The Bedevilment of Danny Webster: A Tale of the Arts Department

NOTE: Mature subject matter

“I should have known better.”

Melissa was sorry she’d brought the whole thing up.

“Yeah, probably,” Professor Urquardt uttered. She should have let Zinna Garver slide until Monday. What should have been a simple “What the fuck is the matter with you, and how can we fix it quick?” pep talk had turned into a Sarah Jessica Parker therapy session, and Melissa blamed the Big V. Valentine’s Day, and, she guessed, the other one, too.

“So, you’re done with him, right?” Melissa nonetheless persisted when Garver failed to slink dejectedly from the new first-floor office the University had granted at the behest of the Arts Department chair after a geriatric murderer in a Prius had left her with a slight limp.

“Didn’t have much choice,” Zinna murmured, looking annoyingly pathetic curled up in the guest chair Professor Urquardt knew was a mistake. “He ghosted me after he said things were over.”

“So what’s the f--, what’s the issue? Move on, and get your head back in the production.”

“But—”

Fuck.

“Yeah? I mean, yeah?”

“But I’ve got like 15 hours.”

“For what?”

“Of footage.”

It took a beat. Then she recalled Zinna’s semester project – a documentary on the University grad student supposedly poised to win some major international science award. This offered a new and more relatable perspective on Zinna Garver’s plight.

“You shoulda led with that,” Professor Urquardt stated.

**

“Isn’t there some rule about fucking your source? Like a Hippocratic Oath?” Jae inquired as they opened Zinna’s second file of raw video.

“And your folks wanted you to be a doctor,” Professor Urquardt muttered, leaning in as Zinna Garver calibrated her white balance.

“They wanted me to be a lot of things, and you see how that worked out,” the TA said.

“Worked out fine for me,” Melissa said. “In hardcore journalism, it’s definitely a capital offense. For a documentarian? I’d say hell to the no, just because as the little dimwit demonstrates, it’s just not real fucking smart to lead with your vajayjay.”

“And this is the guy, huh?” Jae grimaced.

“The heart wants what the heart wants, or some such bullshit.”

“I guess it does,” Jae lamented, glancing again at Webster’s frozen face.

“If it helps restore order to your universe, Garver confided in a very heartwarming moment that Mr. Webster here is, well, packing for a week’s stay in Bonerland.”

“Well, shit, that’s a horse of a different, um, color. So how did our girl blow that?”

“How do you think?”

Jae winced. “Dropped the L-bomb, did she?”

“Idiot,” Melissa reiterated, glancing again at the single red rose in the bud vase atop the editor’s console. “By the way, you short-circuit the board with that thing, I’ll drop more than a bomb. Who’s the valentine?”

“Moi. The greatest love of all, as Whitney said. Might have listened to her own advice.”

“Well, you’re a match made in Heaven. Get that thing the hell out of here.”

**

Going to the wall for weak-willed sophomores wasn’t really in Melissa’s programming, but Zinna had done some surprisingly good work before she’d literally effed things up with Robert Boppenheimer, AKA Danny Webster. The subject matter was pretty fucking deadly – physics and particles probably best left invisible. And scientific prodigies were a dime a dozen in the post-Zuckermusk Era -- most of them seemed to be common little pricks with a messianic complex and a phallic fixation about big rockets plunging toward new worlds where nobody knew them to be common little pricks.

But Webster had a something. Not looks nor even much of any kind of distinctive look that might pop on the screen or elicit underdog sympathy. But the postgrad was enthusiastic and had a way with the camera. An almost sexual way that Professor Urquardt initially had presumed to be his way into Zinna Garvey’s lady parts but that now appeared to be a broadcast seduction.

And Zinna’s project had the key element of any compelling documentary – high stakes. The Millennium Prize Problems – seven of the field’s most monumental and complex conundrums – were a big whoop for the lay public save for the $1 million awaiting the first with a solution.

Zinna had made her bed. But she – and Danny Webster -- had sparked Professor Urquardt’s curiosity, and Melissa still had 8 ½ lives on her punch card.

