Murder Mystery of Arck

The Sleepwalkers

It is four fifteen in the morning and it has been about 12 hours since Mark’s death. It is Saturday and I have been awake for the past 2 hours.

I had a nightmare that woke me up and I can’t seem to go back to sleep. I tried pacing around the room and I have finished reading a chapter of ‘Capitalism and Freedom’ by Milton Friedman, and there seems to be no change in my opinion of capitalism.

I am staring out the window at the tree behind our university. Our university was surrounded by a large amount of trees over larger area. I wonder who build this place.

I don’t have much interest in knowing how old the school is. But if it can get my mind off of this terrible train of thought, I would gladly sit through a whole lecture of a person explaining the university’s history to me.

“You know what? Damn it!” I exclaimed, careful not to wake anyone up, as I grab a jacket from my suitcase and head out of the room. The rooms were very spacious, but the walls were closing in and suffocating me.

It was colder than I expected. I have always liked winters better than other seasons. The summers were too hot and the only thing I like about rain is the fragrant smell it leaves behind.

I like it at night. The whole world seems to have stopped and I feel peaceful. And I can look at the stars all I want. I just like stars because they are there. And as millions of people come and go and as millions ignore their existence, they are there all the time, regardless.

I walk through the silent hallways and up the stairs and find myself at the place Mark had supposedly ‘jumped’ from.

If he had jumped willingly, shouldn’t his body face the ground, instead the sky? I take a deep breath and duck under the tape around a specific window.

“It’s so cold,” I say as I look around for anything suspicious. I look over the edge, noticing the scratches on the floor. Mark was wearing spiked shoes for some reason, I think back to when I saw his body.

Played football, I concluded by remembering the conversation Mark and I had a few months ago.

He ended up in the infirmary one day, dislocated his shoulder while playing. I suspected it to be intentional, but he told me not to mind it too much. These things happen very often, he had said.

I bend down to inspect the scratches, brushing my fingers over them. Do spiked shoes make such visible scratches?

“His nails were bleeding,” a voice behind me says, startling me. I lose my balance and fall on the floor. “Careful, May,” Sebastian says as he comes closer, not matching the concern his warning indicated.

“What did you say?” I ask him as he sits down next to me. He just sighs and searches his pockets for something.

“His fingertips were covered in blood and his nails were detached from the skin. The scratches may be of importance. It’s like he was trying to hold on,” he replies, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter.

He looks at me and asks, “The real question is: if he jumped willingly, why are there scratches on the floor and why were his fingertips bleeding?” He puts the cigarette between his teeth and asks, “Do you mind?”

I rolled my eyes, not giving him a reply. “He was wearing spiked shoes,” I say instead. I look over the edge once more, noticing the patches of blood as the moonlight makes them visible.

“Hmm- I don’t know. Spikes don’t make those visible scratches,” he says after a moment. I hear the click of his lighter as he speaks, “And I’m going to take that as a ‘no’.”

I look at him, wanting to ask him if he was curious about the events that may have led to the death of Mark Gardener. I want to ask him if he felt that something doesn’t seem right.

But I don’t know if I can trust him with the information I know. I can barely consider him an occasionally friendly person, trustworthy is millions of miles away.

“What?” he raises his eyebrow and his shoulders lifting a bit. But then his expression changes to that of frustration and annoyance. “Oh, come on. Let me have this one, alright? Lord knows I need it,” he says, inhaling the smoke and blowing it out.

I shake my head. This man is stupid.

I cross my legs and sit comfortably on the cold floor. Pulling my jacket close to me, I look at the sky. There are too many clouds tonight.

You are back on the train, Rose, I think to myself as I realize that I had no intention of coming here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything went on smoothly as the morning sun rose behind the cloudy sky. It is windy and grey today, so I expect snow in a few days.

Sympathy, I like to say, is an emotion, not very familiar to the rich I know. Everyone was still shaken by what had happened in the last 18 hours, but that doesn’t stop them from pretending to not give a damn.

Sebastian and I returned to our respective room once we saw the morning light. We just sat in silence until it was time to go.

