by Vivian Barz
“Again, if I had to—”
“Yes,” Susan said, “make an educated guess.” She tacked on “please” after she heard how annoyed she was beginning to sound.
“I’d say it was probably a hammer.”
“How about toxicology?”
The ME laughed incredulously, as if Susan had asked her for a topless photo. “Oh no, that won’t come back for a while.”
Susan thanked Dr. Abbonzio for her time and focused her attention on the navigation screen on her dashboard. She was nearing the dam, which was set back from the city at the top of a long, winding road. The guard at the gate disappointed her by staring back at her badge, unimpressed, when she flashed it. It had become a point of pride for her, and she liked showing it off, since it was something she had earned through hard work and proving her competency.
It was peculiar; she’d found her credentials prompted two very different reactions. People either glanced at her badge in a disinterested fashion, the way the guard had done, or they gushed like she was a superhero, pummeling her with questions: Is it like what you see on TV? Is it true you take over police investigations? How can I become a special agent? She probably got asked the last question the most by the general public, which was odd since the FBI had application information right on their website for the whole world to see. Maybe they were hoping she’d give them a recommendation that would help them skip to the front of the line—because that would be a responsible thing to do, provide a personal reference to a federal agency for someone she’d met on the street and had known for all of twenty seconds.
“We had someone from the Department of Homeland Security here earlier,” the guard said haughtily, as if the visit had lessened the impressiveness of her job. “He said he was from the Dams Sector.”
She nodded, pretending it wasn’t news to her. She wasn’t surprised, though, given the high security of Gruben Dam. Still, it would have been nice to have been told that other government agents were on-site.
Susan figured HR was a good place to start asking questions; however, when she arrived, the office was closed for an unnamed reason. She put her badge away and went into the break room, which she’d always found to be a good source of gossip. The space was rather large, as far as break rooms went, with a few long laminate tables, benches attached, set up in orderly rows. It reminded her of a high school cafeteria, minus the pimples, food fights, and overall air of despondency.
Employees sat scattered in small groups, drinking coffee mostly, but a few were eating sandwiches and munching on the sort of snacks that had obviously come from a vending machine. Unlike when she’d been a police officer in uniform, which had made her stick out like a sore thumb no matter where she went, here, in business casual attire, she blended right in. She ambled over to the sink and rinsed out a coffee cup, as if she belonged there, trying to get a sense of the general atmosphere of the place. Most of the employees seemed happy enough, and their conversations were innocuous. They talked about what they’d seen on television the night prior, a cute thing their toddler had done, the annoyance of lawn upkeep.
There was one table, however, where three men and two women were speaking in hushed tones. Bingo, she thought. She tilted her head a fraction in their direction, which did absolutely nothing to help her hear better. Not wanting to spook them with her stillness, she quietly rooted through the cabinet above the sink, as if searching for a particular mug. Because other people were talking in the room, she was able to make out only snatches of words in their conversation.
“ . . . I wonder what they were doing . . .”
“ . . . I bet they killed each other . . .”
“ . . . lying in a ditch somewhere . . .”
They stopped talking when somebody new came up to their table and sat down. Susan figured it was as good a time as any to make her approach. She pulled her badge and flashed it at them. “May I?” she asked in regard to sitting down next to them. From experience, she knew it would put them more at ease if she were at eye level, opposed to looming down from above. She also knew better than to ask for their names, which would give the chat a sense of formality. It was always best to keep it casual.
They seemed stunned to see an FBI agent, and one of the women looked worried. Susan assumed it was because she was the one who’d seemed to be gossiping most. Susan quickly explained why she was there, stating that she’d like to ask them some questions about Amsel and Nguygen. They seemed willing enough to talk, though what they knew didn’t get her any closer to tracking them down.
“They hated each other—just hated,” a doughy, sunburned man with copper-colored hair and a beard to match said dramatically. Susan imagined him lounging in his backyard the weekend prior with a happy, hairy dog and an ice chest filled with cheap beer, the radio blasting. He looked as if he’d dozed off in the sun for about eight hours. His singed skin appeared hot enough to fry an egg on, Susan mused, thinking that he must be in a great deal of pain.
