Authors: David Terruso
For the third day this week, Keith is out. He must be on vacation. Odd, because he usually takes his vacation in the middle of September. He has six weeks of vacation a year, but I don’t think he takes more than two. He must have more than a year of vacation time saved up. That’s my wet dream, and it’s wasted on him. My boss kills me.
I spend the afternoon searching the web for an answer to this question:
How much time would I do if I got caught stealing private employee files from my place of employment?
I’m unable to find a clear answer. I wonder which would be the hardest: the jail time, disgracing my parents, or Detective Capillo laughing in the back of the courtroom when I’m sentenced.
Sitting at my desk with the lock-picking tools stuffed into my dress pants pocket, I whisper the announcer test to clear my head.
One hen, Two ducks, Three squawking geese…
My tense muscles relax. I practice picking my filing cabinet and open it in less than a minute three times in a row.
I stand in the second floor copy room waiting for the security guard to finish checking the floor. I photocopy a note that reads I WANT TO MAKE A MOVIE ABOUT A WOMAN WITH POOR BLADDER CONTROL AND CALL IT DESPERATELY LEAKING SUSAN. When the guard leaves the floor, I make a dart for the HR office, closing the door behind me.
I don’t look at my watch, but it takes at least ten minutes to pick the lock. Another five to find Eve and Ron’s files. By the time I open the door, I’m nearly hyperventilating, a trickle of sweat running down from each of my armpits.
I hear the distant moaning of a vacuum. I step out casually, files tucked under my arm, and quickly scan my surroundings. I’m all alone. Exhausted, I power-walk to the stairwell, run up the steps, then tiptoe back to my cube.
I stuff the files in my backpack and make like a tree. The security guard nods to me in the lobby and I tell him to have a good night.
Driving home with my backpack on the passenger seat, I convince myself that I haven’t risked being fired and/or imprisoned for no good reason. Something crucial will be in one of these two files. The key to the case.
As I take the exit toward my shiny new apartment, I get kicked in the ass with the obvious: I will have to do that whole thing again to put the files back.
Fuck. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before.
On Thursday, the day after I stole Ron and Eve’s files, I get my Five Years of Service Award. You might remember this is where I began my story. The awkward smile, the sweaty palms, the useless plaque and the useful hundred-dollar bill. Waiting for the guy with the digital camera to lower his arm. Faith Riley’s plaque falling apart and showing me how crappy it is.
I read through every word in Ron’s and Eve’s files the night before. Even if it was something as boring as a tuition reimbursement form, I read it. In keeping with the theme of my investigation, I found nothing revelatory in the files.
Ron’s bipolar disorder was on file, along with prescription reimbursement forms dated two months before his death. If the killer had access to these files, he or she knew to make Ron’s murder look like a suicide. Ron’s life insurance policy was worth double his salary, about $75,000. I didn’t find anything in the policy about the worth doubling if he died at work, and don’t remember any clause like that in my own. The sole beneficiary of Ron’s insurance policy was his mother.
Even if I could consider Ms. Tipken a suspect, the thought of more face time with her scares me too much to pursue the idea. And I doubt the policy pays in the case of suicide.
Eve’s life insurance policy was worth a little more than Ron’s; her mother was also the sole beneficiary. Eve had over $35,000 in her 403(b) when she died. More than half of that was rollover money from the 401(k) she’d had with Staff Something. She had started to take classes at night to get her bachelor’s degree a year into her stint with Paine-Skidder. She gave up after two years with only eighteen credits.
The two things I found that made the whole endeavor worthwhile were the two complaints Eve filed against Cody for “inappropriate behavior and comments.” After the first complaint, Cody had been called in by HR and given a lecture. After the second complaint, he was placed on probation for a year. That was two years ago. Why didn’t Faith tell me about Eve talking to HR? Did she not know? Did she just forget?
I know Mr. Luther is married and Cody isn’t. But Cody is just the type of asshole who could hide a wife and maybe even a few kids.
