Perhaps after Wilmer’s demise is finalized, I will surreptitiously check his computer history to see just what the twit was hiding. All this time spent at the office and I’ve never, not once, seen anything on his screen except for the desktop – one time. Whenever someone enters the room you see Wilmer’s hand slide the mouse up and to the right, then he clicks that little red X. A special client, maybe? Some illegal activity? Porn?
The one man who might know is Ellington Fairfield. If his stalking has been as complete and thorough as I imagine, then the man’s certainly viewed the mysterious monitor. I’ll make a mental note to check on this topic the next time I rendezvous with my informant.
A sad day is upon us this morning… It pains me to say, but Muscles, Todd Storton, has essentially been eliminated from the plot. Somewhat. Utilized to a lesser degree, I can say. Not entirely removed, however. There is only one small errand I have for him to run. Other than that, his only job is to keep that fat mouth shut and do what comes natural to him: forget everything. I only wish there was a greater need for the enforcer. Some special task I can ask of him – cajole him into performing. Unfortunately, the killing of Mr. Wilmer Cromwell simply doesn’t warrant this kind of action. Such a picturesque noirish finish…and it’s all going to hell. My one solace being this is not a book of fiction, don’t treat it as such. Everything cannot go according to my fantastical wishes. I must deal with reality. And the reality is comprises must be made if I am to commit this murder and remain a free man. Two rather important points, I’d say.
There is the man of the hour! Here comes Ellington Fairfield skulking down the hallway. He’s just left his office and is making a beeline for the break room. It’s been a slow day, so I decide to make things a bit more dramatic.
I poke my head into Wilmer’s office. His hand instinctively flicks the mouse up and to the right. Click. He’s closed the screen again… What a dimwit.
“I’m taking my break now, Mr. Cromwell,” I say in the usual defeated tone.
“Very well, Joonie.” he replies.
Joonie. The name causes me to chortle.
The moment I turn away, I notice a tapping sound – Wilmer resumes pecking away on that wretched keyboard. The scoundrel! What has he got in there! …Oh well. Although I told Wilmer I was taking my break, it’s only half true. Normally my break is spent brooding in the break room staring at a nondescript wall, pondering if I should off myself or not. But not today. Today I sneak into Ellington’s office. Here I take up a position on the inside left of his door.
Ellington will be returning shortly, no doubt, so the wait is brief. Heavy, fast footsteps alarm me of the goon’s approaching presence and I position my body. The door is wooden except for a large rectangle of clear rain glass in the center, which distorts all images, but still allows one to see shadows on the other side. It is through this that I see his dark outline walk in as the door swings open. He shuts it with his left hand and walks to his desk without looking back. I’m standing to the left of the door, not moving, barely breathing, doing my best to appear suave. Which is a difficult feat for me to pull off. I’m not exactly a James Bond look alike.
I remain frozen there, stuck stiff for thirty seconds, waiting and waiting. Ellington has seated himself. His head tilted forward, lying on his arms, which are folded across the desk. It’s a difficult waiting! What a boring man. And suddenly… the sound of crying, dull sobs, or what I think is weeping emits from Ellington. I think so, yes… Jesus Christ! Is he actually crying! No time for such bellyaching, ol’ boy! I tap my foot to attract his attention.
“What?! Who the?!” Ellington’s head jolts upright. His petrified face relaxes upon seeing my own; the rest of his body follows shortly. I stand there without saying a word. My expression a statue.
“Oh… It’s just you Jamie.”
Just me, huh? Well Ellington, you little fool, wait and see what I’ve got in store for you.
“Yes, just me Mr. Fairfield.”
He drags a hand across his face wiping away the tears.
“What can I do for you?”
“Actually, I’ve got some bad news for you.” I pause and direct my eyes to the chair in front of Ellington’s desk. Judging by the slight shaking of his noggin, I’d wager he notices the gesture.
“Please, go right ahead.”
I nod my head in acknowledgment before taking the seat. My hands are held in front of my chest like a churchgoer at the altar.
“What is it?” Ellington asks nervously.