“Why?” Susan asked the group, who suddenly didn’t seem so chatty.
A tiny mouse of a woman with a frizzy bob haircut and large wire-frame glasses that gave her an owlish appearance raised her hand, as if she were in a class. Susan told her to speak freely, and she said, “Maybe it was because Chung was a square, and Dov was . . .” She clamped her lips tightly closed.
“Dov was what?” Susan asked, and the group exchanged guilty looks.
The gossipy woman eventually said, “We’re not trying to get anyone in trouble.”
Susan gave them what she was hoping was a disarming smile. “I’m not here to stir up trouble. I’m only looking for clues that may help me locate your two missing coworkers.”
After a moment, the mousy woman said, “Dov was, how should I put it . . . ?”
“Useless,” the sunburned man cut in. “There, I said it.”
Susan asked, “How so?”
“He didn’t do shit, pardon my French,” the gossipy woman said. “I’ve seen rent-a-cop security guards at the mall take their jobs more seriously than Dov did. He was lazy as all get-out. I can’t imagine what would have happened if we’d actually had a real security threat while he was on the clock.”
“That’s because he was always . . .” The mousy woman clamped a hand over her mouth. She behaved as if she’d stopped maturing around age sixteen. Susan gave her an encouraging nod, and she added, “I, well, a lot of us, we kind of suspected that he might have been, though we don’t really know, since we have no actual proof—”
“Jesus, Jeanine, just spit it out,” the sunburned man said. “High. A lot of people around here thought he was high. Which is awesome, right, since he carried a loaded gun? That’s just the sort of person you want to see armed.”
“High on what?” Susan asked.
“Do we look like drug addicts?” the gossipy woman quipped. Susan raised an eyebrow at her, and she sunk down in her seat. She spoke quieter as she said, “I mean, we’re not experts on the subject. Nobody really knew what he was on, but most people suspected it was nothing good.”
“Is this true?” Susan asked the table, and everyone nodded. “So, Dov was a terrible worker and possibly on drugs. How was he able to keep his job?”
The mousy woman said, “That’s what we could never figure out. He must have had some serious dirt on some big boss in the company—that’s the best we could come up with, anyway.”
“And what about Chung?” Susan asked, and the table erupted in incredulous laughter.
Shaking his head, the sunburned man said, “Chung taking drugs? No, just no. Not a chance in hell.”
“And what was he like on the job?” Susan asked.
“Anal. Don’t get me wrong; he was perfectly nice. Nobody ever had a problem with him, other than Dov, of course. But Chung followed rules to a T, which set some people on edge. He never ratted anyone out for breaking the rules, but you could tell he was judging you,” the gossipy woman said and then pursed her lips. If the crisp tone of her voice was an
ything to go by, she was speaking from personal experience; she was a part of the “some people” group.
Sunburned said, “He actually set an alarm on his phone when he went on his breaks. If he came back even one minute late, he’d make up for that time by staying one minute later at the end of the day. He never took so much as a pen home from the office, and he kept his desk immaculate.”
Susan frowned. “So, you’ve got one worker who’s lazy and potentially taking drugs, and you’ve got another who’s essentially a walking employee manual. Why did they leave here together to go to lunch?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. It just makes no sense,” the sunburned man said.
The gossip seconded the statement. “No sense whatsoever.”
Susan distributed her business card to the group and thanked them for their time. She asked them to call her should they think of anything else, reminding them that sometimes seemingly insignificant tips led to big discoveries. She returned to the HR department, frowning to find it still closed. She pulled out one of her cards, planning to leave it with a note for the HR rep to call her. Reconsidering, she returned it to her wallet. It was always best to approach, in person, with the element of surprise.
