CLANK! CLINK!
I know just what has happened. Wilmer Cromwell must have discovered the poison – he has sneaked into my room with bowl and spoon, a vengeful act to take my life in retaliation. That must be it! He’s hiding in the closet banging away at the bowl with every ounce of strength within those swollen muscles! And I hate to admit, but his plan is working, I cannot even hold my head aloft any longer. These puny arms of mine are too heavy to lift, the scrawny legs have gone numb. There’s nothing I can do but topple over, rolling out of bed and down onto the floor, where upon I stare at the closest, awaiting my imminent doom…
AHH! I jerk upright in bed just as the morning rays of sunlight strike me in the face. The clinking noise is gone, nonexistent. Jesus Christ… It was only a dream. Thank God. What a relief, eh? However, there is one constant which remains true to the dream. I’m still soaked in sweat with my heart beating speedily. Nothing is blurred, although, I still retain full power over all of my limbs.
I can tell it’s going to be a glorious day as I walk to the window, tear apart the curtains and embrace the golden rays of morning.
No matter how enthusiastic, excited, or delighted a murderer is he must never let these feelings show. To do so is the kiss of death. Each killer must remain the same as he always has, and no more so. The days after his deed are the most crucial. Did his demeanor change? Was he meeker than normal? Was he more outgoing than usual? These are telltale signs of guilt or involvement in the eyes of wily detectives. You want friends, fellow employees, and peers to see nothing out of the ordinary. Give them no ammo. Just what today’s word of the day calls for… Equipoise. A balanced state.
And so, on my way to work I replay these hard fast rules in my mind again and again, over and over. Be normal. Act as you always have… Avoid eye contact; speak to no one, except for a few insults directed at the overweight water jug man, provided he runs across my travels. Creep out every woman I happen to cross paths with. Mmm, good.
A few more days of playing myself can’t be too difficult, can it? But you wouldn’t believe the number of people who fail to maintain their common traits in the days after committing wicked deeds. In the eyes of a paranoid criminal, everyone is inspecting him. They know he did it. And under this immense, although self-created pressure, many criminals crack. I’ve worked too hard, studied too long, imagined this crime too many times, too often, to make such an amateur mistake. Go ahead world! Try and break me. I’m unassailable! Throw your best at me! Lock those eyes onto my cold, unflinching gaze. Peer into the very heart of stone.
Oh look… Ted, the bug eyed, pig nosed idiot from the second floor scrutinizes me as I pass him on my way to the elevator. Like he has a clue. Try Ted, I’d just like to see you try! Grill me! Ask me if I know Wilmer’s been murdered! Ted doesn’t try anything, of course not, just like I knew he wouldn’t. What a spineless twerp.
The elevator door opens as the corpulent, foul smelling woman with tangled hair from the third floor smiles deviously and exits the lift. Is that supposed to get to me? Her ignorant looking expression is meant to unsettle me? Make me think she’s onto me but doesn’t want to let me know? Playing coy, are you! Listen fatty, I’ve murdered a man! Your mind games are pitiful! Worthless! I’m an indomitable force! A veritable safe!
She doesn’t try anything fishy either. Nobody will – not if they know what’s good for ‘em. I get into the elevator, contemplating on the way up, just what the office will be like without Wilmer Cromwell and his vile presence. How liberated I’ll feel to enter that wretched place and never have to worry about a glass bowl ever again. I’m a free, burdenless man! This emotion is so sublime that I cannot help but perform a little jig, right there in the elevator. But as the doors break a part, I cease dancing immediately, once again resuming my reserved nature. The walk to my office is a joyous one, indeed. I’d like to say I wasn’t smiling from ear to ear, walking with my head angled downwards, but I cannot say with any certainty that I wasn’t.
Ah, what a refreshing face to take sight of. It’s Ellington Fairfield coming towards me. The nervous demeanor from yesterday has deserted his body completely. In fact he looks downright cheerful. The damn fool! As I said, this a flaw if you’ve recently committed a crime. You must maintain your equanimity, making sure not to overdo it.
“Morning JT,” he says to me.
