My lab partner is undoubtedly a serial killer: A story of evidence and horror
By Jorja Strickland, October 25 2024—
I arrived at the lab apprehensive because, after several classes together, I suspected that my chemistry lab partner was a serial killer.
When I slumped in, she was already wearing gloves. Clearly, she didn’t want to leave fingerprints. She smiled at me brightly, and my body tensed. It was an 8 a.m. class, and she was smiling. That had to mean she was a psychopath.
“Good morning!” she chirped as she tied her hair back. How clever — making sure she didn’t leave any DNA behind—a practiced killer for sure.
The chemistry lab was a perfect place for murder. With so much bleach and so few cameras, the homicide practically commits itself.
“So, I’ve already set everything up! It’s pretty simple: we will run through a titration, then evaluate…”
I stopped listening. Staring at the rows of chemical-filled test tubes and beakers, I felt dizzy with fear. She was making the murder weapon: poison.
My lab partner continued to chatter, trying to distract me with her friendly demeanour. Ha. I wasn’t fooled. No one was genuinely happy to be there. No one wanted to stand through a three-hour lab, mixing caustic chemicals and jotting down inconsistent results. She wanted to lure me into a false sense of security. As if.
I trembled as she adjusted her apron, scanning the lab procedure before we officially started. Grabbing a syringe, I shifted into a defensive stance as my partner forced a beaker toward me, clearly intending to slam it down my throat so I would die a slow, burning death.
“Can you add—”
“No!” I screamed, lurching away and throwing the syringe at her, watching it bounce harmlessly off her apron.
I had acted too quickly; my advantage was now lost. The other bodies must be hidden in our shared locker. I would no doubt be joining them soon.
My lab partner frowned. “That was rude. Now we have to clean it again. Everyone else is already on step four, and we haven’t even started.”
I seethed. “As if you care!”
“What?”
I felt like prey, cornered and hissing. “You don’t care about the grade; you only care about having more victims!” I accused her.
She blinked, standing there for a moment in confusion. “Um, I’m sorry?”
“Too late!” I cried. “Apologies aren’t enough. I’m going to expose what you really are.”
I scrambled to our locker and slammed it open, only to find textbooks inside.
No bodies.
“But—but—” I floundered. “But you’re always so cheery in the mornings!”
“I’m a morning person,” she said, shrugging.
“Those don’t exist!” I scoffed, rolling my eyes at her attempt to make me believe in the myth of ‘morning people.’ I pressed on. “You wear gloves. And an apron. And goggles!”
“Yeah… that’s standard lab safety,” she said slowly.
“That’s also premeditation!” I snapped. “And your hair! You always tie it up!”
“Uh-huh… also for lab safety. My hair is too long; it gets in the way. You’re lucky you have short hair.”
“And you have a good knowledge of chemical properties. You know how to mix all these substances to make poison.” This was my big point, and I was sure to get a confession.
“Yes,” she admitted, and I grinned in triumph. “That’s because I’m actually a good chemistry student.”
“What?”
“You never wear proper safety gear or follow procedures. You have no understanding of the chemicals we work with. You are a terrible lab partner! I hope you aren’t majoring in chemistry,” she said, exasperated.
“No,” I acknowledged. “I’m majoring in criminal justice.”
“Arts, of course,” my lab partner grumbled as she returned to her beakers.
I failed that chemistry class, but I aced my criminal justice courses.
This article is part of our humour section.