Cube Sleuth

by David Terruso

  Maybe Helen thought she didn’t deserve Ron’s love and would rather see him dead than accept her own worth.

  Maybe she went back to Theo in the weeks after they broke up and Ron found out. That’s only possible if Ron found out the day he died, because I’m sure he would’ve told me if it happened any day before that. Ron told Helen to drop dead, Helen couldn’t handle the rejection, went into a rage, killed Ron, and then tried to replace him with me.

  If Helen is the killer, then by asking her to search Ron’s bedroom for clues, I gave her the perfect excuse to get rid of any that might have been there. Well done, Bobby.

  The logistics of Helen as the killer don’t really work, but I need to examine them nonetheless. If she did sneak into the building—or if Ron brought her up himself—without anyone seeing her, could she have gotten out without Mumbles or the security guard or Keith noticing her in Ron’s cube? Unlikely.

  I need to talk to the security guard, but I need to talk to Keith even more. I quickly drum up a few questions to ask him and walk to his office before I lose my nerve.

  The walk to Keith’s office gives me the sensation of marching solemnly in front of a firing squad. Especially on the occasions when he asks me to close the door behind him, because then I’m sure I’m about to get fired, or at least scolded for some harmless misdemeanor.

  My favorite closed-door discussion with Keith happened three years earlier on a Tuesday morning. Paine-Skidder had been closed Monday for President’s Day. The previous Friday, I’d left fifteen minutes early to get a jump on the holiday weekend traffic. Keith told me in a grave tone that I worked until 5:30 and that I was not to leave early unless I had permission. Seriously, my boss kills me; fifteen minutes on a Friday before a holiday weekend? From then on, I made sure not to leave early unless Keith had already left for the day—a rare occasion indeed.

  Anyways, despite knowing I had asked for this meeting, I still feel a twinge of firing-squad anxiety when I knock on Keith’s door. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure. Have a seat.”

  “Is it OK if I close the door?”

  “Yes. Fine.”

  I close the door and turn back to my boss. Keith’s fastidious nature requires my subtlety. He loves to spy on his employees, and if he figures out that I spend half my work day investigating Ron’s death he’ll find a way to keep me so busy I won’t have time to do it. I need to play on his sympathy (if it’s genuine or just professional courtesy, I still can’t tell) for me as I grieve my friend, but I can’t overdo it. “I wanted to talk to you about Ron. About the day he died. I think you were the last person to really talk to him.”

  Keith presses his left thumb against his lip and gently bounces it there, an awkward smirk/frown on his face. The wrinkles in his brow are the only wrinkles on his person. His shirt looks like it was pressed five minutes ago. His clean-shaven head is powdered and lotioned. His face and neck match his head except for a dappled pattern of razor burn. His glasses are so clean I can see myself in them.

  I take off my own spotty glasses and clean them on my shirtsleeve.

  “You’re having a hard time dealing with Ron’s passing, huh?” Keith realizes his thumb is covering his mouth and drops his hand onto the desk. “That’s OK. I think about him every day, and I didn’t know him as well as you did. Actually, knowing I probably was the last person he spoke to haunts me a little. If I had noticed how despondent he was. If I’d asked how he was doing…” He straightens the papers and pens on his blotter.

  “So he was despondent that afternoon? You noticed it?”

  “No, I didn’t notice. That’s the thing. I wasn’t paying attention. We had this important project to get done and I had the blinders on until we finished. He seemed maybe a little annoyed to have to stay so late, but…he didn’t look unhappy. If I knew he wasn’t going to see another day, I’d have sent him home, told him to see his family and friends and tell them he loved them. Or to do something he’d always wanted to do. Anything but the tedious paperwork I gave him.”

  I couldn’t agree more, an unsettling feeling for sure since this sentiment is coming from Keith, of all people. These glimpses into his humanity, sensing that he actually gets that our jobs are not the sole purpose of our existence, make his daily attitude all the more unbearable. If he’s ignorant, that’s one thing. But if he sees the truth and ignores it— vehemently defies it, in fact—that’s sinful. “Do you remember anything specific that he said to you, even if it seemed unimportant?”

