606 University

The scream pierced the stormy night and aroused the unconscious man like the blast of a billiard ball break. Shocked awake, Lee W. Hickok wondered for a moment if he had died. The shriek left a haunting echo shooting through the upper floor of the old fraternity. The cry drilled through his cortex; such a tormented and tortured sound like a ratchet in his intoxicated brain. He had passed out alone in the television room, shivering on the cracked linoleum floor. The well-used TV, fuzzed with static, stood on the old table, one broken leg propped up with a stack of yellowed medical journals. He pulled himself upright to sit against the black leather couch, stained by other drunken visitors and imprinted by ancient cigarette burns. In his right hand an empty mug decorated with the Zeta of Phi Chi insignia; in his left an empty bottle of Kentucky—aged Jim Beam bourbon—sweet amber. He put them both aside and struggled to get up, one cowboy boot half-off his foot. He kicked away the boot and stumbled to the doorframe to collect his thoughts. He gazed across the empty party room, the balcony’s sliding-glass door wide open. Black-and-orange curtains—the frat’s tribute to Halloween—billowed into the room in the storm winds. The floor was wet from being pounded by the wind and rain. He slipped as he made his way across the floor. With difficulty, Lee W. crawled to the door and looked out of the balcony on his knees. The deluge blew, and he struggled with the sliding doors trying to close them. He tried to forget the scream but it returned to his mind, and he pulled himself up looking for its source. She lay lifeless and sprawled out on the circular drive, her neck twisted in an awkward position. He knew her identity and realized her death the moment he spied her. Vomit came to his throat, and he turned and rushed to the bathroom, where the toilet ran, overflowing. He heaved into the bowl, ignoring its dysfunction, and turned to hurry down the stairs to the ground floor and the fracas. A small crowd gathered at the site of the developing tragedy. There was chaos in the air. “Where did she come from?" “Who is she? Oh, it’s her!” “Is she dead?” The storm continued to blow, covering the site with rain. A full moon cast an eerie light illuminating the girl. Many dropped to their knees and examined her. Her long, mahogany-colored curls were thrown haphazardly down her back. She wore a black sweater and a short, dark tangled skirt over black nylons and viciously crumpled legs. Her head was violently twisted, and her lifeless eyes a striking turquoise, oddly beautiful but motionless. Blood oozed from her mouth, caking around her red lips. Her right hand clutched closed as if holding something, An outstretched left arm, brutally twisted and fractured, seemed to reach for her purse. Lee W. stood on the outside of the gathering crowd just staring, not believing. His nausea would not pass as the rain soaked him. A girl to his right asked her name, to which he whispered, “Siobhan. Siobhan Maloney.” “She was pretty,” the girl said quietly. Lee W. nodded in silent agreement. “No pulse,” one said after feeling her carotid. “She's not breathing,” another said, dropping and putting a cheek to the side of her twisted head. A man in a navy blazer and khaki pants made his way forward, separating the group. He dropped a tattered doctor's bag at his side, kneeled by the victim, and removed a stethoscope. With only one earpiece, he placed the chest piece under her torso. “Are there breath sounds?” someone asked from the crowd. He shook his head no in response to the question. “We have to turn her,” the man said to the crowd. He encouraged help and the group lifted her up, stabilized her twisted neck, and turned her onto her back. The man continued to listen for breathing. Finding any sounds absent, he began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. A girl dropped to her knees on the other side of Siobhan, felt her sternum with her palms, and began chest percussions. The girl called out: “One and two and three and four and five,” stopping her CPR briefly as the man lifted the victim’s jaw, keeping her neck in position, and blew in two one-second breaths. This process continued back and forth, back and forth, as the group stood in shock and viewed the sad resuscitation attempt. “She was on my internal medicine rotation.” “Her parents own Siobhan Medical Care in Dallas.” “This is bad news." “Stop CPR,” the man said to the girl and the group as he felt for a carotid pulse. In the absence of that pulse, the two began CPR again. After some discussion from the group, a young woman made her way into the fraternity's main house. She looked around frantically and in the dining room found the telephone. She flooded the room with light as cockroaches escaped, racing away into the walls. She ran to the wall-mounted phone and dialed 911 quickly. “Yes, this is Galveston County Emergency services. How can I help you?” “We need help. Please come quick. She dropped out of the balcony, broke her neck, I think. We’re doing CPR now.” “Where are you located?” “Phi Chi, the fraternity.” The girl rustled around and found an old phonebook sitting on the debris-laden floor. She tossed away a plastic beer cup and brushed off the book. Looking at the front page, she returned. “I can’t read it,” she said, searching the book with desperation. The girl rubbed the page until it was somewhat dry. “Okay, it says here 606 University. We’re at the fraternity Zeta of Phi Chi at 606 University . . .”