As always, story characters are eighteen years of age or older.
* * * *
Michael Sadkins noticed the perplexed look that flashed across Laurie Reynolds' pretty face when she handed him his term paper. A glance at it showed why; there was not a mark on it. Michael looked left and right. His classmates' papers were covered in Professor Havel's tiny, elegant, and always legible handwriting.
Eighty year old Professor Havel, an immigrant from the Czechoslovakia, was old school. In fact, he was pre-old school. Every year his students turned in their final papers on Thursday in writing. He did not want them faxed, sent by e-mail, or twittered; he said he did not understand such things, they were best left to the young.
Every year he returned them on Tuesday, covered in copious notes addressing grammatical and spelling errors, pointing out flaws in logic, suggesting tighter better sentences, questioning the validity of and proposing alternative sources, recommending different ways to organize the material and, without exception, finding something good to say about every paper and every student. Often several pages of typed notes (yes typed, no new-fangled word processor or computer for Professor Havel) would be appended to the paper, sometimes longer than the paper itself. Under Professor Havel's guidance Broadmoor Academy students regularly turned their high school papers into articles published in academic journals. No one could figure out how he did it. Did he not sleep for five days?
Michael flipped to the second page. It, as well as every page after it, was clean as a whistle. Michael was wondering how Professor Havel had overlooked his paper - was that fabulous mind finally slipping - when he arrived at the final page. On it, in Professor Havel's handwriting, in purple ink, was a "D."
Michael Sadkins was Broadmoor's top student. He had a perfect score on the ACT's. He took more than half his classes at near-by Dartmouth University. He had thought his paper, an analysis of the influence of Edmund Burke's political and social conservatism on Moby Dick, was one of his better efforts. More confused then anything else, he waited for the class to leave and approached Professor Havel.
"Sir."
The old man pulled out a handkerchief, which, as always, matched his bow tie, and wiped his brow. He took off his glasses, wiped them with the handkerchief. There were tears in his eyes when he said, in an accent forty-five years in the United States had not erased, "I'm sorry Michael, my wife, the insurance..." His voice broke.
Michael understood. The legend, long confirmed, was that Havel had arrived in the United States married to a woman fifteen years younger than himself, a survivor of a concentration camp. Only one thing exceeded Professor Havel's devotion to his students, his devotion to his wife. Only one thing equaled his devotion to her, her devotion to him. Their home was always open to students and they made sure each student, during his or her years at Broadmoor, was a dinner guest. And boy could Anna Havel cook.
One month earlier she'd been diagnosed with liver cancer. So many students and faculty had lined up to see her that the hospital had to impose special restrictions on visitors. Not a day went by when cards and flowers were not delivered to her room. It was reported that the hideously expensive treatment, thankfully covered by Broadmoor's expansive medial insurance, was working.
"She threatened to fire you, take away the insurance, unless you did this."
Professor Havel was about to answer when Michael held up his hand.
"Please sir, don't say anything. You made the right choice. I know how hard this must have been for you, but you did the right thing. I understand, I got a 'D' because my paper was derivative."
Professor Havel stared, not comprehending.
"Say it sir, say your paper was derivative."
Confusion evident on his face, Professor Havel said, "Your paper was derivative."
"Good, now if you're asked what happened when I approached you about my grade you can say you told me my paper was derivative." Michael placed his hand on the old man's shoulder. "I meant what I said sir, I know how hard this must have been; you did the right thing."
"Thank you Michael."
* * * *
That afternoon Michael Sadkins did what he usually did when mulling a hard question, he hiked through the near-by hills. When he'd arrived at Broadmoor during his sophomore year he'd immediately noticed Kendall Kross; you couldn't miss her. She was brilliant, model-beautiful, and a total fucking bitch. Her mother, Kris, was the school's head mistress. Kris was Kendall on steroids.
The problems didn't start until his junior year, when he found himself the object of the nasty gossip of Kendall and her friends, who ruled Broadmoor's social network. It didn't take long to figure out the problem; his academic performance surpassed Kendall's. Kris had been valedictorian; she was determined her daughter would be also. But it was all manageable. Kendall's bullying had little effect on him. Michael friends and social life centered not on Broadmoor but on Dartmouth.
In determining class rank Dartmouth courses were weighed more heavily than Broadmoor's classes. It was the primary reason Michael's grades were substantially higher then Kendall's, who was a straight "A" student. At the beginning of Michael's senior year Kris proclaimed a retroactive change in school policy; Dartmouth courses would be given no additional weight. Kendall's grades were now within fraction of Michael's. Professor Havel's "D" would move her to the top of the class.
* * * *
For the fourth time that afternoon Kris Kross scrolled through Michael's grades. The old bastard had caved; he'd given Sadkins a "D." For the fourth time that afternoon she tapped the icon for class ranks. Her daughter ranked first; Sadkins had slipped out of the top twenty. She'd struggled to find a way to torpedo his grades without causing a faculty revolt or a student strike; no one would believe the kid could get anything but an "A." Anna Havel's cancer had been a gift. Professor Havel's integrity was beyond question and his distaste for the dictatorial manner in which Kris ran the school well-known. If he gave Sadkins a "D" it might be a cause of wonder, but no one would think it came from her.
Kris had fallen in love with Broadmoor when she'd been a student there. Perennially listed among the nation's best private high schools, it offered prestige and access to the highest levels of society. She decided she never wanted to leave. As a senior she'd induced - while letting him think it was his idea - the school's head master into her bed. When she'd turned up pregnant the doddering old fool had done the right thing, she knew he would; he divorced his wife and married her. He passed away shortly thereafter and, after some battles with his family, she'd secured control of the school and family foundation.
Her thoughts turned to her daughter. Kendall was, if anything, even more beautiful than Kris had been at that age. Slim shoulders and hips, flat belly, five feet ten inches tall, 118 pounds, 32-24-34, "A" cups. An oval face, brown eyes, dark straight hair that hung half-way down her back. Kendall knew who to look out for, herself and her mother, but did not, Kris feared, share Kris' killer instinct. Kendall belittled Sadkins and would certainly have approved of her mother's scheme, but she'd never have devised it on her own.
* * * *
Michael Sadkins was heading out of the hills, back towards the school. The previous summer he'd acquired the means to deal with Kris and her daughter, but had decided not to use it; he'd soon be on to college and the Kross' part of his past. The catty high school bullying would be forgotten and whether he graduated first really didn't matter; he'd been offered full scholarships from all the universities on his list. But now they'd fucked with Professor Havel, the most decent man Michael had ever known. They needed to be stopped.
The previous summer Michael had worked as an intern in the neuro-science lab at Dartmouth, assisting Jan Betz, a visiting researcher from Cal Tech. He was familiar with her work; he was even more familiar with her husband's work. Jon Betz was a legend in the field of behavior modification. There were rumors of a long association with the CIA, rumors that had recently intensified when Betz had unexpectedly retired to devote his time to organic farming.
