Free Cube Sleuth by David Terruso Page A

Nichols, played by Jeroen Krabbé. No wonder I couldn’t think of the actor’s name.
    Thankfully, my short-attention-span mind finds its way back to Ron. He had no personal enemies that I know of, and it was unlikely that he had any enemies at work. Suddenly, one simple fact slaps me across the face and it’s the most glaring clue I have: Ron died at Paine-Skidder. Why here? If the killer wanted to make it look like a suicide, he should’ve gone to Ron’s house and killed him at night. I bet most suicides take place at home, and since Ms. Tipken worked nights, Ron was almost always home alone. The killer shot Ron at work because that was the most convenient place for him to set it up. He could plan his act there; control certain things.
    The killer works at Paine-Skidder.
    The killer must’ve considered shooting Ron at home and decided work was easier. A big risk, but the killer probably thought it would be worth it because he found some trick to make it look like suicide, something he could pull off on P3 but not at Ron’s house. But what was this trick?
    Good. I’m starting to get into the killer’s head. That head is somewhere in this building, thinking it got away with murder. That head has no idea that I will retrace its steps and find the body it’s attached to, and then send the body and its head to life in prison or death by lethal injection.
    The first person I need to talk to at work is Beatrice Jenkins, the poor old lady who found Ron’s body. I’ve never spoken to her before, as far as I know. My portrait parle for her at the moment is “old black lady.” I don’t know which department she works in or on what floor. Even when I find out her department, I’ll have to navigate the labyrinth of identical cubes to find her. Ah, the challenges that a detective faces.
    * * *
    My supervisor Suzanne knows where everyone sits. I think that’s how people become supervisors: they take a test on where everyone sits and what everyone’s jobs are.
    I grab an empty interoffice memo folder and knock on Suzanne’s door. “Do you know where Beatrice Jenkins sits? This came to me by mistake.” A clever—if unnecessary—ruse.
    “She sits twenty feet from where you sit. Just go around the corner there, she’s on the right side near Fred Syke’s office.”
    Man, I need to walk around the office more.
    * * *
    “Hi, I’m Bobby.” I stand outside Beatrice’s cube, a small yellow tablet and blue pen in my hands, smiling the way you smile when you see an acquaintance at a funeral. “I was… Ron was my best friend here.”
    Beatrice nods slightly and sucks in air like she’s preparing for a punch in the gut.
    “I’m writing a story about what happened to him. Kind of my way of grieving.” I am a ruse machine today.
    “A book?”
    “More of a short story. But not that short. Detailed. Like a novella. But non-fiction.”
    Beatrice nods again. She wears a bright blue floral pantsuit. Her hair is dyed an unnatural gold color and pulled into a tiny ball in the back of her head. She doesn’t invite me to sit, doesn’t ask me what I want from her. She waits for me to speak again. Her body looks rigid.
    I tap my pen on my tablet. “Would it be OK if I asked you a few questions about that morning? I want to get the details right and the cops—I asked them for details and they said it was… private. Sealed information or confidential. Off-limits.” Will you shut up! She won’t be suspicious if you can just stop rambling. “So, can I ask you a few things?”
    Her eyes widen slightly. “Now?”
    “Are you busy?”
    “I… not really. But…” She doesn’t want to relive that morning.
    “It won’t take long.”
    She stares at me for a few moments, probably hoping I’ll offer to come back later if that’s better for her. Instead, I point to her desk chair and ask if I can sit. She nods again. As I sit, she starts pinching the fabric on one leg of her pants with both hands.
    I uncap my pen. “You come