CHAPTER 8
Although he couldn’t help thinking that it would have enriched the lecture (and his day) a whole lot more if Susan were there, Eric was nailing his talk on the myths and misconceptions of FBI protocols. He could always tell when he held the students’ attention and when they were bored. This was not so much about their behavior, but because of the overall energy he felt coming off the room—a notion he would have scoffed at before his otherworldly quirk had made itself known.
When they were bored, he felt and heard a dull hum bouncing off the walls, like a fly dying a slow death after being swatted. When they were interested, as they were now, he had their full, undivided attention as a collective unit, pens moving along paper fluidly and fingers tapping at keyboards at a synchronized pace. Strange as it was, his brain interpreted the scene as a song coming from a beautifully tuned violin, like something Jake would play, though he doubted anyone could hear the melody but him.
He was smack-dab in the middle of explaining that, no, the FBI did not simply take over investigations from local law enforcement like how it was depicted on television, when his class began to stir. It started as clusters of whispering scattered throughout the room, accompanied by the restless bzz-bzz-bzz of cell phones vibrating. Fingers tap-danced along keyboards, sounding like rainfall, as instant messages flowed in. Hands flew to mouths, students gasping in unison.
Strangely, the emotions were mixed. Some faces grinned while others teared up, and then there were the three boys in the back high-fiving one another. Two students on opposite sides of the room leaped up from their chairs and bolted out the exit.
“Okay, what’s going on?” Eric demanded. The class looked back at him in a deer-in-the-headlights fashion, too timid to answer after he’d used such an exasperated tone. His hands flew to his hips identical to how his mother would have done. It was a quirk he was wholly unaware of. His brother, Jim, who Eric had not spoken with since discovering that he’d been sleeping with Maggie, the woman who was now Eric’s ex-wife and Jim’s current one, did the exact same thing and was as equally unaware. “No, really. Someone tell me, please.”
Finally, Nate Boyle, a beanpole-thin kid in the front row who typically scored perfectly on tests, slowly raised his hand. “It’s that guy everyone is looking for—the one who killed his girlfriend. He’s dead.”
“Seriously?” Eric asked, too stunned to articulate a better question. Then came a series of murmurs. A group of girls in the second row: He deserved it. A voice near the back: Good. A sobbing young man: I can’t believe it!
Jake hurried up to the desk as the room erupted in chatter. “I think we should call the class.”
Eric did just that. As books and laptops were crammed in backpacks, he provided a reminder that everyone, including Bryan McDougal, was innocent until proven guilty. That netted him a few eye rolls.
Once everyone was gone, he asked, “Was it the police who killed him?”
Jake shook his head. “They’re saying it was suicide. Took a header off the top floor of the parking garage here on campus.”
“Which one?” LU had several, located on four corners of the campus.
“West lot.”
“That’s the lot I park in—my car’s there right now!” Eric had so many questions it was difficult to choose which to ask first. “How did you find out so fast?”
Jake said, “Come on—you know how quickly news travels around here. Remember how everyone was looking for him yesterday everywhere, and word of the murder had only just gotten out? Bryan’s suicide is all over Facebook, and while you were talking to the class about the FBI, I had about a dozen texts come in about it.”
“When did he do it—jump off the roof?”
“Like twenty minutes ago, while we were here in class. It’s peak attendance time, so I’m sure a few students had to have seen him hit the ground. Imagine carrying that image with you for the rest of your life. I wonder if anyone saw him actually jump.” Jake went quiet for a moment. “Do you think he did it, then? Killed Samantha?”
Eric said, “Although there is evidence to the contrary, I still don’t think so.”
“Weird he’d commit suicide, then, don’t you think? I mean, if it were me, I’d want to clear my name first. Or at least try.”
Eric grimaced. “I think that’s what he was attempting to do in my office yesterday.”
“Idiot dean barging in on us,” Jake muttered.
“He is an idiot,” Eric agreed. “I wonder if things would have gone differently if we hadn’t been interrupted.”
“How do you explain Bryan’s sex offense that Susan told you about?”
Eric shook his head. “I still don’t know. I’ve been racking my brain about it. I can’t explain it, but it’s one of those weird feelings I get. I’d like to know more about the actual charges, because something feels . . . hinky.”
