1 Who Killed My Boss? (2 page)

I walked over to the open window, which overlooked the back yard. Wondering why it was open in January, I peered outside. There didn’t appear to be anything else out of the ordinary. Except for footprints leading away from the building. In the snow, those footprints glistened. From where I was standing, they appeared to be average size. Heck, I really didn’t know what I was looking for, but I thought the cops would like that I noticed some stuff. At least I’d be able to tell my brothers of my astute observation skills.

Finally, the police arrived, and when I saw the officer, I prepared for his inevitable snort.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

“I work here; I just started this morning. Don’t you remember that I came here for an interview last week? I thought you were one of the smart ones in the family.”

“Damn it, Sam, you know what I mean. What are you doing in this room?” As Rob spoke, he walked slowly toward the body. It’s funny how quickly a person—in this case, Dr. Burns—becomes “the body.”

“I came in with a group of people after we heard a lady scream. You should be thanking me. I got everyone out and preserved the evidence.”

“Are you sure you didn’t touch anything?”

Typical little brother, second-guessing me.
“Of course I didn’t touch anything. Well, except the door, but I was careful. See, Rob, I’m looking you straight in the face. You know I can’t lie when I do that.”

Rob grinned and tried desperately to hide it. He was such a little cutie, almost like a kid playing cops and robbers. His dark brown hair had just a hint of red in it and it complemented the ruddiness in his cheeks.

“That won’t stand up in court.”

“Yeah, but it’s true anyway.”

A detective walked in at that moment and I knew Rob would have to turn over the investigation to him. Rob’s time in the sun was over. The new arrival wore a stereotypical rumpled suit, Quincy’s own Columbo. He was medium height and his salt and pepper hair barely covered his balding head. Smugly I noticed a bit of a strain where buttons joined the edges of the jacket, but had to admit he looked in pretty good shape for his age.

I knew his age—40-something, same as mine.

“Hey, Sam, long time no see. I heard you moved back to town. How are ya?”

“Fine, George. Did you notice there’s a dead body in the room?” It was all right for my brother and me to be irreverent, but I wouldn’t tolerate it from Butthead George Lansing, the meanest kid ever to grace the detention room of St. Francis High School. I guess I should call him “Detective Butthead.” Luckily I believed in miracles, because that’s the only explanation for George’s success on the police force. Although he was a rotten kid, I heard he was a decent cop. He’d have to prove that before I’d believe it.

For now, I’d be cordial, but that was it.

Butthead got right down to business. “Rob, will you inform the other staff members that I want to speak to them individually, and tell them not to talk to each other about what went on.”

“Sure thing.”

“And send the coroner to me as soon as he arrives.”

Rob nodded as he exited. I don’t think George noticed Rob’s quick wink to his big sister.

“So, Sam, what are you doing here? And don’t say you work here, I mean what are you doing in this room?” He paused. “And why are you grinning?”

“I just noticed you called Rob by his first name. Guess you don’t want to call him ‘Officer Darling’ in public.”

“Yeah, right. So what are you doing in this room? Nosing around?” As he questioned me, he herded me into the corridor. I didn’t protest. Being in the presence of a dead body was starting to get on my nerves, and I didn’t want Butthead to notice.

From his questions, it looked like Butthead knew me pretty well. That was one more reason I didn’t like him.

“Well, Butthea…‌I mean, George, I came in here with a lot of other staff when we heard a scream. One of the typists, I heard someone call her Doris, was standing in the doorway. Those files were scattered around her on the floor. As we crowded into the room we may have stepped on them. When I got inside the office I saw Burns just like you see him. Someone checked his pulse—it was a male in a white coat—and decided not to do CPR. He must be a doctor because he pronounced Burns dead. But he was the only person to touch the deceased. Gwen Schneider, the receptionist, is the woman sitting on the chair in the hall. She was crumpled on the floor in here crying. I don’t think she was there when we came in, though. I kinda pushed the group forward into the room and she probably fell then. I told everyone to get lost and I maintained the integrity of the scene until Rob, I mean Officer Darling, arrived.” The least I could do was treat my brother respectfully in front of Butthead.

More than twenty-five years after graduating from high school and my animosity toward him had not diminished. No reason to be nice to him. The jerk stood me up on prom night.