**

“I don’t know what to say,” Webster shrugged. “I really was looking forward to the exposure. But, man, it’s just too awkward. I mean, I just wanted some fun, and I didn’t realize how serious Zin was gonna get.”

Webster shrugged again, with a grin this time, and swiped a fry through their shared ketchup. Of late, Melissa tended toward the public meeting, and The Diploma Mill at noon was about as public as it got.

“I know how that sounds,” Danny said, “but it’s not like that. I have to devote myself to the Yang-Mills equations. This is like the Rosetta Stone, the supreme cheat code. If I can solve the Yang-Mills Problem, it would open up whole new avenues for understanding fundamental particles and forces, possibly to harnessing the universe.”

“Million bucks wouldn’t hurt, either.”

Danny shrugged again. Danny? Melissa frowned. “Yeah, sure, the money. But I’m so close, and without—”

“Without what?” Or who? Professor Urquardt pondered.

Webster planted elbows on the sticky tabletop, and locked eyes with Melissa. She tried to blink, without success, and instead forced her gaze to the soccer match on the 72-inch above the bar. “I’ve seen some of your work – that documentary about the black migration, the Netflix thing about campus trafficking. Wouldn’t a major breakthrough in quantum physics and mechanics make a great video, maybe get you that Pulitzer Prize you been wanting or at least an Oscar or Emmy? I’m so close.”

It should have sounded insanely narcissistic, but somehow, from Danny, it didn’t. Which was the problem. And Danny?

“What do you mean, close?” Melissa croaked, reaching for her Diet Coke and then nudging it away with a spark of suspicion.

“I gotta get back to the lab, but how about some drinks or maybe dinner tonight. I’d love to collaborate.”

It was, as they say, the way he said it.

**

“Professor.”

Melissa’s head seemingly had cleared as soon as she hit the chill February air, but the middle-aged man outside the Mill seemed familiar and thus disorienting. Then she recalled – a local cop she’d encountered a few times, none too convivially.  

“Mead, right?”

“You headed back to class? Whyn’t I walk with you?” The detective didn’t speak until they’d passed the Coffee Commune and the new anime gallery. “He one of your students?”

“Dan--, Webster?” Melissa stopped, and a scooter zipped around her with a muttered, misogynistic utterance. “Why you need to know?”

“Trying to clarify relationships,” Mead replied calmly. “Webster’s a semi-pseudo person of mild but unconfirmed casual interest in a case I’m investigating, and I’m interested in his female relationships.”

“Wait – what kind of case?” Professor Urquardt asked. She didn’t mention the indescribable vibe she’d gotten from the boy scientist.

“I thought all the adjectives might indicate we are at a delicate stage. So you know him?”

Now the inquiry had a triggering nuance. “Only by connection with a student acquainted with Webster. They had a falling out that could affect an important project. I was trying to, uh, mediate?”

Now, Mead stopped, in front of the locally sourced organic oatmilk froyo joint that had recently replaced the artisan gelato joint next to the Subway. “Maybe this girl--, young woman should take a little ‘falling out’ time. And given your nature to ‘mediate’ in complex affairs, maybe you should consider writing this important project off.”

“Just what the fuck did this guy do?”

“So, far, Mr. Webster’s just shown up in some video in an unlikely place where a major crime occurred. Two unlikely places.”

“Two unlikely places, and you’re warning me off like I’m a freshman at a Take Back the Night rally,” Melissa considered. “Shit. This is the dead hooker case, the Route 66 Ripper thing. Dumbass name, by the way.”

“Look, like I said, all we have are a couple coincidences. No apparent motive or suspect behavior, no past criminal record or mental issues we’ve been able to track. But since I got you here, what’s your impression of the boy. I mean, he’s some kinda scientific genius, right? Some of those types can be, you know, repressed?”

“I think he likes sex, a lot,” Melissa conceded. “I also think he gets more than his share.” The professor paused before the Quad arch. “These were truck stop prostitutes, right? Stabbed at a couple interstate stops parallel with the 66 route? You got some security video shows Webster at the scene?”

