My Boss is a Serial Killer

by Christina Harlin

  Circumstances landed me on the doorstep of MBS&K, which the headhunter told me was hiring for several staff positions. I did a quick introductory interview with the office supervisor, Donna. Then I was put in the office of Terry Bronk, the “Bronk” of Markitt, Bronk, Simms & Kowalsky, where I interviewed to be his secretary.

  I knew within five minutes that I wouldn’t work for this guy. He reminded me so much of the psychotic sadist that I got chills down my arms. He had a plaque behind his desk that said PERSEVERANCE, and he pointed to it a lot, saying things like, “In my firm, we don’t give up until we get it done right. I surround myself with people who are willing to go the extra mile. I believe that the answer you want is always out there if you work hard enough to find it.”

  Of course, he didn’t say all those things in a row like that. He peppered his entire monologue with them. And what a monologue it was! I haven’t been to many job interviews in my life, but at most of them, the interviewer questions the interviewee. This guy, this onion-faced, pepper-headed, middle-aged egomaniac, did not ask me a single question. He talked about himself and his partnership in the firm, and about how damned hard they all had to work, and about PERSEVERANCE. Throughout all this boisterous talk, I watched his eyes. Some people can be that devoted to work and it’s great—you can feel the love of their job radiating out from them. Others, or Terry Bronk, mainly, just say these things to justify being the deadly combination of a workaholic and a procrastinator.

  “Don’t you want to ask me anything?” I managed to say at one point.

  He acted rather put out by the idea that he, a partner of the firm, would waste his time asking questions of me, a mere interviewee. Gruffly he said, “I assume Donna’s already checked your skill set, or she wouldn’t have bothered to bring you to me.”

  Bring me to him? Like I was his lunch or a harem girl? I had to sit and listen to him for another twenty minutes before he released me back into Donna’s care. I could have kissed her when I saw her again. As she walked me back through the then-unfamiliar halls of the firm, I noticed a woman seated outside Terry Bronk’s door, answering the phone.

  When I asked who that was, she said, “That’s Terry’s secretary.”

  Okay, wasn’t that the job I’d just interviewed for? “Is she leaving?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. She’s really more of his executive assistant. Terry usually has several people working for him. So, what did you think?”

  I’d been through too much hell at work to even pretend I’d tolerate it again. I shook my head. “No, he’s not for me.”

  She looked crushed, which made me feel bad. “Why not?”

  “I’m sorry. I get a real bad vibe…” and here I almost said “from him” but instead I finished, “…that the two of us have different work styles.”

  Something flickered through her eyes and she confided, “He can be pretty high-maintenance.”

  Bingo. I knew it. “High-maintenance” is the code-word for “asshole.”

  “We do have another position open,” Donna said, with an undertone suggesting she hated to even mention it. “Our estate attorney needs a secretary.”

  I wondered what worried her so, what made her shy away from showing me to this next guy after the high-maintenance monster she’d just pushed me toward. Could the estate attorney possibly be worse? She saw my expression and said, “It’s just that Bill is very detail-oriented, and he’s gone through a lot of secretaries. It’s been difficult to find someone who’s a good match for him, as he has some peculiar tendencies.”

  This was significant. Donna, as the office manager, was overstepping a huge boundary by confessing to me outright that an attorney was hard to work for. I wanted to meet this guy now, strictly out of curiosity. “I’d like to talk to him,” I said, “if he has time.”

  He had time. But Donna was unconvinced. She took me to Bill Nestor’s office and said at the doorway, “Just call me when you’re finished,” with the implication that we’d be finished with each other very soon.

  The first thing I noticed was the neatness of his office. The lack of files and paper could make someone think he didn’t work at all. It took me a moment to find the man behind the desk, who was as neat and bland as his office and blended fairly well into the wall. He rose and came to shake my hand, looking embarrassed that he’d been forced on me.

  He said, “My secretary just quit because I drove her crazy.”

  I blinked in surprise.

