by R. L. Akers
Of course, if supernatural explanations were on the table, there were probably a dozen others Gray could come up with that were far more satisfying.
After getting over his initial reaction to the scene, Mack had laughed it off, albeit nervously. He wasn't generally a superstitious sort, but apparently his exposure to hellhounds had occurred over the summer in the form of a blockbuster movie — one in which a seven-foot specimen terrorized the fine people of Manhattan — and it had left Mack sleeping fitfully for days. Naturally, Gray had missed the film entirely. But from what his late night research revealed, it was a solid B-movie gorefest, and this particular version did portray the hellhound's MO in a manner strikingly reminiscent of Gray's crime scene; Gray had a hard time deciphering any sort of plot from the reviews he read, but it seemed the movie's title character was known for appearing behind locked doors and shredding still-living people until they'd been drained of blood, then dragging their bloodless bodies down to hell.
By the time Gray awoke early Monday morning, he was quite ready to put the entire hellhound myth behind him. He'd never even seen the movie for himself, but after visiting that bloody crime scene — breathing that sulfurous air the whole time, which was enough to make anyone queasy — and then reading of hellhounds long after he should have been in bed, he found his own sleep as fitful as Mack's had been in the days following the movie's release.
Now, at roughly 6:30 a.m., Gray had situated himself just outside the glass-walled entrance to the offices of Advanced Technology Consultants, facing the bank of elevators that let out onto the 19th floor. Building security had let him in early and escorted him this far, but to his knowledge, they hadn't yet reached any company reps to inform them of the incident on their premises. At this point, it looked like that responsibility would fall to Gray, which suited him just fine. Part of his reason for arriving so early was his desire to interview as many company employees as possible before the gossip mill started distorting things, which seemed even more likely than usual in this instance, given the unusual nature of the crime scene.
Gray didn't have long to wait. ATC's first arrival of the morning was a stylish, middle-aged woman who gave a little start when she exited the elevator to find a strange man awaiting her. She relaxed quickly when Gray flashed his shield and identified himself; she, in turn, introduced herself as Judy Fairburn.
"A detective," she said with an abundance of enthusiasm. "And a homicide detective, no less. I've always wanted to meet one of you — I do a lot of reading about your line of work."
"Oh?" Gray said politely.
"Oh yes! I'm a huge fan of murder mysteries."
"Ah," Gray said noncommittally.
"So what happened? Why are you here?" Her eyes twinkled. "Was someone murdered?"
He gave the woman a strange look. But of course, for her, murder was a distant thing. It was entertainment. She was probably a perfectly normal human being who would respond much less enthusiastically if it turned out that someone she knew had been murdered — which seemed a distinct possibility, in this case.
"We're currently investigating a probable homicide, yes," Gray said carefully, pulling out his smartphone. "But it may just be vandalism. We're not yet sure if anyone was actually killed."
Ms. Fairburn seemed almost disappointed by this.
Before she could ask another inane question, Gray gestured with his phone. "If you don't mind, I'm going to take some notes. Can you give me your full name and describe your role at this company?"
"Oh! Yes." She proceeded to do so, explaining that she was the administrative assistant to Charles Blake, ATC's vice president of development. As she spoke, Gray pretended to take notes, but in actuality he was taking a surreptitious video recording of the woman. It was a minor ethical violation. In truth, he could have simply asked, and she probably would have agreed to the recording; but in Gray's experience, people tended to be less forthcoming when they knew their exact words were being recorded. Besides, this recording was for his personal reference only. It was a little trick he'd been working on these last few months, a way for him to offset his new inability to remember faces.
"Do you always arrive this early to work?" Gray asked, terminating the recording and switching over to his smartphone's actual note-taking app. The clock display in the upper-right corner of the phone's screen indicated it was barely 6:45.
Ms. Fairburn smiled, swiping her keycard to let them into the office suite. "No, I usually try to arrive by 7:30, but today is Mr. Blake's first day back from a tech conference he attended last week. He'll probably be in early and have a lot of dictation for me, so I wanted to get an even earlier start on the day."
