Termination Man: a novel (47 page)

I knocked on the door of her apartment. The front drapes were drawn. I waited for more than fifteen minutes with no answer.

I was about to knock one final time when a woman called out to me.

“Are you looking for Lucy?”

I don't know how long she had been standing there, watching me from the sidewalk that ringed the apartment building. She was in her mid-thirties, and she had a small child in tow.

“As a matter of fact, I’m looking for Lucy. Do you know where she is?”

“She might be out,” the woman said. “She lost her job today, and she’s taking it kind of hard.”

And then I figured out who this woman was. “Are you Jenny?” I asked.

“I am,” she said. She was a trifle cautious. I was a man she didn't know, after all.

“My name is Craig,” I said. “I think Lucy needs help, because—”

Should I tell Jenny about Lucy’s previous suicide attempt
?
I wondered. Lucy had told me in confidence, after all. Was it my place to reveal the secret to this woman who might not know? And how could I be certain that Lucy was suicidal over the loss of her job?
Was I overreacting?

I simply didn't know. I was in uncharted territory.

“Please tell Lucy to call me if you see her,” I said. “She has my number.”

“Will do,” the woman said. I decided that there was nothing more I could do for Lucy—not at the moment, anyway.

I went back to my hotel room, feeling angry and frustrated for the first time in a long time. I thought about calling Donna, but I ended up calling Claire instead. When I pressed the speed-dial menu button for her number, I wasn’t sure if she would even take my call; but she answered on the second ring.

“We need to talk, Claire,” I said.

“So talk,” she said.

“Suppose you tell me what’s going on between you and Shawn Myers.”

“Well, why don't use your imagination, Craig? What usually goes on between men and women? Do you need the details?”

“I need to know why Shawn in particular. He’s a man who has been accused of sexually assaulting a fifteen-year-old girl.”

“
Accused
, Craig. I think that’s the operative word. Anyone can be accused of anything, you know.”

“Well, that’s not the only thing that Shawn has been accused of. Remember what I told you.”

“Craig—if this is going to degenerate into another argument where you slander Shawn, then there’s no point in us talking. You’re not exactly an objective source here, are you? Here’s what you need to know: I intend to complete my duties on this assignment as defined by my job description and your contract with TP Automotive. That’s the only thing that you need to worry about—and the only matter that I’m going to discuss with you.”

“So you’re going to continue sleeping with Shawn? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I’m telling you that who I sleep with is my business.”

“That’s true, Claire—unless you’re sleeping with a client.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Craig. This can get even nastier, you know—if that’s what you want.”

“I think I need to end this phone call, Claire.”

“Okay by me, Craig. Goodbye.” The call abruptly terminated.

I let out a long sigh and contemplated Claire’s words. I didn’t need a translation to understand the subtext: I had compromised my own position by sleeping with Claire, and then further compromised it by failing to cover my tracks. Claire was savvy enough to know that there were various emails and text messages that would provide ample evidence of our affair. If I chose to retaliate against her because of her trysts with Shawn, she wouldn’t hesitate to sue me for sexual harassment. If I chose to fire her, she would sue me for both sexual harassment and wrongful termination.

I set my cell phone down on the little hotel room coffee table and considered the irony of my predicament. I had become caught in one of the loopholes that I regularly exploited for my clients.
Was I actually surprised? Hadn’t I always known that these systems were rigged?
On one hand, the vast body of sexual harassment legislation had done little to protect the shy, socially awkward daughter of a lower-middle class woman who owned a small cleaning company. On the other hand, a woman like Claire—who had an MBA, model looks, and access to the halls of corporate power—was able to manipulate these laws at will.

Were my sins
finally
catching up with me? Or had I simply encountered a run of bad luck?

For a moment I contemplated calling Lucy’s cell phone again. But what would I say to her, even if she answered the phone? I could pose as Craig Parker—her steadfast workplace friend—and tell her that everything was going to turn out all right. However, I didn’t have confidence that everything was going to turn out for Lucy. To me, she seemed like a damaged soul who might be completely broken by this setback.

Or I could call her as Craig Walker, and tell her that TP Automotive’s managers had removed her in the best interest of the team. I could tell her that some employees of UP&S were perfectly willing to work under the management of Shawn Myers—a man whom I despised myself.

Neither option seemed palatable. So I abandoned the idea of calling Lucy. I had nothing helpful to say to her.

Lucy killed herself the next day, and she let me know about it in advance. In keeping with the conventions of the modern age, Lucy sent her suicide note to me by email.

The email popped up in my Lotus Notes inbox at 10:11 a.m. in the morning. I had just come back from my morning break in the cafeteria. The email immediately caught my attention for two reasons: It was sent from a Yahoo account that was obviously Lucy’s private email. And there was one word in the subject line:
“Goodbye
”
.

That word,
goodbye
, might have had multiple interpretations, of course. But this was Lucy Browning we were talking about. Lucy Browning, who had told me only days ago that she suffered from chronic depression. Lucy Browning, who had once tried to end her own life. The woman who had been depressed over the firing of her best friend, Alan Ferguson. The woman who had now been fired herself, because of the actions of Craig Walker Consulting.

I had never read an actual suicide note, so I didn’t know exactly what to expect. I suppose that each one is different. Lucy’s was direct and economical.

