The Cure by Douglas E. Richards Page A

no doubt that even if mistakes were made, lives would be saved on balance. But she had come to agree with the dean. She had developed her thinking on this subject far beyond that of either the dean or her advisor, of that she was sure, and she was paying a terrible price, emotionally, for this evolution.
    Apgar had, indeed, gotten her to think deeply on this subject three years earlier, and she had been doing so ever since, which had led her to a deep study of philosophy and ethics and to a seismic shift in her thinking. She had ultimately come to concede the validity of his—and now the dean’s—point of view on this subject. And it couldn’t be very fun for the dean to get outraged calls from the ACLU and others, especially since he had the responsibility of protecting the university and the department from controversy.
    Erin took a deep breath. “We can demand a correction,” she said. “I’m pretty sure they can’t do what they did here.”
    “Yeah, good luck with that,” said Dean Borland dismissively, as though she had just fallen off the turnip truck. And in this case, maybe she was out of her league. The media had considerable power, and the last thing she needed was more controversy—or more of a spotlight on this topic.
    “Ever since Jason completed his work,” continued the dean, “I’ve had to deal with conservative groups, worried that if we proved the brains of psychopaths were truly structurally aberrant, these monsters might use this information as a defense at trial. Insisting they had no control of their actions. And now I have liberal groups worried about discrimination against psychopaths, for Christ’s sake. That’s my dream, to be a punching bag for both ends of the political spectrum. Just shoot me now.”
    “Look,” said Apgar. “I know you feel like we’ve kicked a hornet’s nest. And we have. But this will blow over before you know it. I’m sure it will.”
    “Yeah, I’m sure it will also. Because I’m pulling Erin from her project.”
    Erin’s eyes widened. “What!” she said. “You can’t do that.”
    But even as she said this, like half of a schizophrenic personality, a weary voice whispered to her to let it go. That this would be for the best. She was so tired. Tired of deception. Tired of guilt. Tired of wrestling with issues of ethics and morals so thorny the densest rosebush seemed like a downy pillow by comparison. How easy it would be to cave, to use this as an excuse to stop what she was doing and bring the one foot she had hanging over the abyss back to firm ground. But something in her wouldn’t let her. Not after she had come this far. Despite the severe price it was extracting, she couldn’t leave matters unfinished.
    “Look … Erin,” said the dean. “I’m doing you a favor here. You have more than enough data to get your Ph.D. and move on. Write up what you have and then find a nice university—one not named the University of Arizona—to do a postdoc. Jason should have forced you to begin writing up your thesis six months ago anyway.”
    “But I’m at the most important part of the research,” said Erin, fighting to keep her voice calm.
    “This isn’t a discussion,” said the dean.
    Erin’s mind raced. Ideally she could use two or three months of further study. To confirm, and polish, and refine, and measure. To get her scientific arms fully around the phenomenon. But she could get to a quick and dirty confirmation fairly quickly. It wouldn’t be ideal, but it would have to do.
    Erin blew out a long breath. “Okay,” she whispered. “You’re right.” She paused for a few seconds to make sure the dean digested the fact that she was surrendering without a protracted battle. “Just give me two weeks to wrap up what I’m doing,” she added casually, as though this was a request that was beyond reasonable. “And then I’ll pull the plug.”
    “No. You’re off the project. Effective immediately. When this meeting ends, I have to