As they walked, Gray followed up with further questions — basic stuff, like what line of business the company was in, and how long Ms. Fairburn had been working here. Her explanation of the business was remarkably vague, but Gray got the impression it was because she herself didn't fully understand it; in his experience, that wasn't terribly uncommon among support staff in the tech industry.
Gray allowed the woman to lead him down a curving corridor that he knew, having been here the night before, circled the entire floor. With each step, they grew closer to that large corner office where the... murder? prank?... had occurred.
And sure enough, Ms. Fairburn led him straight to the secretary's desk which faced the entrance to that office. Gray saw her nose scrunch up at the lingering smell of sulfur, but she didn't call attention to it. Instead, she began settling in for the day, talking up a storm as she did so, not immediately noticing that her boss's doors — which had been shut, thankfully — were now wrapped in yellow crime scene tape. That changed the moment she sat down.
She froze, her mouth opening slightly as she stared. After a moment, she ripped her eyes away to meet Gray's. "Mr. Blake?"
"We're not entirely sure, ma'am. The fact is—"
The woman was already on her feet, making a beeline for the taped doors.
"Whoa, whoa — Ms. Fairburn, I'm sorry, that's a crime scene. You can't go in there."
She arrested her motion halfway around the desk, paused, then turned to stare at Gray. Her shock was evident, but it seemed to Gray to be an impersonal shock, not the sort generally exhibited when the victim was someone you cared about. But who knew? Shock was a strange beast.
"Ms. Fairburn," he said calmly, "why don't you sit down?" She did so, and he continued. "We honestly don't know what happened just yet. Mr. Blake — Charles, is it? He may be fine." Gray chose his words carefully. "We don't actually know if anyone has been killed. But someone made a mess of that office"—he gestured—"and there was some blood found, so we have to investigate the possibility that Mr. Blake or someone else was hurt here yesterday."
She licked her lips and seemed to settle in her chair. After shutting her eyes for a few moments, she met Gray's gaze once more, and some of the shock seemed to have lifted. "How can I help?"
Judy Fairburn turned out to be very helpful. She started by providing Gray with Blake's rather exclusive home address, which Gray passed along to Mack by phone; his partner was just climbing into his car, and he promised to head that way first thing. Gray also learned from the secretary that most of the ATC staff — Blake included — donated blood on a regular basis, thanks to an initiative their lead programmer had put in place a year ago; the office staff was large enough that one of the local blood banks was willing to come to ATC for an on-site blood drive every three months. The most recent drive having been just last week, it seemed likely the blood bank could provide DNA comparison samples for almost anyone in the office. This information Gray communicated to the ME, along with the name Charles Blake; he also passed along Blake's rough height and weight measurements—6-foot-2, roughly 275 pounds, as estimated by Ms. Fairburn — which the ME agreed was consistent with the amount of blood they'd found.
As Gray was hanging up with the medical examiner, Fairburn's eyes suddenly went wide. "The security system!" she said with excitement. During the last twenty m
inutes, what remained of her shock had steadily been replaced with enthusiasm as she got into the swing of answering Gray's questions; he could easily believe that she loved the murder mystery genre, considering the various bits of helpful information she'd offered up. "The security system," she repeated, grinning. "It logs the exact time that each door is opened, and who opened it."
"Or at least whose card was used to open it," Gray agreed.
"Either way, it would help you establish a timeline for yesterday!" the secretary enthused, flinging the terminology around like she owned it. "And you could narrow down your list of possible suspects and victims."
Gray stifled a smile. "Who has access to the logs?" He and Mack had established last night that there weren't any security cameras in the office suite, but they'd indeed hoped to access timed logs of card swipes.
Fairburn positively sprang from her chair. "The security team." Gray cocked his head, but she explained. "Not building security. We have our own company security. This way."
"Will they be here this early?" Gray checked his phone as they walked — it was now 7:12.
"Maybe," Fairburn said without turning. She was navigating them through a large space packed with cubicles, and there were definitely other employees trickling in by now. The way the woman's head was roving back and forth, as if on a swivel, Gray could tell she was trying to catch people's eyes.
