The Mind Virus

Chapter 5 - Part 1

Jim's palms were sweating uncontrollably. He wanted to turn back, but he had made it this far, and it would be foolish to terminate his plan now. He was sitting in his car, dressed in his best shirt and tie, just outside the apartment where the last student to commit suicide had lived. He looked down at the police ID hanging from his belt. It had his name, photograph, and the police insignia, but nothing to suggest he was just a lowly intern. None of the IDs that the officers, detectives and administrators that all worked in the Cedar Grove Police Department wore had their position printed on them, so Jim supposed it wasn't so abnormal that his didn't either. In theory, it should be easy to fool people into thinking he was a detective (or even just a real police officer), but the thought of being found out was running through Jim's mind nonetheless.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of his car, squinting at the morning sun as he strode toward the stairs that led up to the apartment's entrance. Number 23, this was it. He knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" came a soft voice from inside.

"P-police," Jim stammered. Now he truly had crossed the point of no return. His mouth felt drier and drier as he listened to the locks opening.

"Come on in." The surviving roommate opened the door.

"OK, thank you," Jim spat out, realizing that he didn't quite know what the proper procedure was. What the hell am I doing? Jim's mind was racing.

"I already spoke to one of your colleagues. I didn't think they'd put a detective on the case," the student offered.

"That's me," Jim blurted, his anxiety reaching record levels. His face was probably going blood red. He couldn't see it, but the heat he was feeling was unmistakable. He desperately wanted to just turn around and walk out the door.

"I'm Anne, by the way."

"I'm Jim... uh, Detective Jim..." He thought for what was probably far too long about whether to use his real last name or not. "Smith." He decided against.

Anne eyeballed him apprehensively. "I'm at your disposal, Detective Jim Smith. What do you need?"

"Did you know the victim?" Stupid, stupid, stupid, what am I saying?

"Carol? She was my roommate. We lived together. Isn't that why you're here?"

"Yes."

The two only stared at each other for a moment.

"So... what can I help you with?" Anne offered again.

Jim took a deep breath and collected his thoughts. Breathe in, breathe out. "Did you notice anything different about Carol before she took her life?" Breathe in, breathe out.

"Like I was saying to the other officer, she'd gotten really withdrawn. She didn't want to do much of anything anymore." Anne's throat seemed to get a bit lumpy. "She was just sad all the time. I tried to cheer her up, but nothing seemed to do it."

Jim felt like he was getting better at projecting confidence and organizing his thoughts. Breathe in, breathe out. "How long had she been that way?"

"A couple of weeks. A month maybe. She got really bad the last two weeks before her..." Anne couldn't finish her sentence. She was holding herself together well enough, but it was nonetheless clear that the topic was still raw to her.

"I understand." Breathe in, breathe out. "Did she –"

"She tried to get help. She knew something was wrong. She went to the campus health center, spoke with a therapist, everything. It just doesn't make sense. She never seemed like she would do something like this. She wanted to get better." Anne was now openly sobbing.

Breathe in, breathe out. "I'm very sorry for your loss." Jim spotted something out of the corner of his eye. A door down the hallway had Carol's name glued on it in big wooden letters. He took the opportunity. "Do you mind if I have a look at Carol's room?"

Anne nodded through her tears.

As Jim walked through the hallway, he looked at the photographs on the wall – happy memories upon happy memories. He thought about his conversation with Colin, about how happy he had believed his late sister was. Jim was no mental health specialist, but he knew that going from happy to somber to suicide in such a short period of time was not normal.

He got to the door to Carol's room and walked through. Looking around, he couldn't quite decide what it was he was looking for. The room looked like a perfectly normal student's room; nothing was standing out. Thinking about how he had no idea what he was doing started eroding his already shaky confidence, and his anxiety was flaring up again. Relax. Breathe in, breathe out. Just start somewhere. That somewhere was the little table next to the bed. With the absence of a desk in the room, it seemed like this was the most likely place to find something personal.

Jim dug in and pulled out a thick book, opening it up and thumbing through it. It was a diary.