“Hey, Mr. Fairfield,” I reply in my normal apathetic tone.
We give each other a look that lets me know all went well. He is unaware of my late night deed, although I’m sure Ellington would approve.
Fairfield calls from over my shoulder, “I’ve got to tell you about something, come on o—“
“No!” I hiss, “Not now.”
Ellington stutters as I continue the walk to my place of employment.
The office is silent when I open the door. No lights have been turned on. Wilmer’s door is slightly ajar. Percy Sullivan’s is shut tight. He’s still out on business, I assume. All of these are excellent, auspicious signs. My chair feels extra warm today when I plant myself in it. I didn’t bother turning any lights on – there’s enough filtering through the window shades. Now… How long do I wait before…working? Working? That is a foreign word to me as of now. What exactly did I do? Took some calls, wrote down a few numbers and names, but mainly played Go Fish! …It’s a paycheck.
I guess I’ll message Sexkitten69 and see if she’s up for a game.
And here it strikes me – The miraculous realization… I seem to have gotten farther than I actually thought possible! By golly, Wilmer is dead… The duncepot is really gone! What happens now…? Evidently I never saw myself getting this far. I didn’t plan for the aftermath. And so…
A real conundrum arises. Do I call the police and report Wilmer’s absence? Oh no, I don’t suspect foul play but I’m getting worried… Nah. That sounds too phony, too transparent. In many cases, usually those involving kidnaps, there’s a good chance whoever reported the crime is also the one who committed it. Because of this statistic I can’t report Wilmer’s absence, not yet. He’s got a few clients scheduled for today. That gives me quite an opening. I’ll just wait for them to show up, say Wilmer hasn’t come in today; he left no note and gave no reason. Then I’ll wait and see what they do. Something along those lines. Let’s not get carried away here! Perhaps no note, no, no note.
Maybe one of the twits will be alarmed enough to report it to the police. I could try my acting chops out and hint that they should do as much. It’s risky…but an option nonetheless.
Sexkitten69 accepts my invite -- the game is on. I’m dealt a marvelous hand. We exchange damaging blows back and forth, stealing and taking, acquiring and pillaging. The game grows heated. Fiery. She’s asking for my eights. Damn… I’ve got two. All is not lost. I request if she has any jacks; the little dame hands me over three, giving me a total of four. You want threes? Hah! Go Fish! slattern! We continue this war for an interminable span of time. There’s an unsurpassed focus in my mind, dialing in like a laser. And because of this I hardly notice the figure leaning against the doorframe of my office.
He’s wearing a tan trench coat and brown shoes. His hair is a bit messy. The man’s overall appearance is somewhat disheveled. In fact it looks as if Detective Columbo himself has just stumbled into my office.
“Excuse me…?” He has a gruff, gravely voice. The intruder tilts his head to one side as he speaks. Ah, of course.
“Judson, is it?” he asks. “That’s what the guy down the hall told me.” Of course…
“Oh, hello,” I reply, rising slightly from my chair. “…Yes?” I say after a brief pause ensues, where I for certain, felt the man’s eyes cutting through me, looking for a crack of any kind. The smallest bit of give to pounce on.
“Hi, kid. I’m Detective Simmons.”
Of course you are. I smile, minimize the game of Go Fish!, and extend my hand.
“How can I help you, detective?”
He shakes my hand. A good firm grip,
perhaps a little too hard as if he’s trying to instill fear in me. You can’t break me, Simmons!
“I’d like to ask you a few questions. About your boss. A mister—“ here the man looks down at a slip of paper. “Mr. Cromwell is it?”
“Yes, that is correct.” I reply.
“Mr. Cromwell didn’t show up to work today, did he?”
“No, not yet. He’s been late a few times in the past. Why?”
“You may want to sit down, Jules. I’ve got bad news.”
He pauses, staring at me. I decide to do as he bids, sitting down. My body is angled forward in eager anticipation. The posture of a worried loser.
“Earlier this morning we discovered Mr. Cromwell’s body. He’s dead.”
“My God!” I scream, trying not to overdo it. “Dead? How?”
“Killed.”
“What, how! Who found him?”