When they arrived at the security office, Fairburn immediately moved to introduce Gray to the two young men within, but Gray interrupted and beckoned her back into the hallway with him. Speaking quietly, he thanked the woman for her assistance and asked her earnestly to keep everything to herself for now. As she disappeared among the cubicles, her head swiveling once more, Gray had the sinking feeling that he'd just asked a leopard to change its spots.
With a sigh, he stepped into the security office and smiled at the two guys, about his age, who were clearly very curious. "Good morning," he said, handing over his shield and ID, then turning to close the door behind him. "I'm going to need to see the keycard access logs for yesterday." Gray very deliberately did not give any details regarding the crime he was investigating.
Boyd and Lloyd — yes, those were the security guards' names; Gray captured the introductions on video to prove it — were able to pull up the logs without any trouble. "Looks like Mr. Blake's door was opened a couple of times yesterday," Lloyd said, his eyes moving across the computer screen. "First access of the day was... Edgar Weiss, entering at 0842." He pronounced it in military fashion, 'oh-eight-forty-two.'
Gray blinked. "Edgar Weiss? Not Charles Blake? Did Mr. Blake come in later in the day?"
"No..." Lloyd scrolled up. "Looks like Mr. Blake's last access to the office was on Tuesday." The guard glanced at his compatriot, Boyd. "He went out of town, didn't he?"
Boyd checked a clipboard. "Yeah. Due back today, though."
"So Edgar Weiss went in at 8:42," Gray said, tapping notes into his smartphone. "Who is Edgar Weiss?"
"Mr. Weiss?" Lloyd said. "He's ATC's lead developer — you know, computer programmer. Been with the company since the beginning."
"Developer..." Gray repeated thoughtfully. "So he'd be part of Blake's department?"
"That's right," Boyd confirmed. "Reports directly to Blake, I think."
"And Weiss has access to his boss's office?" Gray asked. "Is that normal?"
The security guys traded a look. "Well..." Lloyd said, "no, not really. We only just granted Mr. Weiss access on Friday."
"Mr. DeLancy came in right at the end of the day," Boyd piped up. "Told us to grant Mr. Weiss all the same security privileges that Mr. Blake has."
"And Mr. DeLancy is..." Gray asked the question slowly, giving himself a chance to type the name. There were always so many names at the beginning of a case.
"Mr. DeLancy is president of the company," Lloyd said. "Arnold DeLancy. But don't call him Arnold."
"Yeah, and definitely not with an Austrian accent," Boyd agreed. "He hates that."
"Back to Mr. Weiss," Gray said. "Do you know why Mr. DeLancy upgraded Mr. Weiss's security access?"
Boyd and Lloyd glanced at each other again, then shrugged in unison. "No idea," Boyd said. "But," Lloyd added, "Mr. DeLancy did explicitly ask whether the new privileges extended to Blake's office."
"That's right," Boyd agreed, as if remembering. "And I was like, 'You said everything Blake has access to, and obviously Blake has access to his own office, so obviously now Weiss has access to it too.'"
Lloyd sighed. "Seriously, dude, you need to learn not to take that tone with upper management."
"Well, upper management needs to learn we're not idiots."
"The man was just clarifying."
"Gentlemen," Gray interrupted.
"Sorry," Lloyd said. "Anyway, no, Mr. DeLancy didn't give a reason. But we definitely wondered. Blake and Weiss pretty much hate each other, and we knew it was going to be Fourth of July when Mr. Blake came back to discover Weiss had been granted access to his office."
Gray was tapping notes furiously now. "Why the bad blood between them?"
Boyd opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "I honestly don't know. They've just always hated each other."
"Must make it difficult for them to work together."
"Yeah," Lloyd agreed, "and Mr. Blake's been working here almost as long as Mr. Weiss, from what I understand."
"This bad blood..." Gray said musingly. "How bad are we talking?"
No one answered immediately, and Gray glanced up from his smartphone to see Lloyd studying him carefully. "Pretty bad," the guard said finally.
"Yeah, man," Boyd agreed. "When I say they hated each other, I don't mean it lightly. Word on the street is that Blake's tried for years to fire Weiss, but DeLancy wouldn't stand for it."
"Yeah, and Weiss has been gunning for Blake's job just as long," Lloyd added. He cocked his head once more. "Can I see your ID again?"