I suppose we both knew that if we started talking we would end up arguing about one thing or another. And, that both of us wanted as well as devoured the silence.

Some students decided to stay in the library all day or in the comforts of their room. It was understood and respected by the teachers. That doesn’t mean they would halt their teaching.

Classes were not cancelled and anyone who wished to attend was welcomed. Before breakfast we were asked to stay silent for 5 minutes to honor Mark’s death. The dean informed me that the funeral was the day after tomorrow.

And that was it. That’s all the school had done for one of their students. There were no speeches because no one truly knew Mark Gardener. And there were no mourners.

Several professors ask if I am okay and if I want to leave. But I refuse. Sitting in a class was better than sitting alone at the moment. The lack of sleep is catching up to me which means I only understand half the things the professors were saying.

I tried to get rid of the headache with the help of the coffee, the Kitchen staff was generous enough to give me in between breaks. But that is doing nothing at all.

A book whacks my head, startling me awake, as the person sits down next to me. “Wake up,” Sebastian says as I glare at him, “I know you haven’t slept and what happened yesterday is bothering you, but you can’t fall behind in class. We both know that.”

I know, right? I should study first. If I fall behind, it will affect my grades, my grades will affect my family, my family’s reaction will affect my emotion, and I don’t wish to deal with negative emotions.

Exams are next month. I groan as the thought crosses my mind.

I hit my head on the table and say, “How are you not feeling the headache?” I sit up straight and point my finger at him. “Be honest with me,” I whisper, “Are you doing drugs?” He glances at me before shaking his head in disbelief.

I tilt my head and exclaim, “That’s not an answer.” “An answer is not always supposed to be verbal,” he counters and continues opening his books.

“Did you do your reading?” He asks when he is done arranging everything, “We have an OQT today.” “Again?” I cry out loud, heads turn in our direction, muttering something in their partners’ ears.

“What did you conclude from the chapter?”

“Capitalism is mostly bad.”

“Wow, what an answer. Your grades are going to sky-rocket with that answer.”

“Don’t talk about my grades or I’ll punch you in the face.”

“Your grades are punching you in the face. Let’s revise.”

“We’ll do one sentence answers. Those seem to help you the most for remembering and understanding,” he says, unfolding a paper from his pocket. Alright, you need to study to survive another term, Rose. You can do it.

“First question: One major result that accompanies Capitalism is?”

“Discrimination of particular religious, racial or social groups.”

“Good. Next question: What does the author conclude from the example of the discrimination against the colored?”

“Hmmm-Monopoly more, discrimination more. Monopoly less, discrimination less.”

He scoffs and says, “That works, I guess. At least, you understand the meaning. How is a person who expresses preferences at a disadvantage compared to a person who doesn’t?”

“The person’s preferences limit his choices that will eventually drive him out of the market.”

Sebastian manages to revise the entire 10-page- chapter in 15 minutes. I manage to answer most of the simple questions. The complicated ones; let’s just hope I can answer them to acquire at least one mark.

The professor comes in with a bundle of papers in his hands as Sebastian continues to explain the Right-To-Work law to me. Those papers used to be my worst nightmares, but another has taken that spot now.

The professor distributes the papers to everyone without a greeting and says, “This test will affect your mid-term results. Write it thoughtfully.” Oh, great. That’s all I need to know.

“Revised alright?” Harry Winning asks as he sits down next to Sebastian. “Yep,” he answers, shutting all the books he had opened before. Harry looks over at me and offers a smile.

“Good morning,” he greets. I reply, with a blank expression on my face, “It’s not good, I can tell you that.” “Well, it’s time to make it good then,” Professor Stone interrupts the conversation, “By scoring, at least, passing marks.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, nodding my head with an apologetic smile. I pass the papers to Sebastian, who passes them to Harry.

“Why were you late, Haz?” Sebastian asks Harry. “I was looking for a book in the library,” he replies as his eyes read the question on the paper.

