My Boss is a Serial Killer (31 page)

“
Well, it’s not the kind of thing that
comes with a manual,” Bill said kindly, though I suppose Terry
Bronk and Mr. Miller and Junior Gestapo Brent back at the office
would have been willing to argue the point. Then Bill was led away
to the police car. Not in handcuffs, but with the two huge officers
flanking him, he might as well have been.

“
Listen, why don’t you go home?” Gus
said to me in a softer tone. “If you keep doing all my work for me,
you’re going to make me look bad.”

“
Call me later?” I asked, hoping
despite the evidence.

“
I’ll try.” Under the circumstances, it
was about the best answer he could give me. He then looked down at
me with a curious frown and asked, “What the hell is on your
hands?”

“
It’s shortening,” I said. “I had to
immobilize some pool balls.”

Gus did an admirable job of pretending like
this answer explained everything. “I see,” he said. Then he turned
and strode away. Moments later they left, carting Bill away as my
heart sank. I realized I’d been left alone with Suzanne, as opposed
to being in a car with my perfectly nice boss and an adorable
detective, and my heart sank even lower.

“
Sorry about that,” I said to Suzanne,
sounding lame. “Also I should warn you that the felt on your pool
table may need cleaning. You can send me the bill.”

Suzanne went to a nearby sofa and collapsed
onto it. “I am confused, and I have a headache.”

“
Yeah, me too. Mind if I wash this off
my hands, and I’ll get out of here? I have to take Charlene’s car
back.”

“
Charlene’s car?”

“
Mine is at Bill’s place. He stole my
keys yesterday when I was trying to get him to turn himself
in.”

“
Oh, naturally, I should have
realized.” Suzanne grimaced, rubbing her forehead painfully. “So
everyone thinks, what? That Bill had something to do with Adrienne
Maxwell killing herself?”

“
It’s a long story, and I’m not sure
that I’m supposed to discuss it any more. I got keelhauled at work
this morning, and most likely I’ve been fired by now. Maybe if you
call Donna she’d tell you.”

“
Well, I’d certainly never ask you to
violate your trust with Bill. Since apparently you’re his sworn
protector.”

“
Yeah, that’s one of the bullet points
on my mission statement.” I was in no mood to engage in the battle
of favoritism with Suzanne, who was lashing out for a whole new set
of reasons besides just disliking me. Having her dearest
crush-monkey escorted from her house by cops, after a night of pool
ball escapades, had doubtless left her feeling cranky.

I left her to her grumbling, went to her
kitchen sink in the next room, and began the laborious process of
cleaning my hands without making a greater mess. Not an easy task.
Shortening is a terribly sticky, clingy, greasy substance. Perhaps
I shouldn’t have volunteered to foot the bill for cleaning.

When I returned to Suzanne’s front room she
asked dully, “Are you going back to the office now?”

“
Yes, I have to return Charlene’s
car.”

After a moment she said, “I knew Bill had
problems. I already knew. It shouldn’t matter.”

She did not seem to be speaking directly to
me. I murmured, “So…I’d better go. And sorry again for your pool
table.”

But you’ll notice that I didn’t volunteer to
go down there and clean it up myself.

As soon as I got the hell out of Suzanne’s
house, I expected to feel triumph and relief. I had achieved what
I’d believed to be my goal: getting Bill safely into police
custody. But of course this was what Junior Gestapo Brent would
call a “short-term goal,” which should only be “a building block
leading to success of the long-term mission.” In Junior Gestapo
Brent’s world, for example, a short-term goal might be to limit
secretaries to one cup of coffee per day to cut down on bathroom
break times, and the long-term mission would of course be to
completely eliminate any excuse we had for walking around the
office, lest we speak to each other, smile or enjoy ourselves. My
short-term goal had been safe police custody, yes. Now I recognized
my complete dissatisfaction with the outcome of the morning and
realized with great dismay that my long-term mission was somehow
proving that Bill hadn’t hurt anyone.

