The Eavesdropper

by Edward Trimnell

  Then another internal voice spoke up—that one from before—and told me that my best course of action would be to simply forget about it. I could return to my desk, and get back to work.

  I reminded myself of my own conduct: There was nothing that Donnie and Bethany could possibly tell Sid about me that would have a negative impact on my career.

  They could, of course, tell Sid that they thought it was unfair for me to be promoted ahead of them. But so what?

  Then I wavered yet again: I could not ignore the possibility of a fabrication, an outright lie that would be difficult for me to categorically disprove. There is no “benefit of a reasonable doubt” in the corporate workplace. There is only the career-crushing stigma of a lingering accusation.

  Bethany might claim, for example, that I had sexually harassed her. (And although that would be a big, big stretch, wasn't I guilty of the occasional lingering glance in her direction?)

  Donnie might claim that I’d been trying to pick a fight with him. That would be even more ridiculous, given our comparative sizes and personalities. But I had answered him back, gone tit-for-tat, when he had taunted me. There had been verbal exchanges between us that could be twisted around, quoted out of context.

  Moreover, they would corroborate each other to the end. And what if what if the two of them had cajoled or intimidated a third party (such as Ellen Watson) into joining the chorus against me? A wider conspiracy was not impossible.

  The bottom line was: With those two, almost anything was possible. Their scheme might not hold up over the long haul, but they could cause me no end of problems in the short run if they caught me unawares.

  On the other hand, if I knew what they were saying…

  Hoping that no one was watching me too closely, I made a beeline for the vending machine alcove.

  Chapter 8

  There was nothing unusual about me going to the vending machines. I was an inveterate Coke Zero drinker, and I made a trip there at least once per day. But I had never made the walk to the vending machines with the intention of playing the snoop, of fitting myself in the little space behind the meeting room.

  When I arrived at the vending machines, another Thomas-Smithfield employee—a middle-aged man named George Hurley—was purchasing a can of Coke. Just my luck, it took him a full minute to retrieve three quarters from his pocket.

  At least he didn't strike up a conversation with me. Hurley didn't even acknowledge my presence. He was obviously preoccupied with something else.

  As George walked away, I realized: I had one final chance. I could still walk back to my desk. I hadn't done anything underhanded yet. I could still call this off.

  Instead I took a quick, furtive look around to make sure that no one was approaching, and no one was actively watching me. Then I sidestepped to the far side of the Coke machine, and slipped behind it.

  The space between the concrete wall and the false wall of the meeting room was directly before me.

  Go, I told myself.

  I maneuvered myself into the space. It was a tight fit. A larger person—like Donnie, for instance—could never have wedged himself into the opening.

  I had to take several steps forward before I would be directly behind the meeting room. This required no small amount of caution. I was in almost total darkness now. There was a rat’s nest of electrical wiring on the floor beneath my feet. My toe touched a large, boxlike electrical outlet that had been installed for the wiring.

  I stepped over it slowly, exercising care not to tangle my feet in the unseen, rubber-coated wires.

  I could hear the buzz of a voice now. Sid talking. I still couldn't make out any words, though. I took another step in the darkness. If I fell now, I would likely fall against the false wall of the meeting room, alerting Donnie, Bethany, and Sid to my presence.

  I was finally in the right position. I leaned forward toward the false wall. I could hear them now.

  “Keep your voices down. We shouldn't even be discussing this here in the office,” I heard Sid Harper say.

  “Then why are we?” Bethany retorted.

  “Because Ellen is on to us, like I’ve just explained to you. And we need to come up with a game plan immediately.”

  “Dammit!” Bethany said, “Damn.”

  “Saying ‘damn’ won’t fix it.”

  “I never said that it would. I just said ‘damn’.”

  “Neither will being a smart-ass.” Sid again. “And I need to make clear, right now—I hope you're hearing me, Donnie—if Ellen says anything to you, you’re to play dumb.”

  Play dumb? I thought. That ought to be easy for Donnie. But behind that whimsical thought, something else: This was not the conversation I had anticipated—not even close.

  If I hadn't known better, it would have sounded to me like Bethany, Donnie, and Sid were….

  …Accomplices of some sort.

  “I’m not going to say anything,” Donnie shot back at Sid. He spoke to Sid much like he would have spoken to me. That is: without much respect. “What makes you think I’m going to say anything?”

  “Maybe because you’re you, hotshot.”

  Donnie grunted out a terse, gruff reply that I could not make out.

  “What the hell?” Bethany muttered. “What the freaking hell are we going to do?”

  There was a pause. Then, finally, Sid spoke.

  “I don’t think we have any choice: We have to eliminate Ellen.”

  Bethany: “You mean…?”

  Sid: “It isn't what I want. But we don't have any choice.”

  Donnie: “This is getting out of hand.”

  Sid: “Shut up.”

  Donnie: “Don’t tell me to shut up. You’re supposed to be the smart guy here. You might have anticipated this.”

  Then Bethany interjected: “Stop it, you two. Sid has a point. None of us wants to do that. But if she’s on to us, then Sid is right, we don’t have any choice.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to get across to you,” Sid said. “Both of you.”