“It appears Mr. Cromwell had scheduled a morning massage last night while at the gym. His masseuse, a Mr. Myles McGee called the police when he saw Mr. Cromwell lying on the kitchen floor in a bloody me – Well, but I can’t give out all the details at this juncture. The investigation is still ongoing.”
“That’s terrible,” my voice is low and concerned. Even though I’m not looking upward, I can feel Detective Simmon’s eyeing me over.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. There’s an awkward pause before either of us says anything. Finally Simmons breaks the silence.
“Actually, Jensen, I’m here making the rounds so to speak. I’ve got to take your statement and ask you a few questions.” There’s a peremptory tone to his voice.
“Sure.”
“Fine. First off, when was the last time you saw Mr. Cromwell?”
“Yesterday when he left work, right around 5:15, just as usual.”
Detective Simmons whips out a notebook and begins jotting something down.
“Did he say anything about meeting anyone?”
“No.”
“Uh huh,” Simmons writes something else down. Then came the question I’d been waiting for. “Where were you last night?”
I answer after a slight pause. This short hesitation deters him from thinking it’s a prepared response. But not quite long enough to raise suspicion.
“I stayed home and read a book. My normal routine.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
“Hmm,” I tilt my head feigning thought. “No I don’t believe so. I live alone and don’t socialize much.”
“Okay. These are just standard questions. Don’t go thinking you’re a suspect or anything. Now, do you know of any enemies Mr. Cromwell might have had?”
“Enemies? Hmm… I can’t say that I do. Other than the typical people who hate lawyers.”
“Uh huh, such as?”
Part of me regrets mentioning it at all.
“You know, people who lost in court and hold a grudge. Especially if they went to prison as a result.”
His hand goes still. The Detective eyes me from over the notepad.
“Uh huh.” More jotting in the notepad.
“Do you know of any such people?”
“Me? No. I’m rarely at the courtroom and it’s even rarer that I see the plaintiff or defendant. I’m just Mr. Cromwell’s assistant.”
“Interesting,” he scratches at his scruffy chin. “Ever heard of… Lionel Ducard?”
The world pans out like a frenzied camera from a thriller film… Maintain, maintain! Control the eyes, take a breath, maintain!
“Ducard?” I ask, a bit of quiver in my voice.
Simmons nods.
“Hmm, no can’t say that I have. But we do get a lot of cases. Why?”
“Ah no reason, don’t you worry kid. Okay, Jerry. Thanks for your time. If you remember anything else, anything at all, here’s my card.” He hands me a creased paper. It’s rather shabbily drawn up, not very professional at all. Probably hand drawn. But at least it’s consistent with the man’s overall appearance. Disorganized, messy, and slovenly.
“Sure,” I respond.
Detective Simmons turns and leaves. Though the momentary solitude does not last long. For here comes the gluttonous Todd Storton bumbling in my direction. What a goon. His dress is as slipshod and disgusting as always. However, I do notice a little more pep in his step. I can guess why. There’s a euphoric grin glued to his face. I cringe as he enters the office, without knocking, lugging five jugs today.
“Afternooooon Jeeeeeeet.” The words are dragged out to a comical degree.
“Yes. Hello, fathead.”
“I can’t thank you enough, pal! Since you gave me my time with Georgia in the break room my life’s taken on a whole new outlook. She completes me, Jonah!”
“Isn’t that a bit cliché, Storton? I mean even for your limited brain.”
“Hah-hah! Bitter boy, don’t be so jealous! I might even help you find a gal!”
I leave Storton standing there, free to ramble as I take a seat and resume my game of Go Fish! with Sexkitten69. A few minutes pass by. They feel like hours. Yet Todd Storton remains as loquacious as before. A constant stream of words flowing out -- like diarrhea of the mouth. When the endless spewage sounds like it might be winding down, I pay attention, just so I can insult him once more.
“I come here for a little favor from you. You know, for helping me n’ Georgia get together. She’s swell, Javier. Swell! Anyway I come here because she wants us to go on a double date.”
Woah. Back up the train. A double date with Storton and some unknown friend of Georgia’s? Right…
“Is that right, tardboy? A double date, huh?”
