[ WP ] A brilliant scientist is found dead in their lab . Their lab notes simply state `` Please do not disturb my body , the experiment would be irrevocably ruined . ''

** ( Warning: this is long ) ** 
 
 Everyone knew Dr. Liddiard. He was that guy you tried to avoid making eye contact with. When you saw him in the hall, you pretended you didn ’ t and hoped he wouldn ’ t notice. He wasn ’ t the awkward nerdy sort; tall and solidly built with jet black hair, he more closely resembled a former jock than a scientist. It wasn ’ t his looks or even his demeanor—he was amiable enough—that was unsettling. It was that strange feeling no one could quite explain that there was just something off about him. Maybe it was the way he carried himself. Maybe it was his odd name or maybe the fact that he was a whiz kid who had risen up to become a top government scientist before he was thirty. Then again, maybe it was just the way he always spent a little too long making direct eye contact when speaking with you. Whatever it was, everyone silently agreed he was creepy. The only person who seemed to genuinely enjoy his company was Dr. Donovan, another doctor who seemed a little off as well. Rumor had it that Dr. Donovan was fired from his previous job for ethics violations which did nothing to quell the unease surrounding Dr. Liddiard. 
 
 Everyone was surprised when he turned up dead on a Wednesday evening, but no one was shocked. If ever there was a man destined to die a strange death, it would have been him. Even the note pinned to his jacket, `` Please do not disturb my body— the experiment would be irrevocably ruined'', seemed oddly normal for someone as unusual as Dr. Liddiard. The poor janitor who found him was a Colombian immigrant who spoke only broken English and it took a good ten minutes for the other staff to even figure out what had the fellow so riled up. It wasn ’ t until he led Dr. Fowler, the head scientist at the facility, to the lab where Dr. Liddiard lay slumped over the counter that everyone truly understood what was going on. 
 
 It may not have shocked anyone, but procedures still had to be followed. Dr. Fowler made some phone calls—none to the police of course, since a top secret government facility never involves civilians—but rather to some high ranking Congressmen. After explaining the situation, Dr. Fowler received directions to lock down the whole facility until a cause of death could be determined, largely due to the unsettling note found on the body. This was immediately met with sullen grumbling from the other staff; one had a birthday party to attend, another had planned a romantic dinner with her husband, and still others simply wanted to clock out and go home. Dr. Donovan just sat in a corner staring blankly at the scene unfolding before him, as if still trying to comprehend what was going on. 
 
 Hours passed while they waited for the hazmat and autopsy crews to arrive. Temperatures were taken, vital signs were measured, and theories abounded. Maybe he was trying to conquer death—it seemed like the kind of thing he would do—or maybe it was an experiment gone wrong. What about murder? Could it have been murder? Who would actually have a motive? No, Probably not murder then. What about suicide? He was creepy, but he didn ’ t seem depressed. True, but you can ’ t always tell. And so it went, on and on. 
 
 The hazmat crew cleared the lab, and the autopsy crew, accompanied by a small group of military security personnel, moved in to assess the situation. It was determined that there were no signs of a struggle. Bruising, lacerations, and scratches were all absent. He didn ’ t have a history of medical problems, according to his records. It looked like a suicide of sorts. Still though, the note was troubling and necessitated that the lockdown continue. Time crept slowly on as test after test was done. By now it was well into the night and the doctors still had no way to contact their families. Frustration grew and sullen muttering filled the building. The interviews conducted with each doctor did little to soothe the mood. What had he been working on? Who did he associate with? How long had he worked there? No one had seen anything or knew anything. Dr. Carter had been the last one to see him alive when they made awkward eye contact in the hallway. Dr. Brewster got himself into hot water for suggesting they just cremate the body and to hell with investigating it—the guy was a freak anyway. 
 
 Finally a cause of death was determined. Dr. Liddiard had died of cyanide poisoning, though the circumstances remained murky. After all, what kind of a suicide note was that? More interviews would have to be done, and the relevant security logs would have to be reviewed. The note remained a mystery—it appeared to be the deceased doctor ’ s handwriting but something seemed just a little off about the script. Then again, there had always been something a little bit off about the doctor as well. A heated argument broke out between Dr. Slater and Dr. Fowler over the lockdown. Several phone calls later, and the NSA still refused to lift the lockdown; even those at the agency who were aware of the facility balked for fear of shadowy assassins and secret plots to steal government secrets. If he was merely dead, that would be one thing; but dead with a cryptic note attached to his jacket? Well that was another thing entirely. The security personnel had phone calls of their own and continued to stand watch at the doors, lest anyone should try to slip out and compromise security. Dr. Donovan ended up with a black eye courteous of Dr. Brewster when a short-lived scuffle occurred after Dr. Donovan began quietly snickering at the situation. 
 
 Shortly before dawn, after investigators preliminary determination ruled it a suicide and after they warned the doctors not to leave town, everyone was released. Dr. Fowler went home, microwaved some pizza that had seen better days, and sat down in front of the TV to make short work of a six-pack. Dr. Brewster went home and found his wife in her bathrobe, crying at the kitchen table, and spent the rest of the morning trying to calm her down. Dr. Carter went home just in time to shower and take her kids to school; they had slept through the night and were unaware of her absence. 
 
 Dr. Donovan went home and watched. He watched the news. He watched how the doctors around him acted in the following days. He watched the permanent security personnel who appeared at the facility the next morning. He watched the security protocols change. He watched Dr. Fowler ’ s interactions with the high-ranking Congressmen who came to visit. He watched conspiracy theories pop up on distant corners of the internet. He watched it all. 
 
 It was awfully nice of Dr. Liddiard ’ s wife, he mused, to break up with the doctor and drive him into the quiet madness leading to suicide. It was also nice of Dr. Liddiard, Dr. Donovan thought, to spiral into depression a week before his suicide, giving Dr. Donovan just enough time to forge his handwriting and substitute the heart wrenching suicide letter for something a little more…useful. The psychological revelations that could be drawn from this situation—from the doctors to the Congressmen, from the security personnel to the media—would be fascinating. Dr. Donovan sure was glad that he had been friends with Dr. Liddiard.