A book I read once said it is best to pause for a moment before speaking so that your listener will pay more attention. Kind of a suspense builder, I guess.
“It’s about Cromwell,” I inform him rather curtly.
“Jesus Christ…I should have known.”
“Before I get to the nitty-gritty I’ve got a question to ask you.”
“Shoot.”
“Thank you. You told me that you’ve spent a fair bit of time following Mr. Cromwell. I wonder, in all of that time, have you ever seen what he does on his computer? I’ve never been able to look at his monitor while he’s there.”
Ellington sighs.
“Jorple, it’s the damndest thing, but no. No I haven’t. He’s got this keylock that requires a password to access. I don’t have the password and cryptic things like that have never been my forte. Why, do you suspect something bad on there?”
“Ellington,” I say with a pause. “I couldn’t begin to fathom what this miscreant keeps on there. I can only assume it’s his dastardly plots -- probably against you.”
My final comment does the trick. Ellington slaps a hand to his forehead, leaning back in his chair, processing what I just said. Absorbing it like a sponge. He shakes his head in disbelief.
“I know, I know,” my voice is calm, caring, and serious. “That’s not the worst of it, Fairfield.” The dropping of Mr. before his name surprises even me. I’m really getting into this role. “I heard Wilmer talking and… it’s not good, not good at all.”
“What is it, goddamnit?”
The books also told me to reveal information bit by bit, drag it out to create the utmost suspense. Ellington is jumping at the bit for me to continue. I refrain and instead stare directly at him for a few eternal seconds. His eyes are burning. I’m not quite sure if it’s out of fear or anger. My speech is slow and calculating.
“I heard Wilmer talking and—“
“Yes?! Yes?! And?!”
“And… He’s hired a hitman to take you out.” The phrase comes out of my mouth with speed and fluency, like a shotgun blast to Ellington’s forehead.
His head flips over backwards to the rear and rolls to the left and back to the right. All the while Mr. Fairfield is repeating the phrase, “Jesus Christ, oh my God, dear Lord! Why me!” I let this pitiful display continue on for far too long before slamming my hand down on the table. He snaps out of the paroxysm and leans forward. His tone is like that of a supplicant, a pleader.
“What am I going to do Juker? You’ve got to help me!” Ellington reaches across the desk. He latches on to my wrist my wrist, taking hold with strong fingers. His large hands are moist and the slime from his palms causes me to gag. With great effort I manage to wrest free of his clutches.
“Get a hold of yourself, Fairfield!” I snap. He looks at me like a lost child, tears forming in the bulging eyes.
“Listen, I’ve got a plan. I saw Wilmer talking to the guy—“
“You know who he is? You’ve seen him!”
“Yes. Now listen. I’ve seen him and know where you can find him. I’ve thought about it long and hard. Your only chance of survival is to commit a preemptive strike; it is the only way.”
“Where? How? When?”
“Leave that to me, Fairfield. You’re going to do it tomorrow night.”
“Me? Tomorrow night? Going to do what?” Ellington’s voice is frantic. He’s pawing his chest, alternating between hands as if he can’t believe I’ve selected him.
“Yes, you Fairfield. You’d better be up to it, too. Otherwise Wilmer’s man will put you down before you get the chance.”
“Alright, alright! Tell me what I need to do.”
“Not now, Fairfield. I’ll tell you tomorrow morning. For now you must swear secrecy, here, now and forever after we’ve handled this. Understand?” Ellington nods his head. But I reiterate my point for emphasis. “Do you understand me Fairfield? What we do must never be repeated. Not ever. Got it?”
“Yes! I understand, I’ll never speak a word of it to anyone.”
“Terrific. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I push back the chair and stand to leave. My hand performs the zipped-shut gesture across my mouth, indicating silence. Ellington nods obediently as I turn to leave with a smile wider than the Mississippi river plastered on my face.
28
“Mr. Cromwell, I’m heading straight to lunch now! Got a real important appointment with mother!”