“Just Webster grabbing a couple late-night meals at the Superfuel near Morris and the Hot Stop between Lexington and Pontiac, two separate nights, a week apart. Boy’s from down south in Farmingvale. You know if the boy has any people up toward Chicago?”

“I don’t know jack shit. From what you say, I probably don’t want to.”

“Uh huh,” Mead nodded.

**

The bud vase had vanished, a half-consumed calzone now in its place.

“Some day, we’ll work on the spirit of the law versus the letter,” Melissa muttered. Jae shrugged. “Look, could you do a social media deep dive for me when you get a break? Dan Webster?”

“I thought your type was more, uh—” the TA began. “You know, I have no idea what your type is, specifically. You bi or pan or just an opportunistic predator?”

“I don’t collect pronouns,” Professor Urquardt grunted, confiscating the calzone.

**

“I guess it’s possible,” Professor Waldrake drawled, regarding Melissa as if her mental health were at issue. She smiled across the neurobiologist’s ordered desk. “The, um, orgasm involves complex neural processes, including activating the brain’s pleasure and rewards centers. Certain regions of the brain become highly active during orgasm, while others temporarily power down. This is for, what, a documentary?”

“Documentary-adjacent,” Melissa hedged.

“How?”

“Is this classified information?”

Waldrake creaked back in his chair. “Some studies suggest orgasms utilize the same neural pathways as pain, in a non-adverse way. I don’t know if this is what you’re looking for, but I suppose, under certain circumstances, an orgasm could momentarily unlock creative potential.” He creaked forward. “Maybe I’m not the person you should be--”

“Jesus shit,” Melissa breathed. “This isn’t one of those ‘a friend of mine’ things. I hardly know the guy. Look, what if instead of unlocking creativity, it unlocked, you know, knowledge? Scientific knowledge?”

“A number of brain abnormalities can result in neurotransmitters stimulating the ‘wrong’ brain centers. Tourette Syndrome, epilepsy, various functional neurological disorders… Is this non-friend of yours by any chance on the spectrum? Autism spectrum disorder can involve rewiring of social and communications circuits. Does this ‘guy’ exhibit poor social or communicational skills?”

“Kinda the opposite,” Melissa said.

**

It began with the Junior High Science Fair. With my parents constantly spilling my 150 IQ like it was a ticket to anything but maybe a locker room beating, mini-volcanoes and pea genetics were off the table.

Dad was one of those guys who’d washed out of a half-dozen jobs and wound up like a lot of Midwestern geniuses with engineering degrees hawking clean energy. Nothing wrong with that, but there were a lot of sketchy dudes in the Illinois wind racket, and protest signs started outnumbering turbines roughly 60-to-1.

I eventually switched up my small-scale turbine array into a photovoltaic efficiency project, cause general teen assholery. I’d pissed off (and deeply humiliated) Dad, and quickly designed myself into a corner. As the Fair deadline closed in, I settled in on the obvious at-home remedy for adolescent asshole anxiety.

And that’s when it happened, literally in a flash at the moment of ignition. I saw it – the answer, all the answers rolled up in a single image-thought. However, two revelations came at once, pun intended, and in the midst of processing the first, I lost the second. The best I can compare it to is trying to describe a dream that seemed profound and complex but that actually livestreamed in a matter of seconds.

Then Mom and Dad went out for Thursday date night -- the Peoria Olive Garden. By the time they got home – it was apparently a tiramisu night – I’d filled a notebook. As I left the Fair, I got ambushed by the good folks at Corn Valley Solar Logistics, who doubled their per-unit electrical storage capacity for the cost of one asshole’s freshman/sophomore tuition. I signed away the credit. You see me explaining to the Six O’Clock News Team just how and where and precisely the second inspiration came?

It didn’t take long to realize that the spongy battery in my head had adjusted to the surges that were getting tougher and tougher to generate. By the time the University Physics Department came through with a free ride, I realized I needed an external energy source. Problem was, the more I tapped my brain’s potential, the more limited my options were for tapping new sources of potential. College seemed to be fertile ground for refreshing the system.