I need to talk to Cody without getting my throat slit or my cell phone sold online. I decide to do it after the service award ceremony. I also need to break into the HR file cabinet again and put back what I stole. I’ll do this tomorrow afternoon while the entire staff is outside enjoying the company picnic.
* * *
My head actually feels clearer since I started neti potting. I’ve even had fewer migraines. I buy Harry a box of TastyKake Jelly Krimpets as a thank-you. From the look on his face, you’d think I’d bought him a Corvette.
* * *
Cody sits with his hands behind his head, staring at his computer screen and yawning.
I knock on his cube. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
He turns slowly, hands still behind his head, and works his tongue across his lower lip as a casual show of hostility. “Shoot.”
“Let’s take a walk.”
“Why?”
“It’s private.”
He flicks his thumb at the tip of his nose like a boxer, again showing his disdain for me. Then he nods and stands.
We walk the path behind my building with a clear view of the bridge, a purposeful choice on my part. “It’s about Eve.”
“OK.”
“I know that she made two separate complaints to HR about you harassing her.”
“You stole her file, huh?”
I squint like this idea is absurd. “What? No.”
“Wondered why you were teaching yourself how to pick locks.”
“What are you—?”
“Asshole, you were picking your own file cabinet on your lunch break. Someone was bound to notice. Stealing that file could get you fired, if not put in jail.” I guess my hearing isn’t quite as wolf-like as I thought.
“I didn’t steal any files. I’m learning to pick locks for something else.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“Research for a play… that I’m writing.”
Cody laughs. “So, you already accused me of killing Ron. Now I killed Eve too? Do you not understand the difference between suicide and homicide?”
“Tell me what happened between you and Eve.”
“Why should I?”
“Because she jumped off that bridge and I got her blood all over me.”
“Why were you the first one there?”
“She called me.”
“Why?”
“To apologize.”
“For what?”
“She didn’t say. I guess for dumping me.”
“You two were…?”
“For a little while.”
Cody strokes his mustache thoughtfully with a look that says “Nice pull.”
“I need to know what happened with you two. It’s important.”
“It’s not.”
“It is to me.”
“It’s not important to anyone. Not even to her. I tried to get into her pants. She said no.”
“And then you tried again? That doesn’t make sense. She filed a complaint the first time; you really thought the second time she might give you a beej?”
Cody shrugs, smirking. “I thought maybe filing a complaint was the new version of playing hard-to-get. So I tried again a few months later to see if she had come to her senses. I started with small talk. Then some personal stuff about me. Sensitive bullshit. Then I went in for the kill again. No dice. And then, well, you read the file.”
I laugh, knowing Cody is telling the truth. “So that’s the whole story?”
“Yeah. I’ve had women shoot me down in a lot of different ways. Been spit on a few times. Glasses of water thrown in my face. Wine, once. Slapped. But never a formal complaint before. And…”
I stop walking. “What?”
“She seemed so nervous when I was coming on to her. Not just like I was making her uneasy, but like I was going to get her in trouble. Like she was looking over her shoulder the whole time.”
I think about the day I tried to help her with her flat tire. She’d
literally
been looking over her shoulder that day. Maybe it wasn’t because she was afraid of me. Was Mr. Luther working at Paine-Skidder? If that’s the case, it doesn’t seem likely that no one in the rumor mill has a clue he and Eve were together. Plus, how could Eve hide Mr. Luther from Faith if he worked with us? She had to be afraid of something else at work.
Someone
else. “What do you think she was worried about?”
“Don’t know. Maybe she knew my rep and didn’t want people to hear us and start rumors that we were fucking.”
“Where did you flirt with her?”
“In her cube the first time. Down in the lunchroom the second time. We were alone in the lunchroom. She was getting coffee and I was getting candy. She acted like Big Brother was watching.”
“Anything else you remember?”
“No. We’re done.” Cody turns back to walk toward the Paine-Skidder building.
I turn with him. “For the record, I didn’t accuse you of killing Ron. And I know Eve killed herself.”
“For the record, if I see you spying on me in any way, you’ll get fired for stealing files from HR.”
“You made a few hundred bucks off me. That should make us even.”