  Bill said, “I’ve been through three secretaries this year. They all end up quitting or transferring away from me.”

  Okay, I was willing to play along. Obviously I’d caught him in that state of utter honesty that only comes about after extreme frustration. I was in the same state, being newly divorced and unemployed, and I was willing to bet I could match him frustration for frustration. So I asked, “Why do they quit?”

  “Because I’m inflexible, this last one said.” From his desk he produced a document so neatly formatted, right down to its precisely parallel staples, that I yearned to touch it. Dryly he went through a list of requirements for his paperwork. I found it all rather fascinating. The man knew exactly what he wanted.

  We spoke for a while about what he wanted. And it didn’t take me many minutes to begin to see the source of his problem. He wasn’t just detail oriented. He was detail obsessed, to the extent that I guessed, correctly, that he had an actual mental disorder. Yet what I also saw was that the parameters of his obsession didn’t change. That can be a seductive quality to a woman who’d just quit working for a guy who contradicted himself almost hourly and shouted when she couldn’t keep up. This one didn’t seem like a shouter.

  “I don’t adapt well to change. I don’t cope well with stress.” Bill continued to list things that would convince me not to work for him. His last secretary must have really done a number on him.

  “Do you yell?” I asked. I had no fear of screwing up this interview. With our relationship screwed from the beginning by our own frustrations, Bill and I had nowhere to go but up.

  He was quick enough and honest enough not to pretend that he didn’t understand the question. “I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at anyone in my life.”

  “Heavy on the sarcasm? Like snide comments?” I folded my arms and practically glared at him. “I just quit working for a sarcastic sonofabitch who enjoyed making asides about how little he liked me. I won’t put up with it again.”

  “Nor should you.” Bill looked as I had felt—fascinated. “Were you good at your job?”

  “I have no idea,” I confessed. “The only positive feedback I ever got from him was over completely stupid things, like my ability to look up numbers in phone books.”

  “But your resume says you worked there for several years.”

  “I was tricked. He didn’t really start to show his true colors until I’d been with him long enough to join the 401(k) plan.”

  “Golden handcuffs,” said Bill. “They make it so you can’t afford to leave, and then they stick it to you.”

  A new code word. I gave him my first genuine smile.

  “What do you think of this?” he asked, showing me the insanely neat document from before.

  “I think you have a lot of strict expectations that might take some getting used to. But then again, that document looks great.”

  “Thanks.” The smile he returned was genuine, too. He said, “I’m sorry Terry Bronk got to you first.”

  I recoiled physically, though I tried to sound diplomatic. “Oh, er, I don’t think I’d do well working for Mr. Bronk.”

  “Really? You don’t want to work for the managing partner?”

  Unable to help it, I muttered, “I don’t think I have the perseverance.”

  A small eruption of laughter exploded from Bill Nestor, and he put a hand over his mouth to stifle it. I couldn’t help but laugh too, mostly from the surprise. Though his office door was closed, Bill lowered his voice when he said, “Terry’s the only partner left
. One is dead, one is supposedly retired, and Simms is running a hotel in Florida and we haven’t seen her in years. I shouldn’t say this, but there’s a rumor among the attorneys that Terry Bronk ate them in a fit of perseverance.”

  Wide-eyed I stared at him.

  Bill, recovered from his laughter, admitted, “I’ve lost count of how many secretaries I’ve had.”

  “But you need one,” I reminded him, “and if you decide to offer me the position, I’ll be willing to try.”

  “The work is repetitive and fairly dull. Estate work doesn’t have the thrills of litigation. I do it because of my problems with stress; that’s how uninteresting it can be.”

  “Nevertheless.” I shrugged. “I’m sure you have other people to interview. But keep me in mind. I’ve had enough thrills in litigation.”

  We shook hands. We agreed that it was nice to meet each other.