Over the space of several paragraphs, she made clear that she intended to kill herself. And this time there would be no error—no coming back from the brink. Although the decision to commit suicide is almost always a wholly irrational one, Lucy felt compelled to compile a case for it, as if she were composing a justification for a purchase at UP&S: Her reasoning was predictable: She was unmarried. She had no children. Her parents and family were gone. She had nothing to live for.

I suspected that this portion of the suicide note had been sent to multiple parties. Computers and email make all sorts of correspondence more efficient. I have known companies that have announced layoffs to their employees via email. I’ve heard of Dear John and Dear Jane letters being sent by email.
Why shouldn’t suicide notes be delivered by email as well?
Lucy could have emailed the same text to multiple people, using the software’s blind carbon copy function.

But there was a portion of this version of the missive that had been written only for me.

“
Alan told me
,” she wrote. “
Alan told me that you aren’t everything that you’ve been pretending to be. He didn’t know exactly what you are. But he told me about the meeting where they fired him. He told me about you being there.
”

I digested all of this over the course of about five seconds.

Then I removed my cell phone from my pocket and dialed Lucy’s number—as I had wanted to do the previous night. As I now realized that I should have done. There was no answer.

I stood up from my desk and bolted for the door. No one runs in office environments, and I attracted plenty of attention.

“Craig, where are you going?” I heard someone call as I bolted down the hall, toward the main exit. “Hey, is there a fire?” another asked, half sarcastically. I did not turn around, or even pause, to acknowledge them. 

I drove to Lucy’s house in a mental fog of sorts, darting past other motorists in the early midday traffic. When I arrived at her apartment complex, I practically leapt from my car. There was a woman in the parking lot—another young mother. This one was tending to a small child clad in a parka with fur trim around its hood.

“Dial 911!” I yelled at her.
Why hadn’t I thought of that until now?

I had startled her. “Why?” she asked. “And which apartment should I send them to?”

“To Lucy Browning’s apartment!” I shouted back. I popped the lid on my trunk and removed a crowbar. I had noticed the tool back there a few weeks ago, when I was transporting some personal items to my hotel room. The last person to rent the Camry must have left it there.

The crowbar in hand, I ran up the stairs. First I pounded on the door. There was no answer. Then I rang the doorbell repeatedly and tried the doorknob. The door was locked. But I was prepared for this. I had the crowbar.

Frantic now, I slid one tip of the crowbar into the narrow space between the door and the jamb. Then I leaned all of my weight onto the long, straight end of the tool, twisting it at the same time. I heard splinters, and I pushed harder as the door gave way. Then I threw my body against the door. At the same time I said a silent prayer that I would not be too late. That Lucy had lost her nerve at the last instant. For a few seconds I allowed myself to imagine her inside, huddled on her living room sofa with a blanket around her shoulders.

Craig
, she would say.
I knew that you would come
.

I nearly fell into Lucy’s darkened living room.

She was on the couch. She had laid down on her back before shooting herself in the head with a pistol. I was too late.

Lucy had placed the muzzle of the pistol in her mouth and pulled the trigger. The bullet had exited through the top of her head, taking blood, skull and brain matter out as it made its departure. The last time I had seen Lucy, she had been tipsy, crying on my shoulder, telling me about her weaknesses. And now she was lying here dead, in a horrific state that robbed her of everything she had been in life.

You did this to me!
her lifeless eyes and gaping mouth seemed to declare.

Had I?
I didn’t know—this wasn’t a question that I was capable of contemplating now. I screamed aloud, and began pounding the adjacent wall with my fists. All of Lucy’s immediate neighbors must have been at work, as no one called the police or entered the apartment to investigate.

After some time—I do not recall how long—I stopped pounding the wall, removed my cell phone from my pocket, and dialed 911—just in case the young mother in the parking lot had not heeded my request.

I spent the next four hours at Lucy’s apartment. I had discovered a dead body, after all: You don’t walk away from something like that without answering a lot of questions. The police seemed to basically accept my account of the events: But that didn’t stop them from making me repeat my story at least four times. And there was a police detective who wanted to see a copy of Lucy’s suicide email.

This meant that I had to contact UP&S. I called Beth. Tragic and messy personnel matters like this always fall on the shoulders of human resources. The TP Automotive management team had believed that they were done with Lucy Browning. But then she killed herself and sent a suicide note to an email address at UP&S. So much for a clean break.

Beth gasped, then listened impatiently as I related to her the basic story.

I told her to have the suicide email that Lucy had sent me forwarded to the Columbus police. “If you need to,” I said, “Have Chip Morris override my Lotus Notes password. He should be able to do that.” Chip Morris was the IT manager at UP&S.

“Will you be back today?” Beth asked.

No, I told Beth: I couldn’t come back into the factory today. I asked her to schedule a meeting for first thing tomorrow morning. “I’ll brief you, Kurt, and Bernie in detail,” I promised. Then I reminded her once more to send the email to the Columbus PD, and I terminated the call before she could ask me any additional questions. 

I went to my hotel room for a few hours, until it was late at night. Then I decided to pay Claire a visit. Claire was understandably apprehensive when I showed up at her door. She made a point of showing me that she wasn’t afraid of me, though.

“Oh, come on, Craig. We aren’t going to talk about Shawn and me again, are we?”

“Right now I don’t care if you’ve got both Shawn
and
his father in here,” I said.

“Craig—what’s wrong? Oh my God. You look like you’ve been—have you been crying?”

That was a question that no one had ever asked me—at least not in my adult life. Some men are criers. I’m not one of them. But Lucy’s death had shaken me. I suppose that showed.