This was a significantly larger task. In
fact, it might well be a task I wouldn’t be allowed to perform. Or
able to perform, come to think of it. What was I going to do,
uncover DNA evidence with my home lab kit? I couldn’t even properly
sand a chair.

I drove back to the office, barely noticing
what I did, caught in the throes of a fairly unproductive
brainstorm. As far as I could see, I had one advantage over the
KCPD, their crime labs, and their adorable detectives. I knew the
people who worked at MBS&K. And I knew this too: that despite
Bill’s being the most likely suspect to have contributed to the
suicides, he was not the only possibility. Bill’s files were open
to any employee of the firm who cared to look at them.

I recalled a little venomously the strange
jealous attitude of Suzanne Farkanansia. Who would be more likely
to see Bill’s files than the paralegal who had worked with him for
most of the years he’d been there? I had a hard time imagining
anyone I knew being capable of murder, and yet Suzanne was so needy
of Bill’s time and attention. I had supposed she was just lonely,
and that Bill filled a certain space in her life. He filled a space
in my life, too, you know, and I didn’t get insanely jealous about
his dealings with other women.

Of course, I wasn’t twice widowed.

Suzanne Farkanansia was, though.

With Bill Nestor having been found, the
police state at the office was diminished. I let myself back into
the building’s garage and returned Charlene’s car to her parking
space without anyone asking questions. In a haze of thought, I
pocketed Charlene’s things and walked to the elevator. I was
prepared to go back upstairs and give her stuff back, but I
faltered as my finger reached for the “UP” button.

I was in trouble. This infraction made two
days of job abandonment in a row, the second not excusable in the
slightest way because I had quite purposely sneaked out of the
office in the middle of my own disciplinary hearing.

Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow I will go to
work and face the music, accept my dismissal like a grown-up. The
thought of losing my job was not one I relished, but I’d made a
choice when I decided to be Bill’s advocate in this mess. Even if
it turned out that he was a mad serial killer, I was not going to
regret what I’d done. He had been a good boss to me.

Instead of going upstairs, I went down the
basement hall to the great paper labyrinth that was the storage
room. A building phone in there could put me through to our office,
I guess so that Lloyd would always be able to call down to yell at
whatever clerk was taking too long finding a file. Nah, I should be
nice to Lloyd. He had actually assisted my escape earlier, and that
was probably the most surprising thing that had happened all week.
I called Charlene’s desk directly. She didn’t answer the first time
I called, so I spent an uncomfortable ten minutes waiting on a
stepping stool and then I tried her again.

“
Good morning. This is
Charlene.”

Morning? God, was it still morning? I felt as
if the day were over hours ago. “It’s Carol. I’m back with your
car.”

“
Okay. And where should I look for
it?”

Crafty Charlene. She knew better than to
announce to everyone within six cubicles that it was me on the
phone.

“
I’m downstairs in file storage. You
mind coming down? I don’t think I want to come back upstairs right
now.”

“
No. You don’t. Give me a couple
minutes, okay?”

I went back to my stepping stool and
waited.

As she entered the storage room, Charlene
said “When he found out that you had left, Terry Bronk threw a fit.
I could hear it from my desk. It was really funny.”

I wondered at that, judging by her flat
expression. “Are they going to wait until I come back to fire me
officially?” I asked.

“
I didn’t hear, one way or the other.
Still, it was like something out of a horror movie. I think some of
his brains are still on the ceiling. I don’t think he could believe
that someone just walked out of a meeting with him.”

Yeah, I doubted Terry would believe I’d just
been in the bathroom this whole time. Now there would be a new
office legend. “The Time Carol Frank Walked Out of a Disciplinary
Hearing to Find Her Serial Killer Boss and Terry Bronk Fired
Her.”

“
Thanks for sending the police along
behind me,” I said.

“
What?” She looked momentarily startled
and then feigned ignorance.

“
It’s okay. It’s a good thing they
came. Halfway over there, I thought I should have notified them
myself, but I didn’t bring my cell phone.”

