I walked slowly into Ledbetter’s lab, taking measure of the place: On the right was his office and on the left was a "wet lab" similar to Ashton’s. Ledbetter’s post-doc, Dr. Dong Chiu, intercepted me immediately, like I knew he would. Basking in Ledbetter’s glory made him feel important.

     "I help you with something?"

     "No, thanks, Dr. Chiu. I’ve come to see Dr. Ledbetter."

     "He very busy today."

     "That’s okay, I just wanted to make an appointment."

     We were but a few steps from Dr. Ledbetter’s door. He looked up from his desk and said, "It is all right, come right in. What can I do for you, Mr. —"

     "Candidi. Ben Candidi. I’m a first-year graduate student."

     "Yes, I know. I am sorry that I haven’t been able to meet you until now. I was away most of the summer, and I returned to find the Department in disarray, for reasons which you undoubtedly know. I do remember seeing your file. You came to us with considerable prior experience."

     "Six years in a toxicology laboratory, mostly instrument maintenance," I filled in, quickly and preemptively.

     "Yes, I remember now. You were the one who graduated from Swarthmore six years ago and applied to us rather late."

     "I decided that there was more to life than improving the signal-to-noise ratio on a standard assay."

     "Yes. So what can I do for you? You probably need to check me off for the initial interview."

     "Yes, and I would also like to investigate the possibility of doing a rotation in your laboratory."

     Ledbetter’s jaw twitched. "Perhaps you could tell me a little about your career goals."

     I didn’t have a prepared answer.

     "Well, I’m interested in biological recognition in general," I stuttered I think that yours is an ideal system. Your seminar was impressive. I thought that your demonstration of specificity between the selectins and their receptors was most elegant. Your system has many theoretical and practical applications."

     Ledbetter turned in his chair, locked his eyes on me and asked, "Which aspect of the work interests you most, Mr. Candidi? The theoretical or the practical?" The guy was so intimidating.

     "The practical," I said and immediately realized it was the wrong answer.

     "I’m afraid that the practical aspects of my work are what take the longest time to come to fruition," he said, leaning back and frowning. "The FDA is very particular about what compounds one would put in the human body, even as a diagnostic. Getting FDA approval is an expensive and time-consuming proposition."

     Ledbetter dropped his voice and raised his eyebrows as he said "proposition." What did this mean?

     "I thought you might have some rat experiments on how one of your selectins distributes in the body. Some problem where I could make a small contribution."

     "Well," he said, ever so slowly. "We may have a project in the works that would be suited to a new pair of hands — in a few weeks. I’m sorry to have to express it this way, but there is so much foot work to be done, scutt work actually. We really can’t reorganize the whole lab effort around a . . ." He was all suspicion and irritation. "I will check with Dr. Chiu and see whether we have space and time. When would you like to start?"

     "In a week or two, if possible."

     He first showed surprise and then said, "I’ll get back to you."

     Had I blown my chances for a rotation? What about my chances with Rebecca? I studied until five minutes before noon and walked to the third-floor amphitheater just as the class was streaming out. Rebecca walked out purposefully and smiled when she spotted me. I didn’t move a step.

     "Ben, you got a haircut!"

     "Yes, I thought I’d turn over a new leaf."

     "Well, you look just great!"

     She punctuated the compliment with a swift kiss on the cheek. Not bad for starters — kissing me with all her fellow students streaming by.

     "Sally," she called to a blonde about her size and age. "Come here. I want you to meet Ben Candidi."

     "Glad to meet you, Sally," I said shaking her extended hand.

     "Sally's my study-mate. Sally, Ben's the guy who got me straightened out on the alphas, betas and volumes of distribution. He also showed me a very nice time over the weekend."

     "Well, thanks a lot, Ben," Sally said. "The information helped me out, too. And it looks like you did a lot to improve Rebecca’s mood."

     Sally gave me a nice smile and stepped back into the stream of students.

     "Sally’s a really nice — "

     A chunky guy tapped Rebecca on the shoulder and said, "Hey, Levis, you’ve got the Note Service — this afternoon."

     Rebecca turned to him and said, "Yes, I remember. — Ron Harris, I’d like you to meet Ben Candidi. Ben’s — "

     "Haven’t seen you around," Harris interrupted. "Are you a Freshman or a transfer?"

     "Neither, " I said. "I'm a graduate student in Pharmacology."

     A knowing smile came to Harris’ face.

     "You’re going for the Ph.D., huh?"

     "Yes. And I take my own notes," I added curtly.

     "Fine," he replied, and turned to Rebecca. "Now, Levis, don’t forget. We’re counting on you."

     When he was out of earshot, Rebecca said, "Ben, don’t mind him, he — "

     " — hardly rates my notice."

     "Ben, I think that I should ask you — "

     " — whether we’re going to eat in the student lounge or go over to the Institute cafeteria?"

     "Ben, what’s gotten into you?" Rebecca asked incredulously.

     "You! As Frank Sinatra might croon, ‘I’ve got you under my skin.’ Now where is it going to be, the lounge or the Institute?"

     "The student lounge, if you don’t mind."

     "Not at all. Actually, I’m quite pleased — "

     "You see it’s just that — "

     "You’ve got to do the Sophomore Note Service on Kozinski, starting at one o’clock sharp."