  “Nothing personal, no. I remember asking him if he could stay late that day. He said something like, ‘I’m not crazy about the idea, but if we have to get it done today, we have to get it done today.’ I’m sorry. I wish there were more I could remember. I wish there were more to remember. It seemed like an ordinary day. Whatever demons he was dealing with…” He rubs the back of his bald head thoughtfully. “Did he say anything to you? That day or the day before?”

  I tell him how happy Ron seemed. About our sketch show. About Helen and their first date, how long Ron had been in love with her.

  A look of confusion flashes across Keith’s smooth face. “Helen. Who is Helen?”

  I tell him Ron and Helen’s history, leaving out the latest chapter about Helen and I using each other to keep Ron’s memory alive.

  Keith listens intently. Then he stares out the window until his eyes seem to glaze over. “Sad that he was in love and never got to be with her. Sad. Life likes to teach us to live for today in very cruel ways.”

  “Life is funny in a very unfunny way. Unfunny, and unfair. Life can be a bully sometimes.” I wonder for a moment about Keith’s own love life. I know nothing about his personal life other than that he’s married with kids.

  Keith giggles a little louder and a little longer than my comment warrants. His goofy giraffe laugh. He rubs his hands together like he’s warming them. “Is there anything else you wanted to ask me, Bobby?”

  The way my name sounds in his voice makes me hate it. Hate my own name. I think for a second, draw a blank on other questions. “That’s all I can think of right now. Thanks for taking time out of your day for me.”

  He stands and extends his hand. I haven’t shaken Keith’s hand since the day I met him, and I wonder if it was this clammy the first time. “If you need to talk more, my door’s always open. I mean it.”

  I smile, trying to stealthily wipe his palm grease on my pant leg. “Thanks, Keith. I think you told me everything I wanted to know.” A polite lie, since he told me nothing.

  * * *

  I want Keith to be a suspect. I want him to be the killer. I would love to put him in prison forever, since he’s kept me under lock and key for five years. But in my gut I know better. Keith’s nature—the reason we don’t get along, the reason I hate him—is to follow all rules without question. I was raised Catholic, and the thing I always loved about Jesus when I read about Him was that He taught the difference between following the letter of the law and spirit of the law. The spirit is what’s important. Jesus understood that. Keith doesn’t.

  If someone killed Keith’s wife in cold blood, he would never retaliate with vigilante justice, not even if he was sure he could get away with it. He’d follow the proper legal channels and accept whatever the cops and the courts did with a shrug and a que será, será.

  Theo had the motive to kill Ron, but not the intelligence. Cody has the intelligence and the nerve, but not the motive. Keith has the intelligence, but neither the nerve nor the motive.

  And Helen? She has the nerve. She has the intelligence. And she can be pretty clever about hiding her motives in general, I’ve discovered.

  * * *

  At the end of the day, I stop at the front desk to talk to the security guard. I approach him with a smile. “Can I ask a weird question?”

  The security guard, a middle-aged man who seems interested in little beyond his crossword puzzle, shrugs and raises his eyebrows at the same time.

  “You were her
e the night Ron Tipken died, right?”

  The guard nods gravely, crossing his arms in front of his chest and looking at me with confusion and maybe some amusement.

  “Did Ron have any visitors while you were here?” I hope he’ll remember this, since he was surely questioned by the police the day Ron’s body was found.

  “Nope.” He rolls his tongue around the inside of his lower lip. “No one came through here with him. I only saw him as he was leaving. He waved. I waved back. But he could’ve met up with someone in the parking lot. Any old schmo can walk in and out of the parking lot and I wouldn’t know it.”

  I start to laugh at “any old schmo” and quickly turn it into a cough. “That’s true. Did he have any visitors before that day, any—”

  “I actually never saw the guy before that day. Police said he was working late that night.”

  I should’ve thought of that. Ron was never around late enough to see the security guard or Mumbles the janitor. “OK, thanks for your help.”

