Termination Man

by Edward Trimnell

  “And according to Citizens for Corporate Truth,” Bob Sanders said, picking up the conversational baton. “The real source of concern here is not UP&S, the original joint venture firm, but rather TP Automotive.”

  “That’s exactly right. TP Automotive has been on our radar for a while. We’ve received complaints from workers at Great Lakes Fuel Systems, a Cleveland automotive components manufacturer that TP Automotive acquired last year.”

  Janet went on to relate the story of Eileen Cosgrove, a production floor machine operator who was injured after TP Automotive managers and their hired consultants made changes to the layout of the factory in Cleveland. According to Janet’s version of events, Cosgrove—a long-time employee of Great Lakes Fuel Systems—had appealed to the management team repeatedly about the changes. Citing past time studies and workflow comparison charts, she had argued that the new operational rules made her workstation unsafe. TP Automotive managers had basically told her that a machine operator could not argue with the findings of a management consultant team.

  “Of course,” Janet added. “None of the management consultants hired by TP Automotive had ever worked in a production environment. They were all recent MBA graduates.”

  “And then what happened?” Sanders asked.

  “Then Eileen Cosgrove got hurt.”

  Janet described Eileen Cosgrove’s injury. After her workstation was combined with an adjacent one, she had to monitor two production machines, whereas before she had only operated one. One day, while struggling to keep up with the new pace of production, Cosgrove had slipped and fallen into one of the machines in her charge. She attempted to break her fall with her hands. As a result, she lost two fingers from each hand, and one thumb was mangled so badly that it was unusable. Cosgrove was presently attempting to sue TP Automotive. The company countered with the claim that the accident had been caused by Cosgrove’s own carelessness.

  “That’s awful,” Sanders observed. “However, the issue in New Hastings is not an accident, is it?”

  “No,” Janet said. “The matter in Cleveland is the sort of story that Citizens for Corporate Truth sees routinely: In an effort to remain competitive with companies in the developing world—where worker safety standards are minimal to nonexistent—American corporate managers implement regimens that endanger worker safety here. No, what we have in New Hastings is far more personal, and far more ‘awful,’ as you put it. We’re talking about unconscionable abuses of power, and crimes against individuals. I can’t name names or discuss specific crimes at this juncture; but I will in the near future.”

  Sanders gave Janet and the audience a mild frown of disappointment. Clearly he wanted both names and specific crimes. When he asked Janet for more information, she demurred.

  “This information is presently being reviewed by a group of attorneys and private investigators that have been retained by Citizens for Corporate Truth,” she said. “For liability reasons, I can’t let you know the details at this time. But mark my words: When this comes out, the resultant scandal is going to make Enron look like a relatively minor affair.”

  Sanders raised his eyebrows at the mention of the word Enron. This had been the name of a Houston-based energy and commodities firm, Enron Corporation. Now, however, Enron was synonymous with the scandal that had first broken in August 2001, when it was revealed that Enron’s top managers were dishonestly inflating revenues, compensating themselves exorbitantly, and engaging in other forms of unethical behavior. A media frenzy had ensued, as one damning revelation about the company’s mismanagement followed another. Enron folded in November of the same year, costing shareholders $11 billion. The firm’s CEO, Kenneth Lay, was charged with and indicted for six counts of fraud and conspiracy. The scandal also brought down a major accounting firm, Arthur Anderson.

  “You’ll forgive me, Ms. Porter,” Sanders said. “If I hasten to point out that a comparison to Enron sets the bar pretty high, as corporate scandals go.” Sanders laughed. “Enron’s management team was guilty of practically everything but homicide.”

  Janet Porter raised her eyebrows at the last word Sanders uttered. She gave him a tight smile.

  “I think that the final report from Citizens for Corporate Truth will meet your highest expectations,” she said. “In every way.”

  “Well,” Sanders said. “When you are ready to describe the details, I hope that you will come back and share your findings with the viewers here at Channel 11. Thank you for taking the time to talk with us, tonight, Ms. Porter.”

