The Eavesdropper

by Edward Trimnell

  But my life at Thomas-Smithfield was no longer ordinary. I therefore stopped and listened when I heard the door above me open. There should have been footsteps. But whoever had opened the door, he or she was going no farther.

  Then someone above me began to whistle. The unseen person was almost certainly a male, I thought.

  “Donnie?” I called out. If he was following me, I wanted to let him know that I was on to him.

  Then the lights went out. I was plunged into absolute darkness.

  I couldn't avoid the obvious thought: Donnie had killed the lights in the stairwell, in the hope that I would fall down the stairs. There wouldn't have been enough time for him to coordinate with the others, of course. He had done this on the spur of the moment.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “Turn those lights back on.”

  I heard the door two landings above me close with a metallic click.

  I waited for a couple of beats. Then the stairwell’s emergency lights came on. They were weak and tiny—only one small light fixture for each section of staircase. I wasn't sure of the technical details, but I figured the emergency lights were activated by photoelectric sensors. They were probably hooked in to the building’s backup generator.

  I walked the rest of the way down and resisted the urge to rush. If I tripped over my own feet and broke my neck, I would accomplish Donnie’s aims.

  I couldn't prove that Donnie had been the one who had turned off the lights, of course; and I didn't hold out any hope that a witness had taken note of his actions. If I confronted him about it tomorrow morning, he would simply deny it.

  And I certainly wasn't going to make another trip into Anne Hull’s office.

  But I knew that Donnie had turned off those lights, in a deliberate if poorly planned attempt to do me harm. The game had now escalated.

  I reached the bottom of the stairwell, finally, without tumbling down the stairs. I opened another metal door, and I was greeted by cold grey daylight.

  I inhaled deeply and exhaled, my breath turning to vapor. It was a minor victory, but it was still a victory.

  Chapter 22

  But it wasn't really that much of a victory. One thing, moreover, was certain: The other side was now escalating matters. They would escalate matters further.

  It was therefore necessary for me to do some escalating of my own. As I walked through the parking lot to my car, I made a decision: I was going to have to call in outside help.

  As in—the police.

  The Thomas-Smithfield headquarters building was located in an area called Beechwood. Beechwood was an incorporated community inside the Cincinnati metropolitan area, just outside the city limits. Beechwood had its own police force. And the Beechwood Police Department, as chance would have it, was located a mere two miles down the road.

  I had never been inside a police station before. The duty officer at the front desk took down my name and contact information. He asked me if I wanted to make a complaint.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “All right. What is this about?”

  He was a young guy, about my age. The name on his shield identified him as Officer Lovejoy. He started to reach for a form, which I took to be the department’s standard form for making criminal complaints.

  “I, uh—it’s kind of complicated,” I said, heading him off. “I’m not sure that this one is going to fit into a category on that form.”

  He paused and looked at me for a moment, probably asking himself if I was some kind of a prankster. Then he said: “I’ll let you talk to Sergeant Burke. Wait a minute. I’ll get him.”

  Officer Lovejoy walked back through a door, and I caught a quick glimpse of a cubicle layout. The police, too, had their cubicle farms, I could see. Less than a minute later, Officer Lovejoy reemerged with a man who was probably in his mid-forties. I had never been in the military, but I could recognize the three chevrons on his sleeve which marked him as a sergeant. He carried a notepad.

  “This is Sergeant Burke,” Officer Lovejoy said.

  Sergeant Burke walked out into the public area of the station, passing through a swinging half-door at the counter. He shook my hand and introduced himself. His black hair was trimmed to a short crewcut, like someone in the military. He was clean-shaven.

  Sergeant Burke directed me to an interviewing room that was directly adjacent to the lobby. After he had closed the door and we had both sat down, he fixed me with a stare that wasn't exactly hostile, but it was definitely no-nonsense.

  “Officer Lovejoy told me your complaint is ‘complicated’. Now, what seems to be the problem?”

  “I’m an employee at Thomas-Smithfield Electronics,” I commenced. I figured that Sgt. Burke would be familiar with the company, as it was the largest employer in Beechwood. Sure enough, he nodded at the name.

  I then took him through the outlines of what had happened. I had overheard two conversations: The first one suggested that our group admin was the target of a murder conspiracy. I told him how I had been wrong about that, and how my name was mentioned during the second conversation.

  I didn't give him the names of any of the conspirators at this point. I supposed that they would mean nothing to him, anyway. A sergeant in the local police force wouldn't be privy to the org chart of my employer. And right now my priority was to explain the overall situation. I wanted Sgt. Burke to understand that although there were still some unanswered questions, there was indeed a conspiracy to commit murder.

  “So let me get this straight,” Sgt. Burke said when I was finished. “You approached the woman whom you believed to be the target of the alleged murder plot.”

  “That’s what I overheard,” I interrupted, as gently as I could.

  “What you overheard. Very well. So you approached her and told her what you overheard. And she doesn't want your help in taking the matter any further. Then the very next day you see her with the three people whom you took to be the conspirators. Then you’re walking down a stairwell this afternoon, and a light inexplicably goes out. Does that pretty much sum it up?”

