes empirical research to familiarize students with a variety of deviant acts.

Then he started reading the first message in the pile:

Disregard the syllabus. This course is awesome. You actually learn useful stuff like: deviance as a weapon; identity theft; creating disinformation; covering your ass; manipulating the media; leveraging the legal system; and creating a sleeper cell. The only requirement is to commit a deviant act and write about it …

“Charming.”

“I found out about it from the campus police,” explained Harry. “Happens every spring and drives ’em crazy.”

“What are they dealing with?”

“A lot of pranks, mostly. Soap bubbles in the fountains. Graffiti. Minor shoplifting. Now there’s a lot of computer-based stuff. Hacking. Identity theft. Sometimes viruses. And then there’s the occasional off-the-wall event that defies description …”

“Can’t the university shut it down?”

“Academic freedom. The professor’s kind of a cult figure. And the kids love having a course where they don’t have to read anything. It’s a tradition.”

“Did you find out anything else on the message boards?”

“A lot of bragging. One-upmanship. The class has a nickname, Doggin’ ’n’ Dissin’, and that’s all we know right now,” Harry concluded.

The Chief handed the folder back to Harry. “Maybe Bruno’ll run into something when he’s over there …”

In fact, at that very moment Bruno was buried in the Penn library, reading up on Quakerism and the origins of the university. It surprised him to learn that Benjamin Franklin was not a Quaker and that William Penn had no direct connection with the college. So why did they call themselves the Quakers?

Not far away, in another part of the campus, Alison knocked on the door of Professor Littlejohn’s office.

“I’m very excited about the way my project is developing,” she told him as she took a seat.

“That’s good,” said Littlejohn, studying the person sitting across the desk from him. The course was a large lecture, so he didn’t ordinarily get to know many of the students. He’d never seen Alison before and she struck him as a typical undergrad. Face not formed yet. Baby fat, yet with a hard edge. Chewed fingernails. Atrocious posture. Ample breasts. Child’s temperament in a woman’s body fueled by adolescent rage. A bomb waiting to explode. He told himself to keep his distance, for the hundredth time. Then he heard himself saying, “It’s always exciting when you step outside normative morality for the first time …”

That was all Alison needed. “I think it’s immoral to obey unjust laws. Like Gandhi. He equated laws with superstition. People really have a duty to disobey. Just like you teach in the course.”

Littlejohn tried to be modest, but he couldn’t help beaming. “I can’t take any credit. Students, people your age, are so idealistic and dedicated. It’s the best time of life in many ways. One of the reasons I offer this course is to learn from you. All of that creativity is an inspiration.”

“Well, I really put a lot of thought into it,” she gushed. “My project has to do with the corporate manipulation and appropriation of the global food supply, which forces millions into poverty and submissiveness.”

“Very impressive.” Littlejohn drew a deep breath. Something told him this was going to be one of those projects. Every couple of years one cropped up and things could get really hairy. He reminded himself to be careful.

“Things started out well,” Alison explained. “Then they took an unexpected turn. On the whole, I think it’s really a good thing. But it turned out to be much, much bigger than I expected. Now, to really get the full impact, I need some help. We have to get the word out. It’s so frustrating …!”

Littlejohn might have been confused by all these generalities if he had been listening more carefully, but he assumed he knew where she was headed. “It’s very difficult to get work published these days. Even for faculty, it can be a challenge. Undergraduate work … I have to advise you not to get your expectations up. You have your whole career in front of you.”

Alison tossed her head. “It’s nothing like that. This isn’t just research. It’s something newsworthy. But it has to be handled just right, because I don’t want to get mixed up with the police.”

“I see.” Littlejohn started to feel his blood pressure go up. Another naive kid, thinking she could change the world all by herself. It seemed they were always coming to him for validation. Lucky for them, he had plenty of experience: He knew how to let them down easy without squashing their ideals. “The police, huh? That sounds a little bit complicated for an undergraduate assignment.” He smiled at Alison in a particular way when he said “complicated” to suggest that he recognized and appreciated her effort—in spite of what he was about to tell her.

Alison looked down at her fingers, which she was interweaving nervously in her lap. A good sign. Littlejohn continued, “Don’t you remember the caveats on the project handout? I can give you another copy if you need one.”

Alison’s face started to turn red with frustration. Why wasn’t Professor Littlejohn being more encouraging? “Like I told you, things escalated in a way that I didn’t expect … I wasn’t planning to do anything illegal. Except maybe trespassing. And a little bit of vandalism.”

“Hold it right there,” said Littlejohn. He stood up and started to pace the room. He needed to phrase this delicately. “It sounds to me like you’ve committed a political act. Am I right?”

Alison perked up a bit. “Yeah, that’s it exactly. Technically illegal but morally justified: a political act.”

The doorknob twisted open and one of Littlejohn’s colleagues stuck her head in. Face framed with curly black hair, left long and natural, like the ’60s. Bright red lipstick and tiny black-rimmed reading glasses pushed down on her nose. It was Nathalie Porthous, the resident expert in feminist theory—a celebrity in Alison’s eyes.

“Still on for coffee tomorrow with Bill Conway, Nate?” said Dr. Porthous in a cheery, bell-like tone.

“Yes. The usual time and place.” Littlejohn gave her a big thumbs-up; she mumbled a vague “Excuse me” in Alison’s direction and withdrew.

Dr. Porthous’ interruption allowed him to see the situation with Alison in a new perspective. He had to admit he was curious to find out what was going on. But it was so difficult to talk here, in his official capacity. “Where were we?” he wondered rhetorically. “Ah, yes. I was about to say it would be better if we could discuss this issue in a more neutral context.”

“What do you mean?” Now it was Alison’s turn to feel confused.

“It’s very simple. Here at Penn, I’m your professor. And I have certain responsibilities.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. “I thought you’d want to …”

He cut her off. “I know. I know. You need to talk. I want to listen. I’d like to help you, but …”

“I don’t get it. What are you saying?”

“It’s not that simple.”

Alison’s look of derision made him hesitate. Then he plunged ahead anyway. “Look, you can’t go around breaking every rule in sight. And you don’t do it just for the fun of it.” His voice sank to a whisper. “This isn’t anarchy, it’s about principle. Building on principle requires circumspection. And tact. Speaking freely in this office would be neither circumspect nor tactful.” He resumed speaking at normal volume. “Are you beginning to understand?”

“I think so …”

“Good. The hypocrisy in this culture is absurd. That’s why we have to do things in a roundabout way. In theory, our political views are protected speech. As a couple of concerned citizens, we have a right—or as you put it, a duty—to discuss the issues and act on our principles. We have a right to privacy.”

“Exactly …”

“So if we’re going to talk, we need to ensure we protect our right to privacy.”

He wasn’t actually winking while he said this, was he? “So, you’re suggesting …”

Littlejohn did not reply. Instead, he wrote an address on a piece of paper and handed it to Alison.

“You want me to meet you at this address?” asked Alison, hesitating.

Littlejohn nodded affirmatively.

“Tonight?”

He nodded again as he half-ushered, half-prodded her out of his office.