  Chapter 68

  From a couch in the living room of his rented condominium, Shawn watched Janet Porter finish her spiel on the Channel 11 news.

  For one full minute, his body would not stop shaking. The word “homicide” had chilled him, made him light-headed. That single word could only mean one thing. Janet Porter had not provided any details; no doubt the details would be forthcoming. What were the odds that there were other members of the TP Automotive management team who had a murder or two in their backgrounds?

  Somehow this woman on Channel 11 had connected him to the deaths of those girls in Columbus—who were now more than fifteen years dead.

  Shawn didn’t believe that some cold case detective had suddenly linked him to the crime. If the police had found evidence of his involvement in 1996 or 1997, they would have acted upon it years ago. There was only one person who had been in Columbus in 1996—who would have also had the knowledge and the motivation to connect the dots.

  Tina Shields.

  His fear was suddenly displaced by rage. He crumpled up an empty beer can and threw it in the direction of his 65” flat-screen television set. It ricocheted off the display, likely leaving a scratch on the surface.

  If only a damaged television set was his worst preoccupation right now. If only.

  It wasn’t difficult to piece this together. Tina Shields was gone; but she was not truly gone. She was reaching out from beyond the grave to make trouble for him. In the final weeks of her miserable life, Tina had obviously been talking to the bitch from Citizens for Corporate Truth. Tina Shields was the source of Janet Porter’s ominous information—the information that could not be revealed until it was “verified by attorneys and private investigators.” They were mobilizing a team, a team that was bent on his ruination.

  He had never imagined, over the course of all these years, that Tina Shields had somehow known the truth about the deaths of Jill Johnson and Carla Marsh. No other living person had known about that.

  Correction, Shawn thought: With the recent exception of Nick King.

  But Nick King could be ruled out as Janet Porter’s source: Nick now had blood on his hands as well: The ex-UP&S employee had dispatched Tina Shields for the tidy sum of $5,000—a bargain, when you considered that her death had tied up a very dangerous loose end. The unfinished business of Shawn’s college days had been washed away by the waters of the Olentangy River. Or so he had thought.

  He could assume that there was no physical evidence to connect him to the long-ago murders. He had indeed been careful that night. That meant that someone had made some insightful extrapolations. And with Tina Shields dead, the lawyers and private snoops hired by Citizens for Corporate Truth would need another person who could tie him to the old murders. Another person who could connect all the dots for them, and even worse, the police.

  Donna Chalmers would be that link. She had a clear motive: She hated him for what he had done—or tried to do—to her miserable daughter. And it could be assumed that Tina Shields had confided in her. He had seen Tina Shields at the UP&S plant, where Donna and Alyssa cleaned the offices.

  Yes, it all made perfect sense now: Donna Chalmers had been the link between Tina Shields and Craig Walker. How else would Tina and the business consultant have been acquainted? There was no other way to explain Tina Shields’s clandestine visit to Craig Walker in the UP&S parking lot, was there? First Donna Chalmers met Craig Walker. Then she met Tina Shields. Then she introduced
them.

  It was obvious that Donna was pulling the strings now. Craig Walker might be an asshole; but he was acting contrary to his interests as a businessman. Why else would a consultant, who lived by his reputation and the recommendations of clients, backstab his most significant client? Because Donna Chalmers had her emotional and sexual hooks in him, of course.

  And it was a sure bet that Donna and this woman on television weren’t done with trying to ruin him. How long would it be before Donna Chalmers was holding joint press conferences with Janet Porter? He imagined Chalmers speaking to the Channel 11 reporters: “Yes, that monster tried to rape my daughter. And the recently deceased Tina Shields told me what he did to her fifteen years ago. She also told me what Shawn did to two other women.”

  This could spell his ruination. Between them, Donna Chalmers and the Citizens for Corporate Truth woman would collude to place him behind bars. He would have to flee the country. His flight would be interpreted as an admission of guilt. His career at TP Automotive—miserable though that was—would be over. His father would disown him.