For a moment it looked like she was going to
continue denying her participation, but then she relented. “I was
just worried about you and about Suzanne. Bill can get so strange
when he’s stressed out.”

“
It was the right thing to
do.”

“
What happened?” she blurted. Then,
looking abashed, she added, “If you can tell me.”

“
Nothing dramatic. But Bill was
there.”

“
You knew he would be.”

“
I just thought, you know, where else
would he go?” I shrugged. “And once we got him calmed down, he went
voluntarily with the police.”

“
Oh.” Charlene looked vaguely
disappointed, as if she’d been hoping for a more dramatic
retelling. “I figured once they arrested him, he might start
flipping out.”

“
Actually they didn’t arrest him. They
were calling it a voluntary interview when they ‘escorted’ him from
Suzanne’s house.”

“
Didn’t arrest him? That’s surprising.
After the way they tore his office apart, I thought they had
decided he was guilty already.”

I still hadn’t seen Bill’s ravaged office or
my desk, but a thorough search by the police doesn’t always mean
anything has been found. I knew that from television. To Charlene I
said, “Oh, come on, you can’t honestly believe that Bill is capable
of harming another human being.”

“
God, Carol, that’s what everybody says
after they discover somebody’s been eating the neighbors. ‘Oh, he
was such a nice quiet guy. Such a loner.’ And Bill is so
quirky.”

“
He’s quirky six ways from Sunday, but
I don’t believe that he’s hurt anyone. He’s like, the embodiment of
kindness.”

Charlene grimaced. “Well, maybe he believes
that what he’s doing is kind, in its own way.”

“
He’s not doing anything.” Leaning
against the counter I pushed my face into my hands, groaned loud
and long. “Oh my God, I don’t know what to do next.”

“
Do? What is there to do? You got him
to the police, Carol. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“
Short-term goal. I wanted him safely
in police custody, but not so they could lock him up forever. I
want them to find out that he’s innocent. I mean, clear his name,
if he hasn’t already lost his reputation completely thanks to this
mess. If I’m going to lose my job and be forbidden to see my new
boyfriend for the foreseeable future, I at least want it to have
been worth the sacrifice.”

I looked to Charlene carefully, remembering
to whom I was speaking. “You can help me,” I said. “Charlene, you
remember everything.”

“
Help you? No, no. Carol, I have to get
back to work. Aven’s left so many files on my desk, it looks like
he’s building a fort.”

Her job, yes. Charlene, unlike me, still had
a job. And a boss. Envious of her luck, I said, rather accusingly,
“I wish I’d never opened this can of worms, but I did. And you’re
the one who got me started. So I don’t think it would kill you to
help a little bit.”

Charlene looked appalled. “Got you
started?”

“
Yes, got me started. You told me that
Adrienne Maxwell wasn’t the first client of Bill’s to commit
suicide, and after I found Bonita Voigt’s chart, you were like, ‘Oh
no, that’s not the right one. You have to find the one that rhymes
with Hermione.’”

Her eyes flicked away from mine.

I went on, “So I kept looking, and found more
and more of the suicides, and…” I trailed off, realizing for the
first time the implications of what I had just said. “Hey.
Charlene. Did you—you didn’t—know already?”

I actually expected her to scoff a little at
this. Scoff, scoff. But no. She hesitated, still not making eye
contact, and then said, “I only suspected. I wasn’t sure.”

I was a bit too curious to be completely
thunderstruck, though this news should have rendered me speechless.
“How long have you suspected?”

“
Well, God, Carol, it’s been happening
for so long, I can’t really remember. It’s just that, you know,
women would end up dead, and after a while I started thinking,
‘Wow, that’s an awful lot of suicides.’”

“
I don’t follow you. How did you know
they were suicides?”

“
Because I’d hear.”

“
But Bill would never announce
something like that to the whole firm.”

“
Of course not. But I’d hear it, oh,
from his secretaries or from the newspapers.”