"Abstract": An Original Short Story

I was not particularly surprised when I found my boss dead on the floor of his office, but rather more annoyed as I thought, I do not get paid enough for this. I suppose the bloody scene would have inspired more horror in me had the barista not fucked up my coffee order that morning, forcing me to start my day with the abomination that is decaf. The abstract painting of brains on the wall proved to be just the jolt I needed to function on a somewhat human level.

As I’m sure you can understand, working as the secretary for a senior partner of a law firm can be a bitch. When I first moved to Edinburgh from the dank, mosquito-infested panhandle of Florida, I found the accent quite charming. Now, just over seven years into my servitude, I’ve begun to associate it not with a dashing Highlanders wearing kilts and mounted on burly stallions, but with the drunken flirting the other attorneys spewed at me mid-day. The lawyers, their fat faces almost as big as their God complexes, looked like cream puffs in their powdered wigs and flowing gowns. When they weren’t spouting locker room talk over stale coffee in the break room, they puttered around the office and harassed the pretty paralegals.

No one had an ego quite as large as Grant Murrow’s. He was handsome, which he knew, not quite as intelligent as he led others to believe, and a great disappointment to his late father Harold. Harold opened and owned the firm until his passing two years before. I worked for Harold for the last 5 years of his life, and it was apparent that the thought of leaving the business to Grant was daunting for him. I think what bothered Harold most about his eldest son was his complete and utter lack of humility. Grant was a walking stereotype of an attorney. Shady deals here, a breach in contract there, a few suspicious deposits to his personal bank accounts.

Grant was also a perpetual sexual harassment case. He had no concept of personal space, and numerous complaints had been filed against him by the female interns. I was an “exotic” 23 year-old when I moved across the pond. Many of the senior partners tried their tired lines on me, but my sparkling personality quickly drove them away. Grant was persistent, though, especially after his father passed. When I turned 30, I thought I had finally outgrown his tastes, but I wasn’t so lucky. The crude comments and dinner invitations continued. I slept with him once out of sheer boredom, and act for which I am still being punished due to my unwillingness to repeat it.

He highly requested that the affair take place in the office, on the desk to be specific. We made out sloppily and he didn't reciprocate oral, but I wasn't much bothered until he switched on the monitor. I heard rumors around the office about Grant’s questionable affinity for tentacle porn, but there was no confirmation until this moment. On the screen was a sight too fucked up for words, but I simply looked away and allowed Grant to continue. I pushed him off and lowered my skirt after he asked me if I “liked his tentacle dick.”

I thought back to the days leading up to finding Grant’s body. He fluttered around the office, jittery as a coke addict going through withdrawals. “Charlotte, has anyone come to the office today?” he asked every day, eyes wide and sweaty palms splayed over my desk as he leaned toward me. He would pace around his office, picking his nails and nearly jumping out of his polished Italian leather shoes at the sound of the phone. After a few days of Grant’s constant anxiety, he slapped a sticky note onto my desk. On it was a name and number for someone called Jack Waylon. “If anything happens to me, call this man,” Grant ordered, his face pale and feverish, his teeth on edge.

“Why would something happen to you?” I asked with only mild interest.

“Dammit, Charlotte, don’t ask questions! Just do it!”

One night, as I was about to leave for my lunch break, I found Grant hunched behind his computer, fingers flying over the keyboard and his lower lip raw and chapped from constant gnawing. When I entered to announce my leaving, his hand flew forward and pressed the button that turned off the computer monitor. Assuming his embezzlements had finally caught up to him, I groaned at the thought of the job search to come.

I back tracked to my office and found the stick note with Jack Waylon’s information on it, meandering back Grant’s office as I dialed the number. I took hold of the landline and dialed the number. I inspected the gore on the wall as the line rang. Nothing was particularly alluring about it; no symmetry or balance, but the glimmering 10 millimeter slug in the wall was a nice touch. I wrinkled my nose at the hole in his face and observed the chunks of grey matter splattered on the wall and floor like discarded puzzle pieces. It was then that the line connected. “Jack Waylon, Private Investigator,” answered the voice on the other end.

“Mr. Waylon, this is Charlotte at Grant Murrow’s office. Mr. Murrow would like to meet for a drink at the Valentine Pub this afternoon.” That was code Grant gave me, which I assumed meant, “Grant has fucked up. Come fix it.”

