Cube Sleuth (5 page)

Right after Ron’s funeral, I go back to work and tear my cube apart looking for that picture of him. I final give up my search and kick over my chair over in frustration.

When the woman in the adjoining cube peeks her head in to see if I’m OK, I tell her that I accidentally knocked the chair over trying to adjust the seat.

My first investigative task is to find out where Theo Russer lives. The easiest way would be to ask Helen, but I can’t let her know what I’m up to.

Years ago I would’ve driven to Theo’s town and pulled a phone book from a phone booth. Then, instead of just being polite and writing it down on a separate piece of paper, I would’ve ripped out the page I needed when no one was looking. Thanks to the internet, all that romance is gone. Today, I type THEO RUSSER on
whitepages.com
and that’s that. Theo lives in Telford, a rural suburb an hour outside of Philadelphia.

Cody Heet is the only guy I know at work who owns a gun, and Theo is the only other person in Ron’s life that I know owns one. Theo is one of those paintball, NRA, pickup truck, sleeveless-shirt-wearing hicks, but because he has money, he mixes in some preppy clothing and fine wine with his flannel shirts and Miller Lite. I despise this type of guy as a rule, but Theo also adds cheating on his girlfriend and possibly hitting her into the mix. Ron once told me that Theo likes to shoot at stray cats with a BB gun.

The day of Ron’s funeral, I drive right to Theo’s house from work. I talk to myself as I drive, trying to come up with something clever, manipulative, and intimidating to say to my suspect. I have to catch him off guard, get him to show me something. A poker tell, if you will.

As I turn onto Theo’s street in Telford, I realize I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m not sure what homework I should’ve done before this confrontation, but I’m sure I should’ve done
something
. I drive past his house with the intention of going home, but half a mile down the road I make a U-turn. I park on the street, a dirt road, sensing that Theo is the kind of guy who might come out of his house in his boxers aiming a shotgun at me if someone parked in his driveway unannounced.

What sounds like Jimmy Buffet blares from Theo’s windows as I knock on his front door. His shiny red Mustang sits in the driveway. When he opens the door, I’m pleased to see that he’s not in his boxers. But he
is
wearing a sleeveless T-shirt.

“Yeah?” he says with a what-the-fuck-do-
you
-want tone that is so obnoxious I want to impale him with a weather vane.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

Theo raises an eyebrow.

“Are you Theo?” Phew. I spoke. First goal: accomplished.

“Yeah. Who are you?”

Shit. I didn’t expect to be cross-examined like this. “My name’s Bobby. I was a good friend of Ron’s.”

Theo squints. “And…?”

This is where I tell him that I know Ron’s death wasn’t suicide. That he is my prime suspect. That I won’t stop searching until I find the truth. That I am on to him. But all that comes out is, “Pretty terrible what happened to him, huh?”

“I’m not all broken up about it. That guy was pathetic. The only thing that ‘happened to him’ was his own fear. Suicide doesn’t ‘happen’ to you.”

I feel my skin getting hot. “Well, he didn’t kill himself, actually.”

“How do you know?”

“He wouldn’t have. He had too much going for him. Like seeing Helen.” Good. That should get a rise out of him.

No rise. “Ron could have had Helen for all I care. She was a bitch and he was a crybaby. They deserved each other.”

“So you hated him?”

Behind Theo, a pretty girl steps into the doorway. “Who’s that, babe?”

“I don’t know, babe. Go watch TV.”

The girl looks concerned, but nods and slips quietly out of view. I guess it didn’t take Theo long to bounce back from losing the girl he’d planned to marry.

Theo steps forward and closes the door behind him so the pretty girl can’t hear us. “You have a point for coming here, buddy?”

“I—”

“’Cause if you do, get to it now, or get the fuck off my porch. And if you don’t, just get the fuck off my porch.”

“I just wanted to know how you feel about Ron’s death.”

“What do you care how I feel?”

“I know you own a few guns.”

“And?”

“And Ron didn’t own one.”

Theo laughs; he gets my point. “You watch too much
Law and Order
, jerk-off. That kid wasn’t worth the effort. He was an impotent, poetry-writing fag. He was in love with Helen for years. We all knew it. And the reason I never did anything about it was because he wasn’t a real man. If he was, he would’ve told her how he felt and let the chips fall where they may. Instead, he waited four years until she got tired of me and decided to try him out. If I’d wanted to kill that kid, I wouldn’t have needed a gun. I would’ve just beat him to death. Look: I’m sure you’re upset that your friend blew his head off, but it’s not my problem.”

“What about Helen?”

“What about her? She wanted him, she got him. Other fish in the sea. I was fuckin’ this one and Helen at the same time, anyway.” He points behind him with his thumb to indicate the girl in the house. “Was havin’ a hard time figuring out which one to be with. Helen made it easy for me. She’s a cunt and all, but I do feel a little sorry for her now that the sissy went and shot himself. Tough break. Kinda serves her right, but not like I’m actually glad the guy’s dead. That’s harsh.”

“Watch what you say.” I curl my fists at my sides.

“You came to me, bud. My porch. You don’t like it, fuck off. You wanna hit me? Please do. I’d like an excuse to kick your face in.”

I take a step back. “You’re even more of an asshole than Ron said.”

Theo steps toward me and cocks his body forward like he’s about to punch me. He does it to make me flinch. I don’t. I stare at him, realizing that I want him to punch me just as much as he wants me to punch him.

