Medical school hadn't officially started: we were being oriented with cheerleader speeches from faculty and a memorable talk the by the student body president who told it the way it was, ending with the thought that nowhere in the medical school catalog was there any statement that we would be treated fairly.
That afternoon, as we gathered quietly in an auditorium, the student to my left introduced himself as "Sam" (not his real name). And then, as inkblot patterns flashed on the white screen in rapid succession, he whispered an offer to help me with the inkblot interpretations because he had a lot of experience with inkblots. I ignored him.
A few weeks later we had become intense experienced students, soaking up new words, concepts and information. Neuroanatomy was difficult, the exam notorious, and each person's semester grade depended on correct identification of the brain structures in which our instructor had inserted small numbered pin-flags. But there was a problem - at the front of the line named "Sam." As he came to each test specimen, he systematically removed each flag, replacing it within an inch of its original site. Bedlam ensued. Somehow, Sam escaped without being physically assaulted.
A week later, "Sam" didn't show up for class. The next day we learned that he had murdered his mother-in-law. The details were supplied by a national magazine a few days later. The informal consensus was that at least no-one would move the little numbered exam identification flag
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