“Of course, Charlotte. I’ll meet him at the office,” Waylon responded before ending the call. I checked my watch; 7:30 A.M. We had an hour and a half before the other employees arrived. I maneuvered my way around Grant’s mess and out of the office, locking the door behind me.

Jack Waylon arrived in a black Vauxhall Astra. Clearly still overcoming the morning grogginess, he shrugged into his jacket and moved slowly across the parking garage. I met him at the door. “Has anyone arrived yet?” he asked in a tired Scottish accent. As I confirmed the emptiness of the building, I took a moment to inspect the man. He was in his early 50s, but looking damn good for it. He seemed shy but personable and noticeably sympathetic, both characteristics that contrasted his rugged appearance. I would sleep with him when this was all over, I decided.

“What’s happened?” he asked as we entered the building and moved toward the elevator.

“It looks like someone got tired of Grant’s shit,” I replied.

“Pardon?”

The elevator doors opened, and I led to Grant’s office, showing him the display. All hint of tiredness disappeared from Waylon’s face as he observed Grant’s blown out brains. “Fucking hell,” he groaned, placing a balled fist to his mouth and turning away from the scene. He took a deep breath and entered the office, a deep grimace on his face. “You found him like this?” he asked me, taking hesitant steps toward the desk.

“Yep.”

“What time did you leave the office yesterday?”

“Around 5.”

“Was Grant here?”

I snorted. “Please. Grant is never here after two o’clock.” His suspicious look did not escape me. I cocked my eyebrow at him. “You think I killed him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“If I was going to kill him, it would be way more subtle than that,” I replied, gesturing to the gore on the wall. “Beside, I have to find a new job now.”

“Your grief is moving.”

I shrugged, and Waylon sighed heavily. “Send an email to all the other employees explaining that a pipe burst and the building will be closed,” Waylon ordered as he removed his jacket. He took his cell phone from his pocket, and as he searched his contacts, he gestured toward the desk. “Destroy his computer.”

“Uh, pardon?” I replied.

He opened his mouth to answer when the call connect. “Lloyd, I need a few guys at 472 Hill Street within 15 minutes.” A series of mumbled responses followed, and I deduced that Lloyd, whoever that was, would not disappoint. Waylon turned back to me. “Put all of his files onto a hard drive, take the computer to the W.C., and run it under the faucet,” he instructed “Are his files password protected?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll need your help, then.”

“With what?”

“You’ll have a better chance of guessing his passwords than I will.”

“Isn’t that against your ‘private detective rules’?” I teased.

“Well, I was given strict instructions not to call the police in an event like. . .this,” he explained, looking back to Grant’s body, “so, I’ll have to solve this case myself. As much as you disliked him, you have useful information about him. Now, move the files, rinse the computer, then take it to your car and drive to this address.” He pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to me. “I’ll meet you there. Make sure no one follows you.”

Yeah, I don't know who this guy thought he was, but I had a serious caffeine deficiency that this time, and I was just not having it. “Okay, look, pal. I don't want to be involved in this. I'm tired, and Grant was an asshole, so I'm not going to be running around Edinburgh and sifting through his files just because someone blew his head off. I say screw his wishes. I’ll just call the cops, tell them I found him, and go home.”

I turned to exit the office, but Waylon gripped my arm by the elbow. “Even if you had call the police instead, tell be calling you day and night with questions.” He released his grip on my arm. “Now, either you can help me, and this will all be over in a few hours, or you can go to the police and be part of their investigation, which could take months. It's your choice.”

I sighed heavily. “Fine! At least I'll be able to add ‘experience covering up a bloody murder’ to my résumé,” I retorted. I walked slowly around the desk, careful not to step in the blood and brain matter that lay in puddles on the tile floor. I pulled a portable hard-drive from a drawer, plugged it into a USB port, and transferred the contents of Grant’s computer. I crouched down to unplug the computer brick, pulling at the cords with two fingers to avoid touching the chunks of bloody tissue. Once each of the ten thousand fucking cords were disconnected, I picked up the computer and lugged it down the hall to the bathroom. I tossed it into the sink and turned on the faucet, listening to the crackle as the water fried the circuitry.

I dispassionately inspected my chipping manicure until the crackling within the computer ceased. I turned off the faucet and shook the remaining water from the computer, and carried out of the building. As I tossed it into my trunk, it snagged my blouse, tearing a small hole into it. I took a moment to silently ask God why he hated me before driving to the address Waylon had given me.