I shut his door and run out the office before he has a chance to respond. It’s a complete lie. In truth my mother is dead. She died many years ago. Not that I cared. Her passing felt like that of a distant stranger’s. I have no sympathy for my fellow man -- and an even less, nonexistent empathy. I’ve never felt a connection to anyone. As one psychiatrist phrased it, I’m “emotionally detached,” and another informed me I was “socially retarded.” All these fancy names for the simplest of mental attitudes. Oh well, it earns them a living. The damn gouging frauds!
I dash from the building, taking note of the busy streets (as crowded as ever), making frantic efforts to flag some yahoo taxi over. Several whizz past, ignoring me completely, before one (after fighting his way across the hectic roads) pulls up to the curb. His window rolls down.
“Where to, bub?”
The driver is your typical schmuck. He’s got a brown mustache and is wearing a tattered brown jacket. A dumb looking cap rests awkwardly on his head. The stench of BO well absorbed in the interior – overwhelming rankness. But, seeing as my choices were limited, I make the decision to hop in. There I am, struggling to crack the window, battling this ancient grimy handle, before finally jutting my nose out into the fresh smog-filled city air.
“To Razor Ridge Hospital, and step on it!” I threw in the last phrase because I always hear it used in movies. And step on it! That supposedly enters into the driver’s ears and finds its way to his peabrain, which then sends out a signal to his foot telling him to stomp on the gas pedal.
“You got it bub!” he shouts as the car speeds up rapidly. My body is actually thrown against the backseat from the acceleration force. Ol’ stinky knows how to move! Gun it, boy! Gun it!
Driving along, I can’t help but notice this city is filled with the most repulsive looking idiots I’ve ever seen. It’s not just the singular appearance of many of them, but the absolute abundance, the utter number of freaks. Everywhere I look another malformed aberration is revealed to me. These misshapen, badly dressed nitwits. And you know that each and every one of these dunderheads believes they look as cool as can be. For instance, the skinny guy wearing a tight muscle t-shirt. Right… Like you’ve got any muscle mass at all, pal. We’re not impressed by your ten inch pythons.
Over on the left, another fat girl can be spotted sashaying down the sidewalk. She’s wearing a tank top which is entirely too tight, short and revealing. It’s only covering her upper stomach, struggling to keep those rolls locked in tight – down to about the top of her bellybutton, which appears to be an endless cavern of sorts. Eww, I shudder. The rest of her corpulent gut is exposed for the world to see, hanging down over her waistline like a gelatinous, sack of putrid fat. Her pants are excessively, comically taut, which have now either been undone or exploded some time ago from the sheer pressure of having to suffocate her lower abdomen (the fourth roll if anyone is counting) – all of these attributes causing her bulging waistline to not only present itself, but launch a full-blown assault on the eyes of all who witness this atrocity. The folds of fat actually descend a good half a foot below her beltline. Any girl wearing this outfit must think she’s highly attractive. I can’t help but wonder how this woman became so delusional. This is a crime against humanity!
We stop at a red light. A bum comes running out of nowhere. He’s got a bottle of liquid in his hand and a dirty rag in the other. I know his intention all too well. He’s going for the windshield…. Preparing to wipe it clean with his cup of spit and oil and dirt encrusted rag… It’s not my car, so I sit back, watching, waiting, giggling.
The bum scurries to the driver side of the car and begins wiping the glass. My cabby rolls down his window to shout, “Hey buster! None of that nonsense! Get atta here!” A puzzled expression forms on the guttersnipe’s face as he continues smearing his filth across the smooth surface.
“Okay, want to play dumb, huh?” the cabby yells. He suddenly reaches out the window, grabbing the hobo by his collar, and pulls him over closer to the driver side window. I’m watching in disbelief as the cabby yanks the bum downward -- causing his face to smash against the roof of the car. He then pushes the derelict back a little and wallops him right on the nose with his off hand. Ol’ bub here is pummeling him like a speed bag. Bap-bop-bap-bop. The bum falls to the ground just as the light changes. We drive onward, with neither of us acknowledging the incident.
“Here it is, bub.”