  Later that day, Donna called me at home to tell me that, if I was sure I didn’t want to work for Terry Bronk, Bill Nestor’s secretary job was available. I took the job with Bill, and I’ve never regretted it. After I’d been with the firm for a few weeks, someone, said that I’d been offered a choice between working for Attila the Hun or Rainman, and I’d chosen Rainman. I couldn’t imagine anyone preferring to work for someone as “high-maintenance” as Terry Bronk, but an attorney like Bill presents his own challenges. In response to the Terry Bronks of the world, you get angry, or you cry, or you bow down under their tyranny and bear it. Responding to Bill takes more finesse and patience than that, and I guess between the two, I’d chosen what many considered the more difficult path.

  *****

  I’m not sure what filled the time at offices before the Internet came along. Terrible rumors circulate that in some offices, employees are restricted from Internet use or can only visit sites that have something to do with their actual jobs. I guess we got lucky at MBS&K, where they didn’t monitor our Internet usage, though they probably should have. We could have been on the West Coast, we surfed so much. I suppose that, provided work was finished on time, they decided that their resources were better spent on buying fancy new monitors for attorneys who didn’t know how to use computers. I didn’t debate the logic behind that, because it meant I could check out the TV schedule at bbcamerica.com without being reprimanded. Well, unless Junior Gestapo Brent caught me, which he never did because I could always hear him coming by the sound of his thighs rubbing together.

  Before this admission causes any consternation about whether I was doing my job or even deserved it, I’ll reiterate that I was good at what I did. I was an excellent secretary. But I was there almost fifty hours a week, and my job didn’t require fifty hours a week. Maybe it used to when I was still learning, but I’d gotten it down. I got my assignments done. I kept Bill Nestor happy. I helped Suzanne with her extra workload, such as the nightmarishly awful deposition summary about screws that was still, still, still growling at me from my inbox. I got to work on time, I didn’t steal anything but the occasional pen or roll of tape at Christmastime, and I didn’t cause trouble.

  The only problem was how to cope with the extra hours while still appearing to look busy. Here are some pointers. Carry a pen and pad of legal paper everywhere you go. It looks as if you’re going to a meeting, doing research, or carrying out an assignment. I have found that it boosts confidence to have some notes written on the pad that hint at monumental tasks. Something like, “Research. Discovery. What are rules? Has anyone dealt with this before? PPT. RSMO. NOT ENOUGH INFO to be definite. Consult Westlaw.” See how industrious that seems? It appears that I have already started the project, been unsatisfied with my initial results, and have determined to dig further with more PERSERVERANCE. Armed thus, I could wander around, stop and chat with Lucille (who knows what everybody is doing, always) and read the front-desk copy of People magazine.

  Staring off into space, dreaming about a hunky muscular detective who is going to take you out the following afternoon, can only be passed off as “brainstorming” if you are peering over a piece of legal text. That’s what I was doing on Friday when Charlene materialized at my cubicle to grill me. She had been designated as reconnaissance, for everyone who wanted to know about my date. Robo-Secretary Charlene always got the facts straight. Incorrect information was as upsetting to her as poorly aligned rows and angles were to Bill Nestor, and she was as ruthlessly studious about her gossip as she was about her job.

  She stood holding a file under one arm and a pen and paper in the other hand, so she gave the appearance of being extremely busy. Charlene’s face was a supervisor’s dream come true because she always looked focused and vaguely troubled, and that’s the kind of attitude that supervisors like.

  “What are you and the detective doing tomorrow?” she demanded outright.

  “Lunch is all I’m sure of. Then who knows?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I barely know the guy,” I said. “I don’t know what he likes to do. I don’t even know if we’ll have anything to talk about for more than fifteen minutes.”

  “All the girls are impressed that you were asked out so quickly.”

  “I was very forward with the poor guy.” Still, I felt rather smug. Sometimes I was envious of many of my coworkers, who all seemed to be married to great guys and raising adorable children or still single but taking sexy vacations, building mansions, and buying sports cars. Meanwhile I seemed to do nothing but work for Bill, watch television, and remain divorced. Ha ha, now they could sit on their greener-grass yards and look enviously at me. I could throw myself at a hunky muscular detective that I barely knew, badger him into taking me out, and hope that we wouldn’t cringe at how incompatible we were. Normally, becoming the center of attention at the office required developing a terrible illness, having a baby, or doing something extremely wrong.