What an asshole. He didn’t deserve my forgiveness. Maybe someday I’d be magnanimous, but the time wasn’t right for forgiveness yet. The time was right for moral superiority and looking down on him as the low-life slug that he was.

I couldn’t help myself. “I know more.” I kept my voice low so Gwen and Marian didn’t hear.

George raised one eyebrow. “What do you mean you know more?”

“I know more but you didn’t ask me the right question.”

“Dammit, Sam, I didn’t get a chance to ask you many questions. I asked you one and you started babbling.”

I’d show him. “Okay, since you think I’m babbling, I won’t tell you what else I know.”

“Dammit, Sam, this isn’t a game of Twenty Questions. Someone died here.”

“I know. And my name is Sam, not ‘Dammit, Sam.’”

He wasn’t amused. “Tell me what else you think is important.”

I decided to cooperate, even though he wasn’t good at this question thing. “When I walked into his office for my interview last week, I heard him talking on the phone.”

“And…”

“And he said something like, ‘I’ll have something for you next week.’ And then ‘Leave me alone.’ I didn’t think much about it at the time.”

“Do you know who he was talking to?”

“Nope.”

“How did he sound? Was he calm? Did he look nervous?”

I looked at Butthead a moment before I answered. “I don’t really remember. What he said stuck with me because I thought it was a little unusual, but I don’t think he seemed upset or anything like that.”

“Okay, you can get back to work. I’ll let you know when I want to talk to you. Thanks for your help in the investigation.”

I wanted to wipe that stupid condescending grin off of his face. If it weren’t for me, there would still be a bunch of people in the room, gawking and carrying on. Why was he treating me like excess baggage? I would not be dismissed this easily.

Not bothering to return his smile, I started to leave the room, but then had an idea.

“Hey, George, why don’t you interview people in the kitchen? It’s a comfortable room. When Dr. Burns gave me a tour I noticed it’s isolated from the rooms where the patients will be.”

“Thanks. Maybe I will.”

Now it was my turn to grin. My brand new office conveniently adjoined the kitchen. I wasn’t being nosy; I just wanted to help.

Okay, I was being nosy. But I still wanted to help. Maybe the cops didn’t want my opinion and expertise, but damn it, I had a lot of experience with people. Plus I had my “vibes.”

My brother, Rob, knew about my “vibes,” but I don’t think Butthead suspected. Over the years I’d begun tuning in to the strange bodily sensations I experienced sometimes. I’d get headaches or dizziness or neck spasms when I encountered something evil or maybe just weird. My body was kicking into overdrive and I knew Burns’ death was not an accident or suicide. I decided to use these vibes to help me solve the murder. I figured it would be the way to keep my job. If I solved the mystery, the new boss of the psychiatric clinic would certainly reward me with job security.

In the meantime, a little eavesdropping couldn’t hurt. I’d listen a while, do some investigating on my own and then pass the information on to my brother. I was just trying to be a good citizen and to keep my job…‌and just possibly make Rob look smarter than Butthead.

TWO

B
efore Butthead began interviewing
staff, I decided to get settled into my office. Being next to the kitchen was a real bonus for me and my appetite. The office was full of furniture, but lacked a personal touch. I’d remedy that at the earliest opportunity. And it was small compared to Dr. Burns’ mega-office, but it was cozy and it was mine.

I sat in my wonderfully overstuffed desk chair, propped up my feet on the oak desk, and looked around, giving myself a metaphorical pat on the back. Moving from government to the private sector was a bright idea.

Muffled voices from the hallway tempted me to open my door and look. Two bored-looking men wheeled Dr. Burns toward the front door. At least, I hoped it was Dr. Burns under the navy wool blanket. One death was plenty, I didn’t think I could personally cope with two. I moved to my front window to continue watching as the men loaded the body into the back of the generic funeral home station wagon.

I stood there a few moments after the car left, thinking about the man who’d hired me and how quickly his life was snuffed out.

My mind wandered to my pleasant surroundings. I was happy to note there were no drapes on my windows. Long, narrow, and curved at the top, the windows were discreetly clad in cloth-covered shades that matched the appealing wallpaper.