I look down at the meter – it seems overpriced, but hurriedly I produce the required amount of cash. I’d rather not linger in ol’ Bubs’ presence. There were still visible traces of the blood running down the side door. The goon might pummel me just for the fun of it. Madman! He snatches the few dollars from my hand as I take off running in the opposite direction.
This is Razor Ridge Hospital. Just a regular run of the mill hospital? Not quite. I have no sick mother lying in one of the beds, coughing up her lung. A dear friend of mine isn’t coming out of surgery and only wishing to see a friendly face. My reason for being here is much more devious, much more wicked. It is an integral step in the murdering of Wilmer Cromwell. Before I go any further, allow me to elucidate a few facts. Ones I happened to research along the way.
The penitentiary where most reprobates around here end up at runs a local rehabilitation program. Sure, fine, great. You can think that’s fantastic, maybe it will help acclimate the ex-cons to normal society once again. But I don’t. I’m of the opinion cons are like alcoholics or drug addicts. They’re never cured. You’re always a recovering addict, one step away from slipping back into your vile habits. These people can’t be transformed. They’re evil. The great and wise all knowing, benevolent creator has relegated them to fill the lowest stations of human life. Alas, regardless of my opinion, my motivation for being here is simple.
Lionel Ducard is one such ex-con who entered into the rehabilitation program. He now works at Razor Ridge Hospital as a janitor, hence my presence. Connecting the dots yet? Remember, my intent is to frame the miscreant. And what do they have at hospitals that could easily be snatched by a malevolent con? Drugs and poisons. Now you’re catching on…
The hospital has that familiar antiseptic smell to it. Everything looks spotless and clean, but I just know germs are crawling everywhere. You see, when a cleaner or sanitizer is sprayed onto a surface it kills everything off. Not just the germs. What’s left is a blank surface free of contaminates or healthy little antibacterial germs, amoebas, or whatever the heck they are. This new barren surface is now susceptible to either harmful bacteria or innocuous bacteria. Sometimes the noxious substance takes over, other times it doesn’t. That’s the risk. Which is why I’m not a big fan of sanitizers in general. Places like these are cesspools and Petri dishes, breeding grounds for filth and squalor.
I can live with this fact, for now. My sinister objective won’t take long to complete.
Walking through the hallways I’m passed by a few doctors and nurses. Well, they’re wearing the typical hospital attire anyway… so I assume they work here. To my
left is a janitor’s door. Just the place I need. I sneak inside and shut the door behind me, then strip down. I’d previously put on a monotone surgeon suit beneath my work clothes. Scrubs. Next comes the mask. I not only wear this to hide my face, but also to filter germs from the air, of course. Two fold ingenuity, eh?
The internet is a remarkable place. Earlier in the day, while still busy at work, I’d gone online and found an extensive layout of this hospital. Complete blueprints, detailed maps. And don’t worry… I used the public computer AND a proxy… The poison control and research center isn’t far from my current location in the west wing. A few minutes later I’m at the desired destination. Nobody questioned me on my trek here. I blend in so well with all of the other idiots.
Before me sets a few metal cabinets with glass doors. A small lock secures one or two of them. Inside are a bunch of various drugs and bottles with green frowny faces – these line the numerous shelves. I’ve memorized the names of a few poisons that would be suitable for my purpose. These I found in my crime books some time back. I’ve been known to commit a few such tidbits of info to my memory banks. Who knew it would be so handy? I’m scanning the labels for a familiar name... No… Nope… Hmm, nope… Bingo! On the second cabinet to my left, third shelf up, I find the first delicious little bottle of clearly marked heaven.
There’s a tiny, circular lock on the bottom area of the cabinet. It’ll take a bit of jimmying to undo. Now don’t think of me as your typical cat burglar. I’m no lock pick, but these aren’t the sturdiest of devices either. You could probably break them open with a pair of scissors or strand of dental floss. Smashing the glass is definitely the easiest and fastest way in. But I can’t be sure the noise won’t attract any unwanted attention.
CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw Page 14