I arrived at what turned out to be Waylon’s office. and half-heartedly scanned my surroundings before exiting my car. Waylon pulled in the driveway was I pulled the damp computer from the trunk. “Did anyone follow you?” he asked me.

“Probably not.”

“Well, did you check?”

“With all the power in my optic nerves.”

“Charlotte, this isn’t--”

“Listen,” I interrupted, “My patience is wearing thin. Whatever Grant has gotten into is his problem, not mine.” I passed him the computer and hard drive. “I’m going home.”

As I turned to leave, Jack called, “Aren’t you the least bit curious as to why someone killed him?”

“Not particularly,” I answered over my shoulder. “It was probably something clichéd. He screwed someone out of a lot of money, so they fed him a bullet. Not much of a mystery.”

“You seem awfully certain of that.”

I stopped, turning back to him. “Come again?”

“You seem all too eager to get away from the case, Charlotte.”

I scoffed. “Look, buddy, I already told you that I didn’t kill him. What could I possibly have to gain by shooting him?”

“Money?”

“I secured a pretty hefty salary when I fucked him.”

“Scorned lover?”

“I seem like a relationship kind of person to you?”

“Well, maybe you just hated him that much,” Waylon replied, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “At the very least, your lack of a response to the sight in his office is suspicious.”

I gnawed at my inner cheek and looked to the pavement. “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” I snapped, turning toward my car again.

Following behind, Waylon called, “Even if you absolutely despise your boss, no normal person would see what you saw and remain so calm.”

“Maybe I’m not normal,” I replied.

“Honestly, I can’t really blame you,” Waylon pressed. “If I worked for Grant, I would have shot him within ten minutes.”

I faced him. “I told you I didn’t kill him!”

“Then, why aren’t you a blubbering mess?”

I inhaled sharply to bite back, but I could tell he was only going to press the issue. “That kind of shit doesn’t really bother me, okay?” I confessed.

“Why not?” Waylon asked.

“Does it really matter?”

“Yes. I’m trying to eliminate you as a suspect. Help me out.”

I huffed and shoved my keys into my pocket. “Grant’s brain isn’t the first I’ve seen splattered on a wall,” I admitted. “My father killed himself when I was 13. Shotgun,” I explained, pulling at the sleeves of my coat.

Waylon shoved his hands into his pockets and ducked his head down, eyes flicking back and forth between me and the sidewalk. “I’m sorry,” he said. We stood in silence for a moment and I fiddled with the keys in my pocket, wondering how long I had to stand there before I could get in my car. Waylon broke the silence. “Look, why don’t you come inside. I could still use your help.”

“Do I have to?”

“No, but it would make my life easier.”

“I’m not one for favors.”

“Could you make an exception?”

He smiled at me as if it would sway my answer, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “Fine,” I answered, brushing past him toward the door. “There better be coffee.”

Once inside, I connected the hard drive to my laptop, and we began sifting through the files. A majority of them contained client information, drafted contracts, and Grant’s blessed porn. I chuckled as Waylon gapped in disgust at the plethora of tentacles, and I joked, “I wonder if some forlorn lover was jealous of all the attention Grant gave to octopi.” Waylon was not amused.

We continued sorting through digital files in awkward silence until Waylon suddenly asked, “What's that?” He referred to a folder entitled “Valentine.” I double clicked the folder only to be met by a pop up requiring a password.

“Locked,” I groaned.

“Any idea what the password could be?” Waylon asked.

I shook my head. “I only had access to his general accounts.”

“Why don’t we try those credentials?”

I entered the password, only to be met by “PASSWORD INCORRECT: 2 MORE ATTEMPTS UNTIL FILE DELETION.”

“Oh, well that’s just dandy,” I complained, slouching back in my seat.

“Well, let’s think,” Waylon suggested. “What was important to Grant? Any people, places, or dates?”

“The only thing Grant cared about was Grant. And money.”

Waylon rolled his eyes around his head, thinking for a moment. “What about some kind of achievement? Something he’s proud of.”

I thought back to last summer, when Grant would talk to any open ear about his newly purchased vacation home Mallorca, teasing the interns with promises of sandy beaches and endless piña coladas. I told Waylon of Grant’s incessant bragging, and I slowly typed the name of the Mediterranean destination, hesitantly pressing the enter key. We both sat up straighter as the buffering symbol turned in circles on the screen, then deflated again as the file opened.