  In other words, this could lead to the end of his entire life. All because of Donna Chalmers and this Janet Porter.

  He would have to kill one of them—and the obvious choice was Donna Chalmers. She had a personal stake in his destruction, after all. With her dead, moreover, Janet Porter would have nothing to go on. The campaign against him would come to an abrupt end.

  If he didn't act quickly, the situation would follow a predictable and disastrous course: Within a matter of days or weeks, the Columbus police would name him as a person of interest in the untimely demise of Tina Shields. How thoroughly had Nick King covered his tracks? About as thoroughly as he had covered his embezzling scheme, Shawn figured. He had no doubt that Nick would betray him in a heartbeat if he were questioned by the police. Hadn’t the prick more or less blackmailed him the night they had gone to the strip bar?

  But he would need Nick King one more time, wouldn’t he? He dialed Nick King’s cell phone number. The ex-UP&S employee didn't pick up the phone. So Shawn left him a message, instructing him to call. Then, for good measure, he sent a text message with the same instructions.

  Shortly thereafter, his own cell phone rang. He lifted the phone from the living room coffee table; luckily he checked the display before answering. It was a call not from Nick King—but from his father. The old man wanted to talk to him. Of course: His father had seen the news report, too. Shawn gently laid the yodeling cell phone back down on the coffee table. Then he avoided the device as if it were a poisonous snake.

  Doing his best to think like his father, Shawn wondered if he should simply take care of matters by himself. He was more than capable of killing Donna Chalmers. He had killed before, after all. He knew where the Chalmers woman and her daughter lived. He could do it tonight, and tomorrow morning his problems would be over.

  This resolve lasted for only a few minutes. No, he would need the services of Nick King. He would need the hoodlum one more time.

  Chapter 69

  For a long time after that, Shawn indulged in a bit of personal reflection. He was in a difficult jam now; but he would be able to work his way out of it, provided that he maintained his cool. The years really had made him wiser. He had, in fact, become a man that his father could be proud of—even though there were still many aspects of his life that he needed to keep hidden from the elder Myers.

  For one thing, he knew his limitations. That was why he hadn’t killed Tina Shields with his own hands. He realized that that sort of killing—up close and personal—was a task that he no longer had the nerve for. Killing had been far easier when he was younger.

  He recalled the night that he had dispatched the two coeds in Columbus—the ones who had so rudely rebuffed his advances. He had followed them home from the bar, but not before opening the trunk of his car to retrieve a crowbar, an implement that could easily be hidden inside his jacket as he trailed Jill Johnson and Carla Marsh at a safe distance.

  The two girls had shared an apartment near High Street, just north of the OSU campus. Their cohabitation made the work of killing them both all the easier. Two birds with one stone, he had thought triumphantly, as he crept ever closer to the semi-intoxicated girls who had just made a left from the sidewalk toward their front door—an apartment that had convenient ground-floor access.

  They had not seen him come up behind them as they unlocked their door. Shawn believed that the girls had been buzzed, but certainly not falling down drunk. In all likelihood, the two of them were simply not paying attention to their surroundings. They might have saved themselves if they had immediately closed their door behind them. Shawn doubted that he would have risked breaking down the door of their apartment; that would have resulted in too much noise. And by the following day his anger would have dissipated. Carla Marsh and Jill Johnson would have lived.

  But the two young women did not take these simple steps that could have saved their lives. Instead they lingered just inside their front doorway, laughing about something inconsequential—the last bit of laughter for either one of them, as it turned out. When they opened their front door and stepped inside, Shawn was able to slip in behind them.

  He did not believe that either of them had even seen his face—had even known that there was a connection between their impending demise and their bitchy behavior earlier in the evening. For some reason, this minor detail had always bothered him. By failing to identify their killer, the girls had somehow escaped knowing the full gravity of their offense.

