I knew this wasn’t going to end well, not for me.
No one gets thanked for exposing misconduct. It’s a clear path to backlash and obscurity, not kudos and reward.
“S..!”
I bit off an expletive as I snagged the laptop bag’s strap on the closing office door handle. Furtively eyeballing the corridor for after-hours stragglers, I felt no relief at the unearthly, gapping silence. I steeled myself before setting off down the dimly lit, abandoned passage. At least my presence had raised no alarms.
What am I doing? I should mind my own business and just let someone else deal with it! Shoddy research will get discovered and decried at some point, eventually. AI scans, peer replication, it’s inevitable, right? Or maybe the data fabrication wasn’t so obvious. I don’t know how I missed it for so long.
Maybe I was too distracted.
I was definitely lost in thought as I steamed down the hospital’s main concourse, past the dawdling crowd at the elevators, laptop case flapping wildly across my hip with each stride. My heels clacked too loudly, impatiently, on the polished marble tile, as I passed the path of windows overlooking a back parking lot and vintage neighbourhood street. I ignored the glow of streetlights dappling through wind-swept maples, that swayed and writhed menacingly by the Victorians sitting opposite. I needed to get back to my desk. The real evidence was there. I did have the study data on the laptop, and managed to 'liberate' a few pieces of the original documentation. But would it be enough? Had anyone noticed?
Cold tingles fluttered across my shoulders, and a fiery churning heavied my gut.
I couldn’t let this go on any longer. It wasn’t just about the misconduct. It was time to talk to the police before someone else died.
My hand jammed down the handle to the emergency stairs as I shouldered open its weighty metal door. It would be faster. I didn't want to wait for the yawning doors of the aged elevator or the lumbering ride, nor for the unfailing dribble of visitor traffic, shuffling on and off, choosing the wrong floors. I should be more patient. But not today.
Stepping into the cool, dank air of the stairwell always jarred me momentarily. The emergency stairs in this part of the building were likely from the 1970s or 80s and purely functional. Its cinder block walls were painted an insipid shade of greyge - like someone had leftover grey and beige paint and mixed them to have enough. Its concrete steps were adorned with the mandatory abrasive black anti-slip treads that twinkled in the stark LED lighting. I only bothered with the handrail when spinning too fast around at the bottom of a flight of stairs.
My phone chimed just as I stepped through the doorway onto the upper landing.
Who is calling me now?
Mumbling expletives in annoyance, I nonetheless reflexively paused, distractedly patting my pockets, to locate and silence it. I didn't want to talk to anyone, not now.
I heard the whoosh of the stairway door behind me, and, before I could pivot to the sound, I abruptly buckled over from a staggering blow to the back of my head. Darts of pain shot through my eyes. The savage strike had caused me to pitch forward, leaving me teetering on the edge of the landing. Dazed. Apparently, I have no fight instincts.
I felt the laptop bag snatched from my shoulder, further throwing me off-kilter. A final shove sent me plummeting down the sharp stone steps.
I couldn't steady myself as I desperately grasped for the glossy handrail, varnished to the point of slick. I spilled headlong into a wall before rolling snowball-style down the stairwell, bumping cement edges at every opportunity. My left arm snagged a vertical railing, bending impossibly, and flipping me, hard, onto my back. The sickening sounds of snapping and cracking engulfed me. Now battered on the lower landing, my eyes burned with heavy tears. My legs were draining of any sensation, and the throbbing in my head was intensifying. But I did not call out for help or reach for my phone. I did not attempt to crawl or otherwise test my body. It felt both unable and uninterested.
I lay crumpled, tangled like a heap of dirty laundry at the bottom of the concrete stairwell. As I felt the life draining out of me, I could only think of my own stupidity, my naivety, my utter failure. And I just wanted to go home. I didn't think it would be this way. I wasn't angry or desperate or even fearful.
I had been stunned by the thwack at my skull, but the momentary panic had subsided. Now, a thick wave of fuzzy nausea washed over me, a strange mix of spinning tingling which drained into numbness. There was some shuffling from above, and I heard the stairwell door clang shut, then nothing. Just the eerie calm of the cavelike canister. I closed my stinging eyes. No one would help me. No one would find me here.
I should have taken the elevator.
But I always took the stairs. Even if it was only one floor, I would make the effort and seek out the dank and dingy stairwell. I liked the cardio, plus the hospital's decrepit elevators had worn my patience to a nub. Even if I was dawdling, I told myself I was outpacing the elevators. I was always surprised at how deserted they were, but the clacking from my shoes on the dull cement always echoed alone. It didn't bother me. I preferred not to be crowded in with patients or chatty staff. It's not that I'm inept at the elevator ride exchange of pleasantries or that I'm some sort of germaphobe; I just appreciate some natural solitude. If you can't withdraw from the world once in a while, you can't think, you can't process.
That's why you're dead in a grimy stairwell. Trying to be too smart.
Who was I to try to deal with the data misconduct? How could I solve this? And who would I trust? But the self-chastisement wasn't helpful at this juncture. I should be directing my anger at the person who shoved me down the stairs, who killed me.
I could feel the rancour setting in as the pain ratcheted up. Now even my groans hurt. My legs were leaden and numb, only able to follow the bidding of my torso. My left hand felt unusable, but the fingers of my right still responded to command, and I was able to wriggle my phone from my jacket pocket. The screen was cracked but not smashed, and I gathered my remaining endorphins to tap 'emergency' on the keypad. 'Saved,' I thought. I sighed and let the phone slip to the ground.