  “My help with what?” The guard uncrosses his arms and leans forward in his seat.

  “With… answering my questions. I appreciate it.”

  “Why you askin’ them?”

  “Just curious. OK, good—”

  “You think someone killed the guy.”

  My eyes light up. Maybe he thinks so, too. “I wonder about it, yeah.”

  “I used to be a beat cop back in the day. You’re snooping around, huh? He was your friend?” He smiles, or at least shows me his teeth.

  “Yes, very good friend. You think he could’ve been killed?”

  “No. No reason to think that. Simplest explanation is usually the right one. You know of anyone who’d want the guy dead? Want it bad enough to plan a big thing to make it look like he offed himself?”

  I shake my head no.

  “There you go. You got no motive, you can’t go anywhere in a homicide case. Very rarely does someone kill another human being for no reason. Stupid reasons, sure. Killed for pocket change. Killed over an insult. I once got called to a bar where a guy stabbed another guy in the back six times because the victim was rooting for one team and the stabber had money on the other team. But there’s always some reason. No one took your friend’s money or his Jeep, so…”

  “Ok. I see what you mean.” And I really do. But if a homicide detective’s gut didn’t stop my investigation, a Paine-Skidder’s security guard’s gut sure wasn’t going to, even if he did use to be a cop.

  Chapter 21

  The Flowers I Sent Nancy

  Living with a girl who has an eating disorder is like having a sneaky raccoon in your apartment. You never see the food disappear, it just does. A full row of spiced wafers, a whole bag of Smartfood; gone. Late at night, when you shower, when you go to poker night with your brother, the food vanishes.

  Nancy lived with me the summer before I started sleeping with Eve. My apartment is a studio converted into a small one-bedroom. The bedroom has no window; the bathroom’s sole window lets natural light into both rooms. My air conditioner is in the “sunroom,” an extension of my living room. In the summer, I keep the bedroom door closed and sleep on the futon in the living room because the cool air never quite makes it as far as the bedroom. So, for those three or four months, I live in one room.

  I’m claustrophobic. When I get MRIs for my chronic migraines (my mother works for a neurologist, so I have one once a year), I have to take a valium. Living in one room for three months is stifling enough, but adding Nancy into the equation resulted in frequent panic attacks.

  Nancy’s parents divorced when she was still in puberty, and ever since she has spent her life living out of an overnight bag. For most of our relationship, she lived at college, with her dad, with her mom, and with me. So when circumstances made the most practical option that Nancy live with me for the summer, she was ecstatic about having one home for a while.

  But while she was happy, I felt cornered.

  I would come home from my soul-sucking job needing to stew in my miserable juices for an hour, and instead be tackled by my smiling young wife. Only we weren’t even married.

  She loved to take care of me, even before we lived together. Pluck my eyebrows, shave the back of my neck between barber visits. Clip and file my fingernails and fix my cuticle bed (her nails were always chewed off, one of many nervous habits). She’s also an excellent cook. I usually liked all the attention she gave me, but during that summer I felt smothered.

  Nancy makes her own jewelry. She has a great aesthetic and can really express herself in her pieces. However, the little beads she used would always end up hidden in my carpet and I’d constantly step on them in my bare feet. It hurt.

  Once Nancy moved back to school, I savored my alone time like it was spent talking to God. I withdrew a bit, which made Nancy insecure and clingy. Which made me withdraw further. Which made her more insecure and clingy. We ran that cycle for months, and then Eve put her hand on my hard-on and I leapt at the chance to escape.

  The Friday I’d spent my lunch stroking Eve’s lustrous red locks while she stroked something else, Nancy and I had made plans to see a movie. Here’s what happened instead (Spoiler Alert: this is the part where she dumps me):

  I call Nancy after work and pretend to be sick. I know I can’t look her in the eye and lie to her while my sin is still so fresh. I honestly believe that by Saturday evening, I’ll have practiced the lie enough to be able to sell it to Nancy.

