Vital Signs

Part 22

5:14. I'm awake and in bed alone, I don't know where Megan slept last night. She wasn't lying next to me. The shower isn't running, the light in the bathroom is off. I find a pair of jeans lying near the clothes hamper and insert my legs then pull a clean T-shirt over my head. The house is quiet.

In the bathroom, I apply a strip of toothpaste to my toothbrush and scrub away the gross byproduct of the all-night party the germs and bacteria were having in my mouth while I dozed, tossed, and turned. I hope they had a good time. I sure didn't.

The guy in the mirror looks a lot worse. It's not just the uncombed hair, piled asymmetrically on my head, or the bags beneath those bloodshot eyes. This is the face of a deeply troubled man.

I open the prescription bottle and tap a mental health pill into the palm of my hand. What are these things supposed to do, anyway? I don't feel happier or more energetic. I'm not more focused. Is there a point? I toss it back and chase it with a gulp of water.

5:23. In the kitchen, I add a splash of cream to my freshly brewed coffee and carry it into the living room. I was hoping to find Megs asleep on the couch but she's not here. Where the heck is she? I look out the front window and in the dim pre-dawn light, I discover that the white van is still parked in front of my neighbor's house. I gulp my coffee, which I immediately realize was a mistake. The coffee is way too hot for gulping.

I set my mug on the table and then exit through the front door, the tip of my tongue scolding me for my carelessness.

On my way across my lawn toward the white van, my feet become tangled and I stumble. I've been tripped by the strap from Bernie's cheap binoculars, its broken metal clip latched to my shoelace. After I free myself and stuff the strap into my pocket, I proceed down the driveway toward the van, carefully scanning my path en route. 

I notice that the vehicle has an auto rental sticker affixed to the rear bumper. I go to the driver's door and peer through the window. It's dark. There are fast-food wrappers crumpled on the passenger seat and floor and a soda cup sitting in a cup holder.

Behind the passenger seat, a canvas shoulder bag lies on the floor. I glance around. No one is watching. Luckily, the driver's door is unlocked. Under the cover of darkness, I climb into the van and grab the shoulder bag by its strap. The Dunning and Brannigan logo is imprinted on the cover flap. The only other artifacts in the truck are a hairbrush with blonde wig hair lodged in the bristles and a jacket and pair of pants. The van smells like a gas station restroom. I put my head through the shoulder strap and exit the van.

Wearing a bathrobe and bright yellow Crocs, Josh comes out of his house as I start up the driveway, the canvas bag slung over my shoulder.

"They just gonna leave that thing parked there?" he asks. "Thought the cops said they were gonna tow it."

I shrug. "If a tow truck doesn't show up this morning, maybe give the cops a call." I probably sound like I've been drinking due to my coffee-scalded tongue.

                                                               #######

6:09. Back in the house, I tiptoe up the stairs and slip into my office. I open the shoulder bag and find Bernie's laptop, set it on my desk, and turn it on. The battery warning flashes. I attach the power cord and plug it into the wall outlet.

It's immediately apparent that Bernie is not cut out for covert ops. In fact, he'd be among the last people you'd want to trust with a top-secret operation. In the office, the guy ran his mouth constantly, repeating every bit of gossip he'd ever heard, never bothering to check sources or verification. He was like a middle-school girl, upset that she was excluded from the popular squad and responded by throwing shade at them 24/7.

To gain access to his computer I type in the username, Bernie. I'll bet that his password is the original password we were given when company laptops were initially issued. DunnBrann1234. 

Access denied. Unauthorized user.

I make another attempt. This time I enter BernieP.

Access granted. 

At the office, we received regular communications from the IS department encouraging us to update our passwords at least quarterly. Of course, Bernie never complied and now his computer is an open book. Jason Bourne this guy is not.

I discover file folders with familiar client names and projects. Here's one labeled "personal." Oh, dear God. He's got porn on his company laptop. And really pathetic porn. Lots of spanking and discipline with men dressed as children and some wearing diapers. Yuk! The thumbnails make me nauseous. 

Here is a folder with about twenty versions of Bernie's resume. Bernie Peefommer. I thought it was Beefarmer. Apparently, it never occurred to Mr. Peefurmer that it's a bad idea to store his resume on his work computer along with poorly-written cover letters he submitted along with job applications. He's had an interesting background. Fast-food worker, which he calls "Associate, Food Service Industry." He was a docent at the Civil War Teapot Museum in Gettysburg, PA. A volunteer position, by the way. And then he moved on to an unpaid internship at Dunning and Brannigan, which launched his dazzling Public Relations career. 

It seems Bernie has a side-gig on Etsy. Who would have guessed? Now that I think about it, he must have had a lot of free time. He's not married and doesn't have a significant other. He doesn't seem to have many if any friends. Etsy is a good place to explore your creative side and express yourself. Apparently, Bernie expresses himself by making little unintentionally creepy-looking animals out of melted down candles. He calls them Candimals. This one I think is a cat. Here's a giraffe that looks like a horse. And these last two, I can't even guess. These should probably be filed under Regretsy.

This looks like a Tinder profile. Bernie writes: I'm an indoorsy kind of guy. I don't like bugs but I love hugs. I enjoy mall dates and buying gifts. I'm a very giving person.

Oh, this is sad. At least he didn't list his favorite dinosaur.

Here's a folder called "Project P." Project P. Could that be Project Phil? Inside the folder, I find video clips. Ah, ha! These look like the interviews he collected for the intimidation video he produced and played at the meeting that Carl convened.

I've just scratched the surface. I'm sure that there is so much more incriminating data on this hard drive. 

 7:12. I close the laptop, exit my office, and descend the stairs. Quiet voices come from the kitchen.

"Are you mad at Daddy for tackling that guy?" Jillian asks.

"No."

"Then what? What happened?"

"Shhhh. It's grown-up stuff. I really don't want to discuss it."

Jillian whispers, "You guys aren't get divorced or anything, are you?"

"Come on. Let's get you ready for school."

Ouch. Megan didn't say "no" when asked if we were getting divorced. Either she's extremely upset with me, or we are getting divorced. Or maybe both.

Do I greet my wife and daughter in the kitchen with a cheerful, Good morning?" Or do I slink back upstairs, pretending I hadn't heard them?

Unexpectedly, Megan leads Jillian out of the kitchen toward the front door.

"Oh, there's Daddy." Jillian smiles and waves.

I wave back.

Without looking at me Megan says, "I'll walk her to school."

"No, it's okay. I can take her."

"I said I'll walk her to school," she responds sternly.

Jilian looks at me with sad eyes as she follows her mother through the front door.