  “Where is he taking you for lunch?”

  “I don’t know. I was so happy he asked me out that I didn’t get details.”

  “Then we’ll spin it as a surprise,” decided Charlene. A frown remained on her forehead, but this was her typical expression. “That’s more romantic.”

  Hearing Charlene Templeton speak of romance was odd. She was quite decidedly the most unromantic person I’d ever known. Unlike Bill, who appeared ambiguous about all things sexual, Charlene was borderline hostile with men. She was a good match to Aven Fisher, the manically busy divorce attorney for whom she worked, not only because she was Robo-Secretary and could keep up with his demands, but because she gelled so well with his pro-women attitude.

  I told her about Bill’s belief that he’d brought it all about.

  “Oh that’s sweet,” said Charlene. “Is he being protective of you?”

  “No, I don’t think we’re doing the father-daughter thing. Really I think he just wants me to pump the detective for information about the Adrienne Maxwell investigation.”

  Knowledge of Adrienne Maxwell’s death had not been a secret in the office since the detective had shown up at the door. Particularly since Gus had said Adrienne’s name in front of Lucille, any hopes of discretion on Bill’s part had gone flying right out the nearest window. Everyone knew that the police were investigating her suspicious suicide and about the witness and the unsub, and the rumors were growing and becoming a little assumptive. I say assumptive because people were taking it for granted that our firm, and Bill Nestor, were in the center of an investigation. As far as I could tell, we were no more than a peripheral interview that was over and finished.

  Case in point: Here came Suzanne Farkanansia, the pain-in-the-ass paralegal. She was a few inches taller than Charlene, and I was seated, so she looked down her nose at both of us. She asked me, “Why didn’t you tell me about the meeting with the detective?”

  “Because everyone already knows about it.”

  My honest answer didn’t please her. She said, “I am Bill’s paralegal; if the police want to meet with him about a client, I should probably be there. Particularly
if Bill can’t be.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “That wasn’t a meeting. That was me, trawling for a date.”

  “Must be nice, to be so self-confident.” Suzanne disliked me enough that I knew this was no compliment. She glanced sideways at Charlene and then looked back at me again. “I’d like to see your notes on what took place.”

  “I’ll get those typed up for you,” I agreed helpfully. I didn’t have any notes from the meeting, so typing them up would be a snap.

  “And next time, I’d appreciate being informed when client matters come up.”

  Charlene asked, “Why? Did you deal a lot with Adrienne Maxwell?”

  Suzanne sighed patiently. “It doesn’t matter if I never met the woman. What matters is that secretaries are paid for typing and filing and keeping calendars, and paralegals are paid to know what’s happening with the clients.”

  “Okay, then.” I continued to agree with Suzanne in hopes that this would make her go away.

  “Anyway you’re not Bill’s paralegal,” said Charlene, all earnestness. “Just because you’re the paralegal he uses to do a Westlaw search once every six months doesn’t make you his paralegal. You work for everybody here.”

  Suzanne shot a withering look at the shorter woman but didn’t respond. She spoke to me instead. “How’s that deposition summary coming along?”

  “Great.” That was a lie.

  “I’d really like to have that back by the end of next week.” Suzanne turned to leave us and then added, “And when you’re with the detective, I’d be careful about what I said about our firm or about Bill.”

  I stared after her in puzzlement. “What do you think she meant by that?” I asked Charlene.

  Charlene said, “She’s only jealous. But you really do want to be careful about anything you say, so as not to breach attorney/client privilege.”

  It was insulting when Suzanne suggested I was that brain-dead, but Charlene was a sincere giver of advice, even patently obvious advice, and it was hard to take offense. Charlene explained further, “Your detective might make it seem like small talk when he’s actually trying to get information about our firm.”