"You have reached the 911 emergency line. Please hold."
'Oh... My... God. On hold for 911? Is that even a thing? Can this be happening?' I lay there in silence, in agony, in hospital, bewildered. And how would I even describe this scenario to whoever finally answered me? Where are you? I'm in hospital, in the stairs. I can't even ask for an ambulance. I sound ludicrous. They're going to think I'm pranking them. Ugh! The dizziness, the nausea, the pain. I waited; I had no choice.
I shifted away from the brise-block wall in an attempt to relieve some pressure from the swelling lump on my head. Bad call. Bolts of agony ripped through my body. Now immobilized, I took short, shallow breaths to try to mediate the pain. The flickering of the nearby emergency light drew me in and blotted out my situation. I welcomed the cool cement under my bruised and broken limbs.
"911 operator. What is your emergency?" A raspy female voice escaped my phone.
"I... I'm hurt." I sounded garbled and distorted, unrecognizable.
"How are you hurt, ma'am?"
"I'm not sure. I can't move my legs. My arm might be broken. My head...hurts."
"Did you hit your head, ma'am?"
"Yes," I whispered.
"Are you feeling dizzy or nauseous?"
"Yes." I moaned as I shifted, cursing in self-reproach at the forbidden action.
"Are you by yourself. What is your address, ma'am? We’ll send an ambulance."
"I.... I'm at Halstone Hospital... In the stairs." Oh. God. I can't do this.
The operator paused.
"At Halstone Hospital? Did you fall down the stairs, ma'am?"
"Yes. But I was pushed." I could tell I was slurring now.
"Can you tell me which stairwell?”
“Help me, please.” It was just garbled and muffled.
Ok. Try to stay still, ma'am, and stay calm. Emergency services will find you. They will be there soon."
So I indulged in unconsciousness. If my would-be rescuers, the paramedics or police or whoever had been dispatched, failed to find me, well, I didn't see the advantage of writhing on the concrete alert, anticipating their arrival. Whether they found me dead or comatose made no difference to me at this point. My pain receptors needed a break.
I awoke at some point to find my oozing blood had congealed into my hair and onto my cheek and collar. The sharp throbbing in my head was relentless, and my arm was swelling into a contorted, bruised mess. My legs continued their uncooperativeness, and I was still alone at the bottom of my cement well. I checked my phone to see how long it had been since my cry for help. Eleven minutes.
How long does it take paramedics to find someone dying in the hospital's emergency stairs? It's not that complicated, people.
I wish I had never come here. Why did I get involved? Who did I think I was, rummaging through old files, skulking around the lab, asking people questions, the wrong people. What difference did it make if I found out someone had fabricated results? Why would someone listen to me? I’m new and an underling. I have no clout, no credibility. And any meagre evidence I turned up could easily be dismissed by those who have both. I should have let someone else figure it out. I didn't owe anyone anything.
Certainly not my life.
But I guess the evidence was convincing enough to need to destroy it, to kill for. I wasn't the only one after all. Now there are two suspicious deaths linked to the study. Now the police have to properly investigate. They could have had someone delve into things, and to check the data. It was so obvious if you were actually looking for it.
Whether it started out as misconduct was debatable; it could have been an innocuous, small error that snowballed into an enticing effect and became deliberate. The results were just a bit too good, too clean after all. Maybe it was intended all along. The fact that I'm lying broken in a stairwell, that the police are already investigating one murder, does not suggest a guiltless mind.
I get it. The omnipresent pressure to get a positive outcome was palpable. Many invest years immersed in the academic hierarchy, scratching their way up through the rungs, in pursuit of knowledge, hoping to be part of something significant, chasing its rewards. Once you were in it, once it had taken hold, it was difficult to see beyond it.
The shiny ball of success was so tempting. Intrinsic really. Without it, there is no functional machine, no way forward. I, too, needed to start somewhere, wanted to start somewhere. And when I first saw the study, I knew it was such a good opportunity. Halstone University Hospital had such a great reputation. The project, a clinical research study with Fibromyalgia patients, had so much potential. I'd be working with two top scientists across different departments and hopefully publishing in legitimate medical journals. Unlike a lot of the fellows, I didn't mind Dr. McIvor. She was exacting but fair and experienced. Anyone could learn a lot from her. Dr. Durante was the antithesis of the stereotypical senior scientist, exuding easy charm and Esquire style. Only downside, I had to deal with his long-time, cringe-worthy research fellow and Dr. McIvor’s lurker research nurse. Not that any of that made any difference to me.
When I first stepped through Halstone's entrance, I was just grateful to have the chance to be there, doing research. I thought I was lucky.
I've learned a lot since then, about people, about secrets and manipulation.
Who did this to me? How did I let this happen?
Now I don't feel lucky, nor grateful. Now I'm dying, splayed out on dank concrete, alone, and replaying my poor choices in the dimming light.
Clanging. Footsteps. I opened an eye a sliver in response.
"There!"
Two blurry figures approached at a deliberate pace. The stout one leaned into my face.
"Can you tell us what happened? What's your name?"
I didn't answer.
A bleary eye bowed to the blackness.
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