A loveseat and matching chair, empty bookshelves, and an end table rounded out the furniture. Behind my desk was a tiny marble fireplace. Next to it sat an oak filing cabinet that I hoped to fill with case notes on exciting and curable patients.

I could live in this room. All the place needed was my stuff. I’d take care of that tomorrow. Assuming I’d still have a job tomorrow. Burns just died, but I imagined the clinic would go on functioning. At least that was my fondest hope.

Coffee, that’s what I need to complete this cozy picture. Coffee.
Taking one last survey of the room, I headed for the door next to the fireplace that led to the kitchen.

I found a clean mug, filled it, and returned to my office. I decided to re-arrange my furniture a bit, thinking that the desk and chair would look perfect closer to the kitchen door. My chair fit snugly in a little alcove, about three or four feet from the servants’ door which led to the most important room in the house.

I settled in, deciding I needed a little quiet time, time to meditate. I wondered what Clancy would say when I told her about today’s happenings.

Clancy was my best friend. And my dog. She was a cross between a yellow lab and a chow. At first glance she appeared a regular mutt, but there was much more to her than the mane-like ruff and gorgeous dark eyes. She had excellent nonverbal communication skills and our connection bordered on the psychic. I told her everything. She responded in kind.

Soon I heard voices coming from the kitchen and had no choice but to listen.

B.H.’s voice rang crystal clear as he began asking questions. I couldn’t call B.H. by his given name of George, because I was still pissed off at him. But at least I decided to be mature and call him B.H. instead of Butthead.

My chair moved closer to the door, almost of its own volition. I smiled, thinking I had the best seat in the house.

B.H. began in his best cop manner, “Tell me what happened this morning in your own words.”

An unidentified female voice answered. “I knocked on Dr. Burns’ door because he told me he wanted to sign the case notes I’d been typing. When there was no answer, I decided to put the notes on his desk where he could find them later.” I moved a bit closer at this point because she—I guessed it was Doris—started sniffling a little and it was hard to understand her. “Then I walked in and saw him on the floor bleeding. I screamed and I guess I dropped everything I was holding. That’s all that happened until everyone else came in and then that new lady, I think her name is Pam or Sam or something, started bossing us all around and made us leave.”

It’s really amazing to me how some people can misinterpret someone else’s decisive actions as bossiness. Well, obviously, Miss Doris had some unresolved authority issues that she needed to deal with. But unless I wanted to be accused of bossiness again, I probably wouldn’t tell her about it.

B.H. continued, “Did you hear anything this morning that sounded suspicious or unusual?”

“Uh-uh.” Which I presumed meant “no.”

“Has there been anything else going on that was unusual?”

“No, not really (sniff, sniff). But that new guy in town that started the private investigating agency—what’s his name…‌Mick or Mike or something?”

“Michael O’Dear?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s his name. Anyway, he was here this morning and saw Dr. Burns, but I don’t know why.”

It’s unfortunate that vibes don’t travel through walls and doors. I couldn’t get a feel on whether she knew anything else or not. And who was this O’Dear guy? A private detective in Quincy? I wondered why he visited Burns this morning. Was it detective work or a psychiatric visit?

B.H. continued with the questions, “How long have you worked here? Did you get along with Dr. Burns? What time did you arrive this morning? Describe what you did from the moment you arrived until you found Dr. Burns. Did Dr. Burns have any enemies that you know of?”

What I got from the answers was that Dr. Burns wasn’t in the running for Nice Guy of the Year Award. I overheard “crabby,” “aloof,” “overbearing,” and “distracted.” I was almost glad I hadn’t gotten to know him.

Too bad B.H. didn’t need my help in the room. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if I went in and made a fresh pot of coffee.

He did notice. With the same stupid grin on his face, he stopped the conversation until I made the coffee, waited for it to finish brewing, poured myself a cup, and walked out of the kitchen. A full ten minutes. He was good.

B.H. repeated the same conversation with other staff members, but elicited no new information. Several of them remarked on my ability to take charge of a situation. Perhaps they phrased it a bit differently. I recall hearing the word “bossy” a few times, but resolved that I wouldn’t be bothered by the remark. People just needed to get to know me a bit. They’d come around. Listening to them was getting to be boring; the same information was repeated time and again. I was patient however, and soon my persistence paid off. Miss Gwen Schneider arrived for her interview.