“Yesterday, I thought he was innocent too. But, now, I just don’t know anymore. Given how determined he was to fight for his innocence when we talked to him, it seems odd that he’d give up twenty-four hours later and commit suicide. Makes me wonder if he decided that fighting was pointless since he’d actually done what he’s being accused of.”
Eric shook his head. “Who knows what goes on in a person’s brain before they take their own life? He obviously wasn’t of sound mind. And we know he was scared and exhausted—I can’t imagine where he was hiding out, with his face being all over social media and the news. Probably under a bridge somewhere, with little to no food, given that he couldn’t go out in public to get supplies. Imagine being him with all that going on. Plus, there’s a campus full of students—people you thought were your friends—the police, and your ex-girlfriend’s politically powerful parents thinking you murdered a promising young woman while you were attempting to sexually assault her.”
“That would suck.”
“And you and I know from personal experience how news and gossip get twisted. You should have heard all the things kids on campus were saying about Bryan this morning.”
“Oh, I heard,” Jake said, nodding emphatically. “They’ve got him stabbing, not just Samantha, but other women—like Ted Bundy–style serial killing—and spiking drinks, selling drugs, and embezzling from the bar. Everyone’s got a friend of a friend who was either harassed or attacked or drugged by Bryan. So, sure, I guess it’s no wonder he killed himself.”
Eric said, “Trust me—considering the heinousness of what Bryan’s being accused of, if I had even a whisper of doubt that he was guilty, I would never defend him. And I certainly wouldn’t have gone to Susan about him.”
“I feel bad, you know? Guilty. Do you think there’s a chance Bryan killed himself because of us?”
“You mean because we didn’t do m
ore to help him?”
“Right.”
“Well, he did jump out the window.”
“I know,” Jake said, his shoulders slumped in a manner that was almost childlike. “But, if he really is innocent, I’d like to help clear his name, because I’m guessing there’s not a lot of people out there lining up to do the job. And, this goes without saying, I’d like to do the most important thing, which would be to catch the person who is actually responsible. Just think, if Bryan is innocent, there’s a drink-spiking, murdering, would-be rapist on the loose.”
Eric shuddered. “I know. I look at all these young girls in my classes, and they seem so vulnerable. I want to go out and buy a canister of pepper spray for every one of them. I know it’s not fair—women being put in a position where they should even need to protect themselves in the first place. And, in a perfect world, men would be taught from birth to be gentlemen and not hurt these girls the way they do. I try not to scare students with my lectures, but, unfortunately, I think some of them should be a little more scared and not so trusting. Especially being in a big city like San Francisco. Some of these young kids, they come from the middle-of-nowhere towns with like a few thousand people—”
“Or affluent gated neighborhoods with around-the-clock security guards,” Jake cut in.
“Exactly. They expect the same level of safety and courtesy living in a city with nearly a million strangers in it.”
“Unfortunately, Samantha’s murder is a reminder that nobody is untouchable by violence.” Jake paused and then ventured, “I suppose I could always talk to that DOTE club.”
Eric shook his head. “I still don’t think that’s such a good idea. Susan made them sound as if they might be dangerous.”
Jake flapped a hand and made a pffft sound. “I think I can handle a group of tree-hugging college kids.”
“It’s not the college kids I’m worried about. It’s the ones who are hiding behind them like cowards.”
Jake nodded, though Eric suspected he was going to do whatever it was he wanted to, anyway. His friend was stubborn like that, which he supposed was one of the reasons he liked him so much. Jake had a good sense of self and always behaved in a manner that was true to his core belief system—which was to treat others how he wished to be treated. Eric supposed one would have to be that way to stay sane, being born a dwarf. He’d witnessed the harassment, sideways glances, and giggles Jake had to contend with every day of his life. Unlike Eric’s schizophrenia, dwarfism was something that could never be concealed. He admired his friend for never cowering and always keeping his chin held high.