Gray sighed, but he proffered his identification as requested. He couldn't very well refuse.
Lloyd read the card more carefully this time, then sat up straight.
"Homicide!" Boyd exclaimed, having stood up to get a look at the ID himself, leaning over the other guard's shoulder. He stared at Gray with wide eyes. "Someone was murdered?"
"Maybe," Gray replied, returning his ID to his suit jacket pocket.
"Who?"
Gray only smiled apologetically.
"Either Blake or Weiss, obviously," Lloyd said.
Boyd slowly found his seat again. "Yeah," he said, nodding. "I can believe they'd be willing to kill each other."
"Nah," Lloyd disagreed. "Not Weiss. Blake, yes — I can see him killing someone in the heat of the moment. Guy has a seriously short fuse, always looks like he's ready to blow a gasket. But Ed Weiss? No." Lloyd paused thoughtfully. "Mr. Weiss is a genuinely good guy. Cares about other people, you know? Even the little people."
"That's true," Boyd admitted. "He's the one that bullied management into doing a quarterly blood drive on the premises."
Lloyd nodded, and both men fell silent for a moment. Like Ms. Fairburn, they seemed excited at the prospect of a murder mystery, though it was tempered by their obvious concern that Mr. Weiss — someone they clearly respected — might be involved.
Speaking of giving blood... "How big would you say Mr. Weiss is?" Gray asked.
Lloyd blinked at the non sequitur. "Uh... You mean how much does he weigh?"
Gray shrugged. "Height, weight, build... Big guy? Small guy? Bigger or smaller than Mr. Blake?"
Boyd nodded thoughtfully. "I'd guess he's 6-foot. More athletic than Blake — Mr. Blake's kinda overweight — but I definitely wouldn't call Weiss small."
"Okay, that's what I need to know," Gray said, tapping more notes. Rule of thumb was that the human body held one liter of blood for every 33 pounds. Someone under 150 wouldn't have been able to donate the five-to-seven liters they'd found soaked into Blake's office carpet, but it didn't sound like that wo
uld have been a problem for Weiss. Ms. Fairburn had already confirmed that Blake was big enough to be the donor too, but it was starting to sound like Weiss was the more likely victim.
"So who else entered Blake's office yesterday?" Gray continued. "Mr. Weiss at 8:42, then..."
"Uh... looks like the cleaning crew entered at 1907."
Gray frowned. "That's it? No other card was used to enter the office all day? Just Weiss's, then later on, the keycard issued to the cleaning crew?"
"That's right," Lloyd confirmed.
"That can't be right," Gray objected. "Someone was in that office yesterday afternoon." After all, the blood at the crime scene was only just growing sticky when Gray arrived last night. He thought furiously. "Does the system log every time the door opens, or just when a keycard is used?"
"Every time it opens," Lloyd confirmed again.
Gray swore softly.
"I don't understand," Boyd said. "Why are you so interested in Blake's office?"
Lloyd sucked in a sudden breath. "That's where it happened, isn't it? The murder."
Boyd's eyes widened again. "So... the cleaning ladies found the body? Wicked."
Gray sighed, finally giving in. "That's just it. We're not even sure there was a murder. The cleaning crew didn't find anything but a mess and a lot of blood."
"But... That doesn't make any sense," Lloyd objected, turning back to stare at his screen. "The logs say Mr. Weiss came in at 0842—"
"Or at least someone came in, using Weiss's card," Gray amended.
"—and the door never opened again until 1907." Lloyd shook his head. "You're right, Detective. Whether or not it was Weiss, someone should have been in the office when the cleaning ladies arrived."
"And yet there was no one," Gray confirmed, the words feeling weighty as he spoke them. "The office was empty when the women arrived, unless someone managed to slip out unseen, before their very eyes." Or, he added to himself, that person had slipped out earlier, and these security logs had been tampered with somehow.
Still, he couldn't help thinking both of those possibilities were unlikely.
Gray experienced a sinking feeling. He couldn't believe the thought was even crossing his mind, but there was at least one other possibility — one theory that didn't suffer at all from the revelation that no one had come or gone from Charles Blake's office since 8:42 on Sunday morning.