I lean over to whisper in Sebastian’s ear, but he interrupts me, “I’m not going to help you cheat, May.” I take a deep breath, trying not to start a rant. “That is not what I was going to ask,” I say through gritted teeth, “You little prick.”

“No? What is it then?”

“Do you know anyone in the Criminal Investigation Department? Or even the police?”

He looks at me suspiciously, but answers, nonetheless, “I might. Why do you ask?” I wave him off and say, “Just curious.”

I am pretty sure he does know someone. That makes him helpful. I may not trust him, but Sebastian, being the rich individual he is, is very helpful. This could be advantageous in finding out the events that lead to Mark Gardener’s death.

I glance at him one more time, before reading the question in front of me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I walk out of the class, praying that I would get marks that would push me into the next term. But that seemed highly unlikely, judging by all the answers I was hearing. I wish I could just turn deaf for a few minutes.

“Why did you ask me if I knew someone in the law enforcement?” Sebastian asks, walking beside me. I think I’m going to start crying. I’m going to be disowned after this test. Why did they have to send the results to our parents anyway?

“I’ll tell you later,” I say, taking his copy of ‘Capitalism and Freedom’ from his hand, “After lunch, perhaps. Are you free?”

He reaches out to take a hold of his book, but I extend my hand, keeping it away from him. He gives me a look, the look parents give their children for doing something childish.

He annotates whenever he reads, whatever it is that he is reading. I cannot do that because I borrow books from the library. His notes are quite helpful and easier to understand a particular concept.

“Yes, I am,” he responds and points at the book in my hands, “And I’ll need that.” I nod and stop at the intersection of three corridors.

“I’ll return it as soon as I finish reading the assigned chapter,” I say, extending my free hand for him to shake, “After lunch it is, Worde. Don’t forget.” He shakes it and gives me a hesitant look.

I turn the other way to head to my next class as I hear him shout, “Do not stain the pages, May!”

“I won’t,” I shot back, smiling at the book. If I score good enough mark in the mid-terms, this test won’t be of much importance.

Revision sessions start this Thursday. All I need to do is study so hard that I remember everything even when I am resting on my death bed. Shouldn’t be a problem…..I hope.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I chose psychology for the fun of it. It was interesting to study the human mind and behavior, but what I wanted was to understand it so that I can implement in my life from the knowledge I gather.

I feel assured when I know what to expect from a person. Although, my judgment cannot be right all the time, but I’d like to be wrong on the rarest of occasions.

Professor Reed was less cruel in terms of the assignments, which was given. He was closer to the students than any other professor I know. He is cruel when it comes to studies, but other than that, he is a very friendly educator.

My mood changes from being happy about receiving fewer assignments to resenting the person who commented on the Mark’s death. Many of the students hear it, but no one says anything as if silently agreeing- at least, that’s how it looks to me.

“Something good happened from the death, eh? At least we have less work to do,” the person behind me whispered, thinking that he is talking to himself. I scoff and turn to face him.

“You have spent 18 years on this planet, and you still manage to utter inappropriate bullshit,” I exclaim, shutting my book, “I think that tells us almost everything we need to understand about the human mind, eh?”

He, what’s-his-name, looks at me in complete bewilderment and says, “Don’t act like you are not happy about having to do less work.”

I sigh, unable to understand how he doesn’t feel ashamed. “You’re right. I am happy about having to do less work. But I use my brain to understand that the reason behind this is a sensitive event that shouldn’t be considered good,” I rant, trying my best not to slap him, “At least, I have the decency to honor someone who has just died, unlike some.”

I stand up to leave the class, but stop when I see Professor Reed standing at the door. He looks between the boy and me and walks in without a word. I want to leave, but I don’t want to miss this class.

How unbothered someone has to be to comment on the death of a fellow student? It was appalling to witness that someone, who cannot care less, can talk about someone’s death being a good thing.

I suddenly feel the sadness kick in. Not receiving respect when you are alive is one thing and not receiving it after death is another.

Although, not all deaths are supposed to be mourned for, there are many that deserve it. And if one cannot mourn, the least they can do is honor the death and shut their mouths.