  “When?” Donnie asked. “And how?”

  “I think we’ve already discussed this enough in the office,” Sid said. “We’ll go over the details offsite. I just wanted to pull you both in, to let you know about the situation.”

  Sighs from both Bethany and Donnie.

  “Keep cool, both of you. We’ll get through this.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  With that they ended their conversation. I heard them stand up and exit the meeting room.

  I stood there dumbfounded for a moment, trying to process what I had heard, and all its implications. I knew that I couldn't even begin to dig into it now, it was potentially that earth-shattering.

  Had I really heard them correctly?

  Yes, I told myself, I had heard what I had heard. My first thought at that moment was: I should have remained at my desk.

  Chapter 9

  I didn't want to remove myself from the space between the walls immediately. I needed to wait until the three of them were safely gone.

  I waited for what seemed like a minute or two, and then backed out the way I had come, reminding myself not to rush, lest I trip and fall.

  Relax, I told myself. But I couldn't relax. My heart was thudding in my chest.

  I found myself behind the Coke machine again. All I had to do now was carefully walk around the machine and—

  “This has all gone to hell,” I heard Donnie say, “all because of that idiot, Sid.”

  “Shh,” Bethany said immediately afterward. “Don’t talk about it out here.”

  Now I heard coins being deposited in the Coke machine, and I realized that Donnie and Bethany were using the vending machine that I was standing behind.

  I stood perfectly still. I allowed myself only shallow breaths.

  “Well, you have to admit that Sid is an idiot,” Donnie said.

  A can of one of the Coca-Cola Company’s products fell down in the service
bin of the vending machine. Several more coins were deposited into the coin slot.

  “If Sid is such an idiot,” Bethany said, “then how come he’s a manager, and we’re peons?”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it. Sid was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. You know that. I don’t see why you’re always defending him.”

  Another can of cola fell down. Either Donnie or Bethany—there was no way I could know which one—retrieved it.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t see why you’re always running him down.” This was Bethany, her voice trailing away. They were leaving.

  I waited for what I believed to be one minute. Two minutes.

  I eased myself out from behind the Coke machine, then along its far side. I said a quick, silent prayer that they hadn't lingered just beyond earshot, but where they could still see me.

  I was out in front of the Coke machine now. Donnie and Bethany were both gone. I was alone.

  I walked back to my desk. Donnie and Bethany had both arrived there ahead of me.

  For once my presence did not occasion dirty looks or sarcastic remarks from them. Their minds were otherwise occupied.

  With thoughts of “eliminating" Ellen Watson.

  Ellen, too, was at her desk. She stayed put most of the day. She was a nonsmoker, and she never seemed to take bathroom breaks. I wasn't even sure, now that I thought about it, if Ellen customarily went out for lunch, or ate in the company cafeteria. As I’ve said, Ellen kept to herself.

  I sat down, and pretended to look at my computer screen.

  Now the serious questions began. What could Donnie, Bethany, and Sid possibly be involved in that was so secretive? What would drive the three of them—strange bedfellows by any measure—to collaborate? And what did Ellen know that was so compromising that they would seriously talk about “eliminating” her?

  Several facts, aside from the immediate ones, were now staring me in the face. Clearly I had underestimated Donnie and Bethany. Despite my recognition of Donnie’s obvious physical menace, I’d dismissed them as ne’er-do-wells who lacked any real sophistication. But if Sid was collaborating with them, then they must be more sophisticated than I had thought.

  And Sid: I hadn't known Sid as well as I thought I’d had, either. I’d gone so far as to see him as a surrogate father figure. Well, I was pretty sure that my dad, despite all his faults, had never “eliminated” anybody.

  How was I going to react to the revelations that, a mere half-hour ago, I would never have imagined? I had choices to make: I couldn't un-hear what I had heard. I had to do something.

  I was involved now, whether I wanted to be or not.

  Chapter 10

  I had a new revelation about myself, too: I was suddenly unable to sit still. I endured about twenty minutes with Donnie and Bethany sitting in the desks opposite me before I was up and wandering. I had no idea where I was going to go. But I couldn't sit at my desk. Not now, with this new alternate reality.

  Because how do you sit at your desk and analyze supplier quotations when you have just overheard your coworkers and your boss plot the murder of your group admin?

  They had avoided the use of the word “murder”, and so had I. But that was they were talking about, right? “Eliminate” was a weak euphemism for the endgame here. They weren't talking about getting Ellen fired, I didn't think.

  It would have been well within Sid’s powers to simply fire Ellen, of course. But that didn't fit with the overall tone and circumstances of the discussion that I had overheard. Ellen knew something that placed Sid, Bethany, and Donnie in peril, or she had somehow interfered in something.

  I could only guess what. But whatever it was, it was something big—almost certainly something illegal. My two coworkers and my manager wouldn't believe themselves out of danger if they merely removed Ellen from the company.

  I was walking down the expanse of the third floor, toward one of the stairwells. I figured I would head down to the company cafeteria on the first floor and grab a cup of coffee. Maybe walk outside for a few minutes and clear my head—if that was even possible.