**

“I think he’s doing a sexual Pokemon,” Jae reported. “I retrieved all his past posts – Facebook, Instagram, Twitter – and every tag I could track down. I’m counting like 45 women over the last two years alone – none of them lasted more than a few weeks. Bitch been busy.”

“They dump him?’

“Up is down, down is up. Dude must be a Clydesdale. He has left a trail of romantic devastation the likes of Taylor Swift’s last three albums. You gonna ever tell me what this is about?”

“Doubtful,” Melissa admitted, tugging her leather jacket tighter. The temp had plummeted since lunchtime, but she’d been staring at Webster’s second-floor window for the past 15 minutes. “Look, one more thing. Can you put a together a timetable? Not a coital chronology, just any gaps where he wasn’t involved with anybody? Specific dates.”

“Sounds rational.” The line was silent for a second. “Just where are you right now? I need to worry about you? Or him?”

Melissa disconnected as a woman skipped down the apartment house steps. A blonde. A blonde named Zinna Garvey. Zinna caught sight of Professor Urquardt, and trudged over with a guilty smile.

“I just wanted to see him one last time. We actually had a great talk. About love, sex, things we’ve done we’ve regretted, the universe, life. I should have known better, but we parted on, well, let’s say really good terms. Later.”

Melissa stared after Zinna for a minute before sprinting up the concrete steps and two floors. Somehow, she felt no need for amenities, and pushed inside the apartment he’d texted after her invitation to skip dinner.

Danny was in the bedroom, in a fetal curl on the opened bedspread. His eyes peered widely and emptily at Melissa from under a new tangle of bone-white hair, and he smiled. It was not a smile that belonged on a living thing.

“I got it,” A Danny-like voice informed the professor. “Everything. What all of it means.”

Melissa pulled a blanket over the naked genius. “The women. The ones on the highway. You had a steady supply of what you needed. But it got complicated, right? They got complicated. So you looked for the boost without the complications. Why?”

“They talked, so much. And they treated me like, like…”

“A common little prick?”

“But this time…” Danny’s pale fingers dug under the spread and came up with a yellow legal pad. “This time, I got it all down, you wanna see?”

“No,” Melissa whispered.

“Neither did Zin,” he reflected. “Do me a favor?”

Professor Urquardt glanced toward the pad, with its cramped and spiraling scribblings, then into the former Danny Webster’s imploring and vacant eyes.

“No.”

**

No one was simultaneously more and less surprised than Melissa when Zinna Garver took the Millennium Prize. It was a matter of nanoseconds between Melissa’s absorption of the campus NPR item and the final pieces of the epilogue falling into place.

Zinna’s late March reappearance at the faculty parking deck, at the end of a particularly onerous day of reshoots and faculty interactions, that was surprising.

“Figured we’d never see you again,” the professor observed, lowering the Focus’ windows. “I had a million—”

“A million’s not really as much as it sounds,” Zinna mused. “But it’s a start, and I’m going to need resources.”

“Which the University’ll fall over itself to give you. I mean, where else can a mediocre multimedia student become one of the superstars of quantum physics?”

“Ow,” Zinna murmured. In a tone that made Melissa wonder if Starbuck’s might have been a wiser choice.

“You’re going for the other five Problems. What makes you think you can repeat that feat?”

“I guess Danny just kinda rubbed off on me.” The student smirked. “The Physics Department is full of brilliant people who can stoke my appetite for knowledge…”

Melissa fell silent. No wooden stakes or holy water in the glove compartment. “Think you could calculate the mathematical odds of you and Danny hooking up?”

“Guess it was fate,” Zinna smiled, in a way that told Melissa it had been anything but. “Anyway. I was thinking. You still have all that footage from Danny’s documentary, right? How ‘bout helping me finish the project?”

“What?”

“You could use the cash, right? Besides, I’d enjoy working with you, to learn from you.”

A hand snaked over the center console and touched Professor Urquardt’s thigh. Melissa glanced into Zinna’s amber eyes, and then snorted. Neurobiology aside, teen assholes were teen assholes, with as much game as a hasty handjob behind the gym.

“Save your money,” Melissa advised, raising the windows. “I can do the math, too.”