  He struck the first one—Carla, he believed—in the back of the head with the crowbar, and she fell forward into the apartment’s living room. As she collapsed, Carla nearly knocked down the one named Jill. Remarkably, Jill Johnson was not even shocked when her friend fell: she likely assumed that she had merely stumbled on the rug.

  Until she turned and saw Shawn in the doorway. But in the minimal light (neither girl had had time to turn on a light before Shawn struck) she would have seen only a silhouette against the blackness of the night and the glare of the streetlights outside.

  Jill had looked down at the bloody gash on the back of Carla’s head, and then back at Shawn. She opened her mouth to scream—

  And then Shawn had struck her in the face with the crowbar.

  With both of his victims down, Shawn had been given the time and the space to fully vent his rage. He took the crowbar to each of them, pounding first their heads and faces, then pummeling each of their bodies multiple times more for good measure. Finally he had reached the point where there was no more satisfaction to be gained from it. Both of them were now dead—long past dead—and their faces and heads were unrecognizable.

  Neither of them would ever laugh at him—or anyone—ever again.

  Shawn didn't linger after that. He walked out of the apartment and closed the front door, leaving the two dead young women behind him. He carried the bloody crowbar in one hand. (Luckily he had possessed the good sense to take it with him.)

  As he walked across the parking lot of the young women’s apartment building, he had looked in all directions for possible witnesses. He had been so full of adrenalin in that moment that he was prepared to bludgeon any witnesses as well. He had felt superhuman in the swell of the aftermath—like Thor or Conan the Barbarian. But there had been no witnesses. No witnesses that he had seen, at least, and apparently none who had seen him enter or depart, either.

  Shawn was never questioned, or even remotely connected in any way with the murders of the two young women. He had been lucky that no one had seen him. Moreover, his presence had been limited to the foyer of the apartment. This meant that he did not leave behind any hair fibers or fingerprints. Nor had he touched the doorknob, pulling the door closed (once again he had been on the ball) only after pulling his hand up into his jacket, turning its sleeve into a makeshift glove.

  He had gotten away with murder. Yes, that statement was something of a cliché; but it was true,
nonetheless.

  Some months later, during February of the next year, there had been the incident with Tina Shields. But that had been a small-time issue compared to the crime that had gone undetected and unpunished.

  His father, displaying his typically uncanny insight into people and situations, had sensed even then that there was something else—that Shawn had not told him everything. The old man had cornered him: “Tell me, Shawn: Is there anything else that I need to know about? Don’t lie to me, goddamn you!”

  And Shawn had insisted that no, there was nothing else—just this troublesome incident with the young woman named Tina Shields, who was actually nothing more than a barfly—a woman who was attempting to frame the son of a high-level corporate executive. She had smelled his deep pockets from a mile away. But no, there was nothing else that he was hiding, he insisted. He had been walking the straight and narrow in Columbus. He had learned his lesson after flunking out of Arizona State, he assured his father.

  This had seemed like a reasonable course of action at the time. More than three months had gone by since he had bludgeoned the young women to death—and no one had even summoned him for questioning. They were never going to connect him to those murders, he had believed. He could focus on extricating himself from the consequences of what he did to Tina Shields. He had raped and beaten her—but thankfully he had not murdered her.

  Also, he had wisely donned a condom before plunging himself into Tina Shields as she lay on the pavement of the alleyway. That had diminished his pleasure, of course; but the condom had protected him from the DNA tests that were by then a standard part of rape investigations.

  His father had not been happy about having to mobilize resources to clean up the Tina Shields affair. He had been furious, in fact; and for years the matter had left a major rift between them. This rift had been partially bridged of late, as he had been making headway in the company—superficially, at least. He found the automotive industry to be mind-numbingly boring, the minutiae of corporate management insufferable. Nor did he like the meetings, the constant obligation to smile at people he despised, to act as if he was interested in the “professional development” of his dimwitted, bovine subordinates.