  Then, as I was about to make a left turn toward the stairwell, I heard Sid call out my name.

  I hadn't noticed him. He had apparently been talking to a purchasing agent from another group—there were many under his charge. Ordinarily I would have seen him, probably, but not in my current dazed state.

  “Hey, Frank, got a minute?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  I had ordinarily met any inquiry, request, or greeting from Sid with an immediate eagerness to please. The man had become my benefactor within the company, after all. And he was my manager.

  He must have noticed that something was “off” about me.

  “You okay, Frank? You don't look so good.”

  “I, uh, yeah, I’m feeling a little bit light-headed I guess.” I scrambled for my next words. “It might be a touch of the flu.”

  Sid cocked his head to one side and looked at me. Remember, I thought, this is not the man you believed him to be an hour ago. That Sid Harper is gone—he never existed.

  “The flu? Yeah, I’ve heard that’s been going around. You’re not headed home, are you?”

  Leaving the building was, in fact, my immediate impulse, now that he mentioned it. But that would make him more suspicious than ever.

  “No, no. I, uh—”

  Sid had obviously wanted to talk to me about something. He had hailed me as I was walking by, and he wouldn't do that idly. I recovered, giving him my best what-can-I-do-for-you expression, well known and practiced by every denizen of corporate cubicle-land.

  “I was wondering if you had a minute to talk—in private. If you’re feeling up to it, that is.”

  He looked at me in a way that was difficult to interpret. Surely Sid didn't know that I had been listening behind the wall. No—there was no way he could possibly know that. I was growing paranoid already.

  “Sure,” I said. “Absolutely.”

  Now I really was beginning to feel light-headed. But I had to play along, maintain all my business-as-usual expressions.

  He led me to one of the meeting rooms. The one in which he had met with Donnie and Bethany was occupied, so we took the next one down.

  “Hey,” he said, after we’d taken our seats at the little table inside the room, “I just wanted to take a minute to congratulate you on your grade promotion.”

  This was strange—because we’d had a meeting with more or less the same purpose prior to the holiday break, just a few weeks ago. But I wasn't going to point that out.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

  “You deserve it. You’ve been doing great work.”

  I nodded. I didn't want to sound either obsequious or boastful, so I said nothing.

  “Listen, Frank, I know—I know it’s not always easy to work with Donnie and Bethany. I realize that they’re kind of hard on you sometimes.”

  When I started to protest, he cut me off—not unkindly, but firmly. “I see what goes on. That’s part of my job as a manager, you know. Very little happens that I don't find out about, sooner or later.”

  What did he mean by that? I wondered. I again asked myself if somehow—impossible as that seemed—Sid had been aware of my presence behind the door.

  Surely not. I was over-interpreting, imagining things. There was no way Sid could know that I had been back there. I needed to keep my bearings.

  “Donnie, Bethany, and I have had some personality conflicts,” I allowed.

  “They aren't the easiest pair to work with, are they?”

  “I guess not, now that you mention it.”

  “Well,” Sid said. “it takes all kinds to make a big company like Thomas-Smithfield. Don’t let them get to you. And I want you to promise me that if there’s ever a serious problem between the three of you, you’ll come directly to me—instead of going to HR.”

  Now I had some idea of Sid’s game. Whatever the three of them were
mixed up in, Sid was smart enough to realize that he had involved himself with two loose cannons. He wanted to make sure that no minor disagreement with me would bring outside scrutiny onto his co-conspirators. So he was preemptively heading me off at the pass.

  Moreover, I had to assume that Sid’s outward show of support for me—his playing the father figure—was a fraud, too. Whatever Sid’s game was, he was hiding something massive.

  I recalled his words in the meeting room: “We have to eliminate Ellen…We don’t have any choice.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, forcing my best smile.

  Chapter 11

  Five o’clock couldn't arrive quickly enough for me that day. Ordinarily, I lingered at my desk for a while. Not today. I was walking out the main entrance by 5:05.

  I drove home in a semi-haze, trying to organize my thoughts.

  Ellen Watson had done me few favors, of course. She seldom gave me anything but pro forma politeness, and she occasionally sided (however subtly) with Donnie and Bethany in their perpetual maneuvering against me.

  But those were the petty slings and arrows of office politics. If her life was potentially in danger, I had to do something.

  The question was: Did what I had heard amount to a confession? If I went to the police, would my account of a conversation overheard through a wall be regarded as “actionable”?

  Some problems are so big, that you just have to set them aside and let them stew for a while. This is what the Japanese refer to as “putting a problem in a box.” I knew, of course, that I couldn’t put this problem into a box—not really. I would be thinking about what I had overheard in that meeting long into the night.

  But there was something else on my mind. I was going to call my ex-wife in Dayton so that she could put my daughter, Olivia, on the phone.

  I waited until around 7:00 p.m., as I knew that Claire would kvetch if I interrupted her during the after work/dinner preparation rush. She answered my call on the third ring and said hello, just like normal. There was no immediate indication of our earlier quarrel about Ryan, and the possibility of Ryan moving in with the two of them.