Free Failure is Fatal by Lesley A. Diehl Page A

wasn’t real crazy about Greek organizations, especially fraternities, and was especially unfond of their initiation techniques. Somewhere in my unconscious something was brewing, and it had to do with frats. I knew better than to chew on it too long. I pushed it out of conscious thought. It might rise to the surface at some later date. I smiled at Der to let him know I was once again back to the real world, and we began to decide how to get the subjects back together.

Chapter 8
    At the meeting I called for the students who participated in the research, I could tell from the expressions on their faces and their nervousness that they were surprised and confused at the presence of Detective Pasquis. It wasn’t easy to get the attention of college students, but a cop could do it.
    “I cannot go into detail,” he said, “but obviously my presence at this meeting is in reference to activities related to a recent crime. If the story you wrote yesterday was not your own, I’d like to speak with you one-on-one. If you know of anyone attempting to manipulate the stories written by students yesterday, I’d also like to speak with you.”
    Students began to whisper to one another. Others seemed stunned by Der’s reference to a “recent crime.” A hand shot up from one of the young men sitting in a small group in the corner of the room.
    “So you mean, if we got the story from someone else, like plagiarized it, you can arrest us? What if we just don’t say a thing? How can you tell who the person is? Aren’t we supposed to be subjects who are unanimous?” he said.
    “I think you mean ‘anonymous.’ And we’d like to keep it that way. We’re really not interested in the particular story you created in response to the lead you read on your paper. But if that story wasn’t yours, then we need to know that and talk to you about it,” I said.
    “Dr. Murphy has gone to great lengths not to let anyone know who wrote which story, and she stands firm on protecting each one of you. That’s why she insisted we hold this meeting and ask you to volunteer any information you may have,” Der said.
    “And if we don’t volunteer?” the same student asked. He crossed his arms and settled back in his chair, his pose defiant.
    “We can question each of you individually, we can get a court order allowing us to attach names to the stories, and we can charge you with criminal conspiracy, if you are found to be complicit in withholding information,” Der said.
    He and I were playing our version of good cop, bad cop—good psychologist, bad detective.
    “I’ve given each one of you my card. I hope to hear from you.”
    “Yes,” I said. “We hope you will help us with this.” I then dismissed them.
    As the students filed out of the room, the young man who asked the questions passed by me announcing to his friends in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone that he was going to call his dad and “get a lawyer.”
    “Why would you do that, son?” Der stepped in front of him blocking his exit from the room.
    “You’re harassing me,” the young man said. He turned to solicit confirmation from his friends, who quickly turned away, making a fast retreat from the room.
    “Bring on the lawyers, then.” Der smiled that smile of his. Why is it when Der smiled he looked more menacing than when he frowned?
    *
    Over the next few days, Der and I met with the students who were unable to make the earlier group session. Most seemed interested in what we were saying, startled by Der’s reference to a crime, but unable to provide any additional information. One student failed to show for an individual meeting. When I called to schedule another time, her roommate told me she had gone home because of a family emergency and would be returning in a few days. I asked the roommate to have the student return my call.
    Der and I waited. The good part of waiting was that each day brought no reports of any missing coed, an anxiety created by the