In it were hundreds of photos of a small girl. She was no more than six, blonde with bright, beautiful green eyes. The first photos were taken from a distance as she played in her yard or walked to school.

“I remember that girl,” Waylon said grimly. “Sophia Feagin. She went missing a year ago.” I continued scrolling through the photos, cringing as their theme and setting changed. The next dozen photos showed Sophia in a dimly lit bedroom, crying and partially unclothed. Her fair skin was flushed and swollen, her cheeks stained with tears. “Oh my god,” Waylon sighed as my fingers slowly moved over the touchpad, scrolling through dozens of photos of the weeping girl, a hand coming from around the camera and removing more and more clothing until she was naked. I felt the bile in my stomach rising as the photographer angled the camera down, snapping photos of his hand as he opened his belt buckle and worked out of his trousers. I let my hand fall away from the laptop and pushed it toward Waylon.

“Are you alright?” he asked as I turned in my chair, leaning forward slightly and breathing through the nausea.

I nodded and dismissed him with a wave. After a moment, I looked over my shoulder toward the screen, cringing as the disembodied hand wrapped around Sophia’s throat, her green eyes wide with terror and her face red with the constricted blood flow. I heard Waylon’s breathing increase as he observed the photos, his jaw hardening as he saw the broken blood vessels in her eyes. The last few photos showed Sophia on a dirty concrete floor, eyes staring blankly. Around her neck were deep bruises in the distinct shape of fingers. The last three photos showed the photographer lying down next to Sophia’s body, sporting a familiar, lewd smile.

I thought back to that smile looming over me as I laid on Grant’s desk, trying to ignore the deviant pornography that flashed on his desktop. My stomach dropped and everything began to spin as his groans of pleasure and lewd comments echoed in my memory. Vomiting into the nearby waste basket helped me forget for a moment. Waylon held my hair back until I emptied to contents of my stomach.

Now knowing why Grant wanted any “incidents” handled internally, Waylon and I decided to say “fuck you” to Grant’s wishes. After dumping the destroyed computer into the Union Canal, we drove toward the police station, parked a few blocks away, and paid a tweaked out bum to drop the hard drive into the station’s mailbox.

Within a day, police began flooding the building, combing through Grant’s office and questioning the staff. I managed to deflect their questions, even when they asked about the email I had sent about the broken pipe. “Grant called me that morning and told me to send the email,” I lied.

“You didn’t question it?”

“All I knew was that I didn’t have to come into work.”

The police informed us that the office would be closed until further notice as they continued their investigation. The office tittered with questioning whispers, and I pretended to gossip with some of the other secretaries before ducking out.

In my apartment, I sat on my couch, staring blankly as an old noir film flashed on my screen, trying to distract myself from the images of that dead girl that hung in my mind. I jumped as my cell phone began to buzz, the vibrations making it dance on the glass surface of my coffee table. I tapped the green phone icon, and before I could greet the caller, Waylon’s voice sounded on the other end. “Turn on the news,” he ordered me. “Channel 8.”

“What’s going on?” I asked as I reach for the remote.

“Just do it.”

I switched the channels. I listened closely as the newscaster spoke over video of police officers cordoning off a section of Inverleith Park with crime scene tape. “Edinburgh Police found the body of Richard Feagin in the playground early this morning with a fatal gunshot wound to the head,” the newscaster said.

“Is that. . .?” I muttered.

“Her father,” Waylon answered.

“Feagin’s death has been determined to be a suicide, as a 10 millimeter pistol was found on the scene. Police believe it has to do with the disappearance of his daughter Sophia Feagin just over a year ago,” the disembodied voice continued. “The timing is very unfortunate, as police officials have new information regarding Sophia’s disappearance. The suspect is currently at large, but detectives with the Edinburgh Police Department are confident that justice will be served.”

I could hear Waylon saying something on the only line, but I couldn’t quite make out the words. My pulse was pounding too loudly in my ears as video of body bag being rolled into an ambulance. Something the newscaster said seemed familiar. I thought back to the sight in Grant’s office. His body slumped in a desk chair. The gaping hole in the forehead. The blood and brain matter. The 10 millimeter slug in the drywall.

#books #bookblog #reading #writing #shortstory #mystery #crimefiction #originalwriting