  My imaginary illness puts me out of commission Saturday night as well. I spend both nights feeling sorry for myself for ruining the only good thing in my life and punishing myself with terrible poker play.

  The fake fever breaks on Sunday. Nancy drives over from St. Joe’s.

  I cover my mouth when she tries to kiss me hello, saying I think I might still be contagious. She gets close enough for me to smell her cotton candy breath. She chews gum perpetually to trick her body into thinking she’s eating without getting any calories. She swallows the gum when it loses flavor and immediately pops in another piece, like a chain-smoker. Cotton candy is her favorite flavor. I hate the way the gum tastes, but I like the way it makes her breath smell.

  Nancy sits across from me on the futon, legs folded in front of her, one bare foot on my lap, telling me about her weekend. She wears one of the necklaces she made, strands of royal blue beads and canary yellow beads twisted together with a matching canary yellow smiling sun pendant at the bottom.

  Her childlike, animated face usually makes me happy, but today it fills me with pity. Her voice seems far away, like I’m in a wind tunnel. My eyes focus on the top corner of the flickering TV instead of making eye contact with her. I realize that I won’t make it through this conversation without confessing.

  During a lull in the conversation, I blurt out my transgression like a loud burp in church. “I cheated on you.”

  “What?” She thinks this is another one of my elaborate jokes. I used to tell her ridiculous lies with a straight face and see how long it took her to realize I was full of shit. She hated that game because when I actually was serious, she thought I was kidding.

  “I… did some stuff with a woman at work.”

  “If this is, like, a joke, I’m not laughing.”

  I look at the floor in shame.

  “Bobby, I’m not kidding. Don’t mess around about something like this. It’s creepy.”

  “I’m not. I really did it. I’m sorry.”

  “Who?”

  “Her name is Eve. She’s older. I’ve probably never talked about her before.”

  “What stuff did you do?”

  “You know…”

  “You had sex?”

  “No. She…You know…”

  “Tell me.”

  “She… you know… she used her… mouth.”

  Nancy sits forward on her knees and screams at me, crying, her eyes and nose dripping, her arms violently gesticulating. “You’re never gonna find someone like me again! You had
a chance at a happy life and a great family and you threw it away! You’re a selfish fucking child.”

  And then she punches me in the face. Three times. Her ring cuts my cheek on one of those hits. I absorb a few body blows before hopping up and fleeing to the safety of the alcove I call my “kitchen.”

  “Go for a walk. I’m gonna find everything here that’s mine and pack it up. I’ll let you know when I’m gone.” Her eyes make her look deranged.

  It’s a week before Christmas, two months before Ron’s death. I step into the cold afternoon with a shiver; I forgot my coat. I let my cheek sting, let the trickle of blood from my nick dry, and cry in the street about breaking my best friend’s heart.

  I console myself with the knowledge that I did Nancy a favor. Not by cheating on her, but by forcing her to break up with me. Nancy is too good for me. I am a selfish fucking child who will never mature into a husband-father type. She can only do better with some other guy. Unless she ends up with a drug addict who beats her and gives her Chlamydia, she’ll easily find a guy who is way less of a jackass than I am.

  She texts me when she’s on the road back to St. Joes, and I come home to find her spare keys on top of a note that reads DON’T CALL ME – EVER. My apartment seems so empty. I feel like I was robbed, and everything was taken except my valuables.

  I sit in the dark for hours. The sun is still out, but I close the blinds.

  I don’t think of ways to kill myself. Not specific ways, anyway. But I do wonder whether or not the life insurance policy from Paine-Skidder would pay off if I do commit suicide. If it does pay off, I’ll be leaving a nice trust fund to my three-month-old nephew. If not, I’ll be leaving my poker debt to my brother.

  * * *

  The night after I talk to Keith and the Paine-Skidder security guard, there’s a knock at my apartment door. I assume it’s Helen. The only person other than Helen who knows the key code to the lobby door is Nancy. I prepare to fight with Helen and tell her I never want to see her again, but I’m excited by the brief prospect of company.