“Yeah, that sex swing is fucking sa-weet, man.” He humps the air for the next few steps, then slaps an invisible woman’s ass. “Sa-weet.”
Having recently turned down sex from both Helen and Nancy gives me some hope that I’m not currently walking back to work with myself-in-ten-years.
* * *
I have a panic attack about Cody telling on me and getting me fired or arrested. Now in my premonition, Cody sits with Capillo laughing as I get sentenced, and the two of them head across the street to a pub for a Guinness afterwards. I calm myself with the thought that Cody would consider telling on someone an effeminate act. He’d much rather punch me in the face than tattle.
I left the files home that day because I didn’t want to have them on me until it was time to put them back. Waiting until the next day had seemed like simplifying things before this latest development.
Unless Paine-Skidder has surveillance cameras I’m unaware of, once I put the files back it will be Cody’s word against mine. My record isn’t exemplary, but Cody has at least two complaints against him on file, so we’re about even, which would put the burden of proof on him.
I figure Keith will be out again today, and he is. I’m sure he won’t show up for the company picnic tomorrow either, what with his severe allergy to fun.
* * *
I sit in my cube the next morning actually working. The files burn a hole in my backpack like money in my pocket did as a kid. I come up with a lie for why I’ll be MIA at the picnic. My first thought is to say that I have some editing to finish. Then I remember that a good lie should be believable. I decide to tell people my stomach hurts and I’ve been in the bathroom. No one questions diarrhea.
I think about the married men at Paine-Skidder that could possibly be Mr. Luther; the choices are all comical. Keith is an asexual cyborg. Harry Brody is an asexual grizzly bear. My favorite candidate is Mumbles. He
is
married, after all. Maybe the Louisiana accent and the mouth full of chaw are a cover and his real voice is equal parts British and sinister, like an overexplaining villain from an Agatha Christie novel.
A little after ten-thirty that morning, people start walking by my cube to look out the window. I’m too preoccupied to see what all the fuss is about. I hear someone say, “Wow, it’s all backed up to here. I’m going to the other side to see what the bridge is like.” I decide to stay in my cube and keep a low profile, but my curiosity is piqued.
My phone rings a double ring. “Hello, Robert. It’s your mother.” She is always sure to identify herself when she calls because I told her once that I would never just say “Hi, mom” assuming it was her, in case it was just a female client who sounded like her.
“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”
“Listening to the news at work and I heard about the accident near you. Are you OK? Are they sending you home?”
“What accident? Why would they send us home for a car accident?”
“A truck tipped over on the exit for 476 and spilled noxious gas. There’s a poisonous cloud a few blocks away from your building.”
I smack my forehead. I should’ve brought the files yesterday and put them back. “They didn’t say anything here. No announcement or anything. But people have been looking out the windows.”
“If they don’t send you home, you need to leave anyway. You hear? That job isn’t worth dying over.”
“OK, Mom.”
“I mean it.”
“I know. Today’s the company picnic. We’re supposed to go outside for lunch.”
“Go home. And call me when you get home. And put your air conditioner on in the car and keep the windows up. You hear?”
“OK, Mom.”
Shit
. I hate having my plans disrupted. Hopefully I’ll get a chance to get to the HR office before they evacuate the building.
At eleven, they send us by department to the fourth floor to pick up our free gift. This year, it’s a sweatshirt I’ll never wear because it says “Paine-Skidder” on the chest. Sweatshirts in the first week of June? Really?
I find out that we’re being sent home after the raffle. Each employee gets a ticket with his or her useless free gift, and then the president of the company (went to my college, thick head of hair) raffles off gift certificates, gift baskets, and cash. Fun times. I hope it lasts long enough for me to put the HR files back.
* * *
The president gives a funny speech about having to be sent home because of the poison cloud, and about the thousands of dollars of delicious picnic food that have to be thrown out because they’re outside in the contaminated air.
I hover near the exit to the stairwell and scan the crowd until I spot both of the women who work in HR. I duck behind the crowd and slip away. I’ve never won anything in the raffle, but I know my ticket will be called the one time I’m not there.