I had always believed in the importance of not wasting time. Productivity is key, right? So come noon the next day, exemplifying a professional sleuth-style mission-driven focus, I crossed the offices and padded to the Creative Department.
Since it was lunch time, the large room was almost clear of employees, save for a few who'd rather work than
make their bellies happy. Lucky for me, my 'target' was one of that few.
Taking a deep breath, I approached Mike Huitz's table.
At quick glance you'd think he was making out with his computer. He was so wrapped up in work that his thick eyeglasses were almost touching the screen.
Which meant I had to get his attention to get him to notice me. I slapped the table as loud as I could. My hand stung but it was worth it. I got the junior copywriter's attention.
Only he didn't look too happy about it. "What?"
I smiled warmly, ignoring his rudeness. "Hi, Mike. Do you have a minute?"
"No, I don't, Thompson," he replied coldly.
"It won't take long. I just--"
"Can't you see I'm busy?" Mike cut off, now openly glaring at me.
Ugh. This was going to be harder than I thought. "Yeah, I can see that--"
"Then move along and bother someone else." Mike shook his head and turned to his computer, muttering something about "dimwitted" and "secretary" under his breath.
That did it. I grabbed a handful of papers and covered the computer screen with it.
"What the --"
"Listen, buster!" I snapped, causing Mike to jolt. "I'm not going anywhere until you talk to me. I need some answers and you're going to give them to me. Kapeesh?" I was being loud but I didn't care. He was pissing me off.
"Okay, geez!" Mike raised his hands as if to surrender. Folding them over his chest, he said, "What answers are you talking about?"
Apparently, acting like a bitch did the trick nowadays. I'd have to keep that in mind, in case I encountered another Mike Huitz in the future.
Putting the papers back on the desk, I told him, "I was told you were one of the last employees to left the building last Monday night. Is that true?"
"What's this? An interrogation?" Yes.
"No. Just answer the question!"
"Jesus, Thompson. You're starting to scare me."
Right. If I wanted to get an answer from him, I had to keep my temper in check. Even if I was so close to strangling him.
In a calmer voice, I said, "Please, Mike. This is very important."
Mike sighed, adjusted his glasses, and ran his fingers through his dark, unruly hair. "Yes, I was one of the last ones left. I had to do an overtime and finish a copy for Frankie's."
I nodded. "So did you, by any chance, notice anything off going on that night? Maybe you saw someone who doesn't work here sneak into the Executive Department?"
"No, I didn't." Mike paused then narrowed his eyes at me. "Is this about George's death?"
"Yes."
"I knew it," Mike said with a smug look, leaning back against his chair. "Wait, wasn't the cause of his death ruled out as suicide?"
I rolled my eyes. "Yes."
There's no way in hell I'd tell Mike that it was murder. For all I knew, he was the killer. Telling the truth would cause him to panic and run, knowing that the cops were on to him. Fat chance, I knew. But still.
"So this is really an interrogation."
I glanced at the papers on the table and, for a second, considered shoving it into his talkative mouth. What could I say? He brought out the worst in me.
"What are you, working with the cops or something?"
Jesus. "Yes.. Sort of. But that's beside the point." I waved my hands impatiently. "So did you or did you not notice anyone coming into George's office?"
"Look, the Executive Department is down the hall. If I have strayed there, it's only to get to the pantry or the men's bathroom. Not even long enough to eavesdrop on George."
My shoulders sagged. I was starting to think that Mike was not the person who would give me the right answers. But if it wasn't him, then who?
"Try Presley."
"What?" I didn't realize I had asked the question out loud. I frowned. "The janitor?"
Of course. Why hadn't I thought of him first? He was always the last employee to leave the offices. Which meant that he was the person that I needed to interrogate. Well, he'd better.
"Yep. He's always the last to leave. So if you're looking for the person who might have heard any weird sound that night, he's the guy."
Already ahead of you, Mike. Already ahead of you.
**********************************************************
I decided to deal with Presley after office hours. So fifteen minutes after five, I stepped out of my cubicle and headed to the maintenance room. I whipped my head around to make sure nobody was staring at me or anything. I had been sloppy with Mike. So this interrogation had to be as inconspicuous as possible.
But not a minute passed and my two-inch heels started clickety-clacking on the marble floor. So much for being inconspicuous. And damn the company for not using carpets.
I stepped into the hallway and was about to turn left when I heard a male voice belting out an out-of-tune Aerosmith song coming from the offices to my right. Frowning, I turned around and stopped on my tracks.
Behold - old Presley was using the end of the mop as his microphone. One hand outstretched, his beer belly about to burst from his jumpsuit. Picture a still-alive Luciano Pavarotti - a less classy and ancient-looking version.
Old Presley must be around, what, eighty? And he'd been working for the company even before Scott took the reins from Bill. But ask him why he hadn't thought of retiring yet and he'd tell you to "F__k off!" Did I mention he was a very grumpy old man?
Deciding that he had done enough damage to the song and to his vocal chords, I loudly cleared my throat. "Hi," I smiled tightly and made a small wave.
To his credit, Old Presley didn't act like a deer caught in headlights. Nope. He quickly regained his composure, like I just didn't witness him "murder" a fan-favorite song twenty seconds ago.
"Whaddyawant," he growled, as if to emulate a Doberman in its prime. Only he sounded like a Chihuahua.
Since I wasn't any more intimidated than he was embarrassed of his voice, I said offhandedly, "Can I ask you a few questions?"
"About what?"
"About the day George committed suicide." I didn't even blink. Which was a good thing. Or I wouldn't have seen the sudden shift of his eyes.
I narrowed mine. Interesting.
"Whaddaboutit?" Chihuahuas. Chihuahuas everywhere.
"Well, I'm helping the police with the investigation to speed things up. They want to make sure there's no stone left unturned." I kept my expression impassive to make it more believable.
"Iknownothingaboutit!" he growled, this time louder and more defensive.
Very very interesting.
"Look, I just want to know if you noticed anyone coming into his office around six?"
Presley seemed to relax a little. "Just his girlfriend."
I nodded. "Other than Jessica?"
"Some guy."
Bingo! "What guy? What does he look like? Can you describe him?" I eagerly asked, suppressing the urge to clutch at his collar. I held my breath as I waited for his answer.
Only to get a lame, "I don't remember."
"You've got to be kidding me!"
Old Presley jolted at my voice. But to my annoyance, he kept his stance. "I said, I don't remember. It was dark. Now, go. I'm busy here." And just like that, he continued mopping the floor.
Unfortunately for him, I don't take kindly to being rudely dismissed by grumpy men in the same day. So glancing from left to right (inconspicuous, remember?), I took a couple steps closer until I towered over his mere five-foot-two inch frame. With my five-eight height – courtesy of my heels – it was no-brainer.
"Listen, old man. I know you know something. So either you tell me or I'll report you to the cops and they'll accuse you of obstruction of justice and put you in jail. Do you want that?"
I was just bluffing, of course. Between the two of us, I was more likely the one committing obstruction of justice by conducting an unofficial investigation. Heaven forbid the janitor was smart enough to report this incident to the authorities.
Fortunately, the heavens were on my side today. Old Presley shook his head profusely, apprehension evident in his eyes.
Score one for the amateur sleuth.
Trying hard not to smirk, I said in a calmer voice, "Now, spill it out."
Five minutes later, there were two things I learned: (1) A visit to a strip club was in order and, (2) I could intimidate an old grumpy man if I wanted to.