     "Well — "

     "It’s okay. You’ve already got him psyched out. No sweat. He’s a ‘mensch.’"

     Rebecca shook her head in astonishment. She started to look away. Then her eyelashes fluttered, her head tilted back and out came a string of pearly laughter.

     "Ben, you seem to have developed a case of witzelsucht. You aren’t letting me finish a sentence. Now give this schoene maedl a listen, she has something to say." Rebecca glanced to one side, pulled me closer and looked earnestly into my eyes. "These last four days, you showed me a very beautiful time. I’d like to invite you to dinner at my place tomorrow night."

     "I’d be delighted. What can I bring?"

     "Your toothbrush." I must have shown surprise. "Your toothbrush for the next morning, big silly!"

     Later that afternoon, I attended Dr. Gordon Taylor’s lecture on "calcium channel flickering." It was my attention that did the flickering.

     Before leaving for home, I checked my pigeonhole and found a hastily-written note from Dr. Ledbetter. In gracious language, he expressed his regret that he would not have a slot open in his laboratory until next May.

     Might have been next millennium! Shitty luck. No chance to observe him at close range. Why? Because he was rightfully suspicious of me. No use trying to appeal his decision. That would just make matters worse. Hopefully, he wasn’t already destroying evidence and covering his tracks.

     What to do now? Old Man Westley would probably say, "Muddle on through as best you can. There’s no turning back after you’ve taken the King’s Shilling. Duty of Honor and that sort of thing. Tut, tut. Try to put on a jolly good show."

     Standing in the narrow room with his note in my hand, I struggled to formulate a counterplan. First item: No further oral communication with Ledbetter. I pulled a piece of paper out of the feed tray of the photocopy machine and hastily jotted down a note informing Dr. Ledbetter that I could understand how he was constrained by schedules, that I would seek a rotation in another lab, and that there was no guarantee that I’d be free in May. That might help to put his mind at ease.

     Aboard the Diogenes, I thought about what to do next. At the age of 14, during a couple of lazy summer days at the Newark Public Library, I’d added graphoanalysis and graphology to my bag of tricks. As I flattened Ledbetter’s handwritten note on the dinette table, the truth virtually jumped off the page. His l’s and t’s had the high loops of an idealist, but they were often twisted. It was the uneven hand of a troubled or thwarted individual. Career frustrations? His angular m’s and n’s confirmed the intelligent, critical mind I’d experienced in his seminar. His firmly crossed t’s, with upwards slants and sharp, spear-like points, bespoke optimism combined with sarcastic wit.

     Analysis of the letter’s cadence revealed negative feelings toward me. Beginning with an extraverted forward slant, it quickly resolved into a standoffish vertical hand. And the words "will not be able to" and "hope that you can appreciate" were written in recalcitrant backslant. And he made such secretive, tightly-closed o’s, a’s, b’s and d’s. Yes, I’d been right to reply immediately in writing to put him at ease.

     I stretched and took a sip of tea. Yes, it all checked out — McGregor’s stories of Ledbetter’s hatred of Cooper and the frustrated, perfectionist idealism revealed in the seminar. Ledbetter’s several-week absence after the murder was both convenient and necessary. He could learn the "news" over the phone. There would be no eye contact and no need to act surprised. No need to improvise a part in the chaos of the first days.

     But how was I to conduct my hindered pursuit of Ledbetter? If I couldn’t get into his lab, perhaps I could get near his lab. Rob McGregor’s lab was just down the hall from Ledbetter’s. The 20 hours per week would allow me to walk past Ledbetter’s lab hundreds of times without arousing suspicion. In Ledbetter’s absence, I might even be able to engage his assistant, Dr. Chiu, in conversation.

     The next morning, I asked McGregor about doing a rotation. He was quite delighted and immediately described a "bite-sized research problem." He pulled a folder out of the file cabinet and said, "Read the papers and see what you can make out of them."

     I proposed to start with four hours per week until finals were over and then work harder during the Christmas break.

     "Fine," he said. "Evenings, holidays and Christmas are the best times to get things done in the lab. All the bureaucrats are away and can’t hassle you. So you, I and the Chinese get the centrifuges and scintillation counters all to ourselves."

     That evening, Rebecca served dinner with tablecloth and candles. She confided that she’d ordered her roommate to "go out and study." The candlelight sparkled in the wine glasses and in her eyes. She was charming, relaxed, contented and happy. I remained seated between courses but helped her to clean up after dessert and coffee. In the kitchen, washing up under the glare of the fluorescent light, her hand found mine and we suddenly found ourselves in each other’s arms. It was a short step to her bedroom. An hour later, as we were lying on her bed, whispering endearments, we heard the key turn in the outside door.

     "Don’t mind her," Rebecca said. "I’ve already laid down the rules. You’ll be coming here quite often, and she’s not going to disturb us. Did you bring your toothbrush?"

     "Yes. I bought one before coming over."

     "Good, we’ll hang it up on my side."

     And so it was decided. I stayed the night, and was invited over for a study date and sleep-over every second evening.

     It had been a most productive weekend. Now, to report my findings to Westley.