  He waited for me to affirm his recap of my story. I was well aware that my story sounded less than fully credible, when restated like that. I wanted to object, but I wasn't sure how to object. Sgt. Burke’s summary was essentially faithful to my account of events. But at the same time, his summary felt distorted.

  “I guess that’s about it.”

  “And let me confirm: No one has threatened you directly?”

  “No.” I hadn't anticipated that question.

  Sgt. Burke sighed. “Listen, I don't think you’re trying to deliberately pull my leg here, I really don’t. But you've got to understand: From a law enforcement perspective, you haven't given me much to go on. No direct and explicit threats have been made against you. According to what you’re telling me, all of this is based on snippets of conversations that you’ve overheard in passing, and a little bit of circumstantial evidence.”

  He paused, offering me an opportunity to speak. I said nothing. He went on.

  “Anyway, there’s really nothing that I can do with what you’ve told me. I can’t arrest anyone because no one has committed a crime. I can’t investigate because there isn't any evidence. No probable cause. Does that make sense?”

  “I suppose so,” I said, deflated.

  “Here is what I would suggest: I would talk to your manager about this.”

  (I had neglected to tell Sgt. Burke that my manager was one of the four people whom I believed was trying to kill me. I had described the conspirators only as three coworkers at various levels within the company org chart.)

  “I have had some experience with the management team at Thomas-Smithfield; and for what it’s worth, and they’re a great crowd. They joined us last year for the golf outing to benefit the Beechwood Police Association. There’s a really nice lady in HR I met. Very athletic. Name’s Anne something-or-the-other.”

  “Anne Hull,” I provided. I hadn't mentioned my meeting with Anne Hull, eit
her, as nothing had come from it.

  “Anne Hull. That’s right. Wonderful lady, and a good golfer, too. In what area of the company did you say you work?”

  “I didn’t, actually. But I’m in the purchasing department.”

  “Oh!” Sgt. Burke said, as if struck by a sudden revelation. “I’ve also had some experience with a manager in your department. A guy named Sid Harper. He also participated in the golf scramble, and he’s been a generous individual donor to the Beechwood Police Association, too. Do you know Sid?”

  My heart was pounding in my chest. This wasn't possible, and yet—it was completely possible. I had known that Sid Harper had participated in last year’s Beechwood Police Association golf outing. He kept a photo from the event on his desk, a framed shot of him with two other managers and a captain of the Beechwood Police Department. I couldn't have known about his private donations, of course, but it made sense. Thomas-Smithfield, like most big corporations nowadays, encouraged its employees and managers to volunteer for community projects, and to give to charitable causes. These activities fell under the rubric of “corporate citizenship.” And corporate citizenship was now a major aspect of every large company’s marketing campaign.

  “Yes, I know Sid,” I said. The mention of Sid’s name had been the clincher: I was wasting my time here. More than that, I was taking even more risks that would help me little, while increasing my exposure. I knew that Donnie and Bethany had it in for me, and that Ellen was by no means my friend. There was, however, a chance—albeit a small one—that Sid would decide to call off the campaign against me. I would accomplish nothing, therefore, by making a police complaint against him if I could not make it stick.

  “Thank you for hearing me out, Sgt. Burke,” I said. “But I guess that we’re done here.”

  Chapter 23

  The very next morning, Sid called me on my desk phone at 8:17 a.m.

  “Hey, Frank. Got a minute?”

  I had an instant sinking feeling. This would be it. Sid would confront me about the accusations I had made.

  After my meeting with Sgt. Burke, I was beginning to consider a possibility that I had heretofore dismissed: Maybe the police sergeant was right: Perhaps I had only drawn the wrong conclusions from a few snippets of information. Maybe there really was no murder conspiracy.

  If that were the case, then I faced a different issue: Surely Ellen had told Sid about our conversation. I had leveled a false accusation against a manager of the company—my manager.

  I didn't know the company handbook by heart, but that was surely a firing offense.

  And if that were the case, Sid might be calling me now in order to convene a meeting with HR. There were procedures to be followed, of course, but those procedures would end with my firing.

  It was better to be fired, though, than “eliminated”.

  “I said do you have a minute?” Sid said. I suddenly realized that I hadn't answered him.

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “Meet me in the second conference room from the vending machines. I’m headed there now.”

  “Sure, I—”

  I was speaking to a dead line. Sid had terminated the call.

  Sid was waiting for me in the meeting room, just as he’d promised.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  I sat down. Should I speak first, or should I wait for him to say something?

  “How’s it going Frank?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “Anything you’d like to talk about?”

  Sid paused. What was this cat-and-mouse game? Or was it a cat-and-mouse game? I recalled what Sgt. Burke had told me: I had no proof. I had assembled a grand assumption of a conspiracy based on snippets and fragments, and there were many holes in my theory. Why would Ellen tell the others what I had said if she was a target? Why would Sid hatch a scheme with his subordinates?

  “No,” I answered. “Nothing. I mean—everything is fine.”

  Another pause. “Well, that’s good to hear, Frank. Anyway, the reason I called you is that you and I will be going on a business trip tomorrow.”