I know not many people knew Mark and, therefore, don’t feel the need to react on his death. But the least they could do was honor it.

“Insensitivity towards certain events or individuals,” Professor Reed starts speaking, writing on the blackboard in big letters ‘INSENSITIVITY’, “What do you think causes insensitivity, Ms. May?”

I've known Professor Reed for more than 6 years, and I would consider our relationship to be that of a mentor and his student. He wasn't Professor then, but a teacher in my school. The only one I liked. His conversations are engaging and actually have some context in them, and his teaching methods are definately not boring.

And if I recall correctly, we had a similar conversation a few years back, when I had developed an interest in psychopaths. It was nothing too concerning, I was just curious after reading some news.

I stare at him for a moment, constructing a sentence. I reply, doubtfully, “Their brain doesn’t allow them to feel concern for others or their surroundings?”

“Auguste Comte, father of sociology, believed that it is our moral obligation to put others before ourselves, and thus, coined the term ‘altruism’,” He remarks, writing down ‘ALTRUISM’ on the board, and turns to face the class again, “It can make us feel uncomfortable or judgmental of the people who do not feel the need to be sensitive.”

“Being emotionally unaware can cause insensitive people continue to be insensitive,” A girl sitting in the first row adds after raising her hand. Reed nods at the girl in acknowledgement. He glances at me, as if telling me to pay attention, before continuing.

“It is obvious that we cause ourselves more harm by not expressing the emotions we feel through words, if not actions,” Professor Reed elaborates, moving around the class, “But even after we understand that it is emotionally stressing us, we continue to isolate ourselves from the world.”

“How is isolating one’s self from the world related to the person being sensitive?” a boy questions, “The person has the choice to act the way they feel, and if they are indifferent to empathetic things, it’s their choice.”

“How do you think isolation causes a person to be insensitive, Ms. May?” Professor Reed asks me as stops in front of me, his intense eyes demanding an answer from me. I bite the inside of my cheek as I think of an acceptable answer.

Isolating one’s self is both advantageous and disadvantageous for them. It protects them from outside forces, but in turn it cuts them off from the outside world. But if someone cuts himself or herself from the world for emotional reasons, it would be either to heal or to hide.

I meet Professor’s eyes and answer, “People who suffer emotionally often isolate themselves to prevent themselves from getting hurt. Isolating would mean that the person completely cuts him or herself off from the world, which means they will try to be indifferent even when a person or thing affect them emotionally, so that, they remain isolated.”

“That may not be a good argument to answer the question, which is, why some people are insensitive towards things or events that require a sensitive response,” he says, walking back in at the front of the room, “However, it may be a contributing factor.”

I look at the books on my desk as I let out a quiet chuckle before picking them to move places. I can’t leave an important lecture just because I disagree with someone. I might as well drop out if that is the case considering all the people I disagree with.



I’ll fall behind if I leave, anyways. I can risk anything but that. I am falling behind in more subjects than I’d like. I don’t need psychology to make that list. It is one of the only subjects I don’t regret taking.

I look at Professor Reed, arraging the papers he brought in with him, thinking if he was somehow indirectly trying to mock the boy I argued with or trying to tell me not to let it bother me too much.

“May I change my seat, Professor?” I request. I am pretty sure that he will agree. “Of course,” he answers with a small victorious smile, "And I will have a talk with you, Mr. Fernsby, after class." I don't bother see his reaction. At least someone, if not me, will put some sense in him.

“I’m afraid we cannot continue our discussion as it is not part of your syllabus,” He says, looking at the bundle of papers on the desk in front of him, “So, I’ll be conducting a surprise test. Hope you all are somewhat prepared.”

Students groan at the mention of a surprise test and close their books, shoving them in their bags in dismay.

I sit down near a window at the back of the class and think about the argument I had just a few minutes ago. Was it alright for me to react that way? Should I just have ignored his comment?

I am just trying to justify my actions to reassure myself that what I did was not very uncommon.

But then again, it wouldn’t have stopped me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*Use of any form of tobacco is injurious to health. Do NOT support smoking or consumption of alcohol*