“Yeah that’s right. Me and Georgia and you and her friend.”
“What’s her name?”
“Umm… Heather I think.”
“What does she look like?”
“Umm… She’s got hair and a real pretty face.” Gee, the hair is a plus. But aren’t all blind dates described as pretty? Who would agree to a blind date if they knew the other person was ugly?
“Listen Storton. I’m going to have to be honest here. It’s not looking good. Maybe you can have a threesome with them or something.”
His eyes light up with excitement.
“You really think so?!?!”
“No. Of course not, idiot.”
“Oh…”
“Maybe you can take Ellington Fairfield.”
“The black guy?!” Storton is repulsed by the thought.
“Yes.”
“Hell no!”
“Well that’s all I can do for you, moron. Now please leave. I’ve got some very important matters to attend to. Do you know Mr. Cromwell was killed last night?”
“Who?”
“My boss, you twit.”
“Haha, old snob man himself? How’d he go?”
“Not shocked, eh? Interesting… The detective didn’t say. He just said he’d been killed.”
“Shocked? Nah. He was a jerk! Eh, oh well. Hey I’ll see you later Jansmir. Dumb shrimp passing up on the date with Georgia’s beautiful friend!” Storton departs, a bit upset with me for refusing to attend his debacle. But I’m sure Georgia’s friend is a 2 out of 10 at best. A girl of Georgia’s caliber has two kinds of compatriots: equally gorgeous ones and fat, hairy, ugly ones who can’t get dates on their own. The former wouldn’t need to have blind dates arranged. And the latter isn’t worthy of anyone’s time.
The lummox moves out of sight down the hall and I continue on with these extremely important matters. Namely that of stealing two kings from Sexkitten69. She sends me a vulgar message questioning my manhood. Ah, how sweet the irritated insult is. Well, Sexkitten69, I’ve still got your kings and am two cards away from certain victory. I reply with a simple but effective rejoinder. A smiley face emoticon. Her rage is felt through cyberspace the universe over. I’m certain she slammed a fist on her keyboard. Or he.
38
The office has remained serene, quiet. Word of Wilmer’s death began spreading through th
e halls. I see nosey faces, concerned faces, indifferent faces, and happy faces conversing with one another. They’re obviously discussing the gossip among themselves. Who did? How did it happen? Where did it happen? Was it an accident? Was it murder? What’s going to happen now?
Regarding the last question, I haven’t the slightest idea. I hope I’m still getting my paycheck. Percy Sullivan will, in all likelihood, find a new partner and continue on with the business. The two will deliberate over me, questioning, wondering, cogitating if I’m valuable enough to keep around. Am I replaceable? Am I a good worker? Do I cause trouble? Have there ever been any problems with me in the past?
If they were halfway intelligent I’d be out on my rear the second their conversation commenced. What have I done that’s useful? Absolutely nothing. In fact if they do fire me I’ll have one more accomplishment to add to my resume. Mainly that of killing my former employee…and getting away with it. That’s the kind of feat which inspires veneration. A commendable and worthwhile act – not to mention quite cagey.
After speaking with the detective I’m positive no one will suspect me. Surely such a spineless coward looking man such as myself couldn’t possibly commit a murder. All I’ve got to do is play it cool. But as I sit here in the office, thoughts creep, pace, and race about my mind. The dreaded wondering sets in… What am I doing? What am I supposed to do? There’s really no point to continue working. Wilmer’s dead so what need is there for taking appointments? I guess I could cancel the currently scheduled ones. Then again Percy might not like that. He most definitely won’t take them on, but the very idea that I had the gall to remove appointments on my own accord reflects badly on me.
It’s at this point I realize something for the first time since Wilmer’s death. The notion rushes over me like a wave of utter genius. Why it had taken me this long – an almost shameful negligence on my part…His computer! That confounded mystery screen! Mine at last! These months of secrecy are at an end! Nowhere to hide now, no hand to slam it shut or pull the plug. Cromwell’s absence allows me the perfect opportunity… Now I may ascertain what he’s been up to all this time!
CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw Page 20