  “Out of town?”

  “What other kind of business trip is there? It won’t be an overnight trip, though.”

  “A supplier visit?”

  “Yes, you’ll get all the information tomorrow.”

  “One of my suppliers?” I asked.

  “No. This is a new one.” He glanced at his watch. “Anyway, that’s it. We’ll meet at the airport tomorrow morning. Ellen will email you the flight and gate information. Got it?”

  “Uh, yes.” I did understand, but I didn’t. That wasn't the way things worked. We never visited new suppliers out of the blue, as if on a whim. The purchasing department of Thomas-Smithfield handled mass-production components. Millions, sometimes billions, of dollars were at stake in every supplier selection. This always entailed a long consideration process. Before you visited a new supplier as a purchasing agent, you had meetings with engineering, at the very least. You always knew well in advance. Always.

  And Sid hadn't told me the name of the company. Why was that?

  Sid abruptly stood. He stepped out of the room.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said on his way out.

  Chapter 24

  As Sid had promised, I received an email from Ellen Watson later that afternoon, not long before five o’clock.

  Sid and I were booked on a 6:45 a.m. flight to Raleigh, North Carolina. It would be a direct flight, with a little less than two hours in the air.

  But where in the heck were we going? And to what purpose?

  After I arrived home that night, I weighed my options. I could always refuse to go on the trip. That was something that people often forgot in the corporate world, I had noticed. At the end of the day, you always have the option of voting with your feet. There’s that old country western song from the 1970s: “Take This Job and Shove It.” If you don't like a job, if you feel you’re being treated unfairly, you can tell them to go take a flying leap. Lo and behold, uniformed men will not show up at your house the next day to arrest you. People forget what freedom is.

  But freedom is also relative. My finances had never been in the best shape, and the divorce hadn't helped matters. My ex-wife Claire and I were jointly responsible for Olivia. (I was proud to say that I had never missed a child support payment, and chipped in extra whenever I could.)

  Suppose I bailed on the trip. I could report to Thomas-Smithfield tomorrow morning and tell Anne Hull, “Sorry, working here has simply become too bizarre.”

  Once again, I would be perfectly within my rights. But what would I tell potential new employers? I could imagine that conversation: “Why yes, I quit my job at Thomas-Smithfield rather abruptly, on the day that I was supposed to go out of town with my manager. Why, you ask? Well, you see, I had the notion that my manager was leading a criminal conspiracy of some sort. He was planning to murder one of his subordinates!”

  The more practical truth was that in the short run, I had no choice, really. I could certainly update my resume and check the openings listed on Monster.com and CareerBuilder. But in the immediate future, I had to play the cards as Sid, Donnie, Bethany, and Ellen dealt them.

  Chapter 25

  When I arrived at the gate, Sid was there reading a copy of USA Today. He was holding the newspaper up, unfolded so that it covered his face.

  There was an open seat next to him. I made as if to sit down in the unoccupied seat.

  Somehow, he had seen me coming, Without lowering the newspaper he said: “No. You sit over there.”

  “What?”

  Now he dropped the paper, just enough so that I could see his face. This was the same Sid Harper that I’d known back in the office, the one who had once been my benefactor, who had made sure that I got my hard-earned grade promotion.

  At the same time, though, the expression was completely different.

  Is this an act? I wondered. Or am I only now seeing the real Sid
?

  “I think you heard me. I said: ‘You sit over there.’”

  Sid used the top of his newspaper to gesture to a seat on the other side of the aisle.

  This was the Delta terminal of the Greater Cincinnati Airport on a Friday morning. The gate was crowded. Sid had raised his voice for emphasis, and several of the people around us were staring.

  I had three choices: I could defy him and sit in the empty chair beside him. I could declare that this was absurd, and leave the airport—and likely loose my job in the process.

  Or I could sit where he told me to, and see how this all unfolded.

  I picked the third option.

  As soon as I sat down, Sid resumed reading his newspaper. That was what he appeared to be doing, at least

  I already knew that this was going to be a business trip like no other. But I had no idea, really, what was awaiting me in North Carolina.

  Chapter 26

  Sid had thrown me for a loop with his cold shoulder maneuver. He was obviously mad at me. It didn't take a genius IQ, or a degree in psychology, to figure that much out.

  His bold gesture cast my suspicions into further doubt: Was this evidence that there really had been no murder conspiracy? Had I been gravely mistaken? Had someone (either Ellen or Sgt. Burke) told Sid of my accusations, and was he now righteously offended as a consequence?

  There was a static-charged click as one of the Delta personnel manning the gate counter turned on the intercom mic. She announced the start of boarding for our flight.

  Sid folded up his newspaper and took his place in line. He ignored me.

  Sid wasn't going to make a single aspect of this trip easy, I could see. Well, perhaps that was to be expected, if I had been wrong in my conclusions.

  I checked the seat number again on my boarding pass. It looked like my seat was near the rear of the plane.

  Standing in line, I watched Sid disappear into the airplane. By the time I filed aboard, he was already in his seat, near the front of the plane.