We have a staring contest, which Theo breaks by saying, “Go. You ain’t gonna do nothin’, and I’m gettin’ bored. I would rather be inside scratchin’ my ass instead of standing here waiting for you to decide if you want to punch me or kiss me.”

I shake my head and start walking backward toward the street. “If I need something from you, I know where to find you.”

Theo laughs at my lame excuse for a threat. “You ever need a gun so you can do yourself in and be with your boyfriend again, you come see me.”

* * *

Driving home from Theo’s, I’m disappointed. My one suspect can’t be the killer. Not because he isn’t jealous of Ron for taking Helen, because he is to some extent, but he’s clearly not devastated enough. Theo also doesn’t have the brains to pull off killing Ron and making it look like suicide. If Theo killed Ron, he would have left behind so much evidence that he’d already be in prison. The real killer was meticulous and planned ahead. Theo doesn’t seem like the planning type, and his definition of the word “meticulous” is probably
of or relating to metal
.

I judge people’s intelligence by what I can detect behind their eyes. With some people, I see depth, layers, and contemplation. With Theo, I didn’t see anything at all. He’s completely one-dimensional. He has nothing to hide, and he wouldn’t know how to hide it if he did.

Even though I spent a lot of time with Ron in the months before he died, I still don’t know very much about him. Guys tend to reveal details about their lives on a need-to-know basis, and there was very little either of us needed to know. Most of the time we spent together outside of Paine-Skidder was for sketch rehearsal, and we tended to keep our conversations light, for the most part.

I guess I need to find out more about who Ron really was, see if something dark was hiding behind the prankster I knew. I need to get close to the people who were closest to him.

The morning after Ron’s funeral, I show up for work on time. Well, ten minutes late. But that’s on time for me.

I find one of the maintenance men carelessly packing Ron’s office into printer paper boxes. Without going into my cube to turn on my computer and pretend to work, I tell the maintenance man that I had lent Ron a DVD and would he mind if I look for it.

I pour through everything in Ron’s office and find nothing of interest. Ron left himself notes in every drawer that said things like KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK! And JUST THINKING OF YOU. I smile at the notion that Ron was a goofball, even when no one was looking.

Keith stops in while I’m in Ron’s cube and asks me if everything is OK. I know he saw my empty cube and then went looking for me. Though he never uses the expression “time is money,” it really is to Keith. When he catches someone surfing the web, he makes a point to say “hi” to that person, which is his passive-aggressive way of showing disapproval. Ron’s death will be my get-out-of-jail-free card for a while, but Keith still wants to make his presence known.

Seriously, my boss kills me. A twenty-five-year-old kid
died
, and he’s still worried about productivity. The sobbing man in the meeting room is already long gone. I bet the real tragedy in Keith’s eyes is that he lost a reliable, competent editor. Add to that the cost of hiring and training a new editor, not to mention the psychologist hired by human resources to help us cope with Ron’s death, and the result is a ripple in the company’s bottom line. A dreaded spike in the corporate graph of Keith’s world.

* * *

Suzanne comes by before lunch to tell me about the psychologist—where his office is, that I don’t need an appointment if I want to talk to him, and that it will be kept completely confidential if I choose to visit him. I thank her for the info and say I’ll keep it in mind.

Suzanne looks at me with maternal concern. “So. How’re you really doing with this?”

“Not good. But if I were doing good this soon, I’d know I was really in for it. You know?”

She nods. “Don’t be afraid to deal with it. Dwell on it for a while. You need to. And when you need distractions, try to keep them positive. I’m not trying to say ‘bury yourself in your work,’ I’m just—There really are some good, productive things that can fill the time as well as—more destructive options. I like to read a book when I can’t stop thinking about something bad. When you watch TV, your mind is free to roam. When you read a book, you have to focus.”

My smile shows that I appreciate the advice and that I don’t want to continue the conversation.

Suzanne thanks me and leaves. All conversations at Paine-Skidder end with a “thank you,” whether or not it makes sense in the situation. I swear, if you do someone’s work for them while they’re out sick, you hand it to them and say “thank you.” I guess in that context, what you’re really saying is, “Hey, thanks for the three hours I spent doing what you get paid for and falling behind on what I get paid for.”

* * *

Ron’s mother works the late shift as a nurse, so I make the twenty-five-minute drive to her house on my lunch break. Most mothers who just lost a son would take some time off, but I had a hunch she was going to work that night. She probably even went the night of the funeral.

If I weren’t a moron, I might’ve realized that Ms. Tipken working at night means she sleeps during the day. I think of this about five seconds after ringing the doorbell. I contemplate running away from her porch before she has the chance to open the door and yell at me, but I parked right in front of her house and know it’s too late.

The door opens slowly and then I’m face-to-face with a terrycloth vampire. I thought Ron’s mom was intimidating in general, but she is positively
frightening
without makeup. She yawns dramatically and stares a hole in my face. “Are you Ron’s friend from work?”

“Hello Ms. Tipken. I’m so sorry if I woke you up. Yeah, I’m his friend from work. I’ll come back later. Really sorry.”

“I’m awake now and I’m not falling back to sleep any time soon. What do you want?”

“I just wanted to let you know that Ron didn’t kill himself. I know it. I’m gonna find out who did it if the police don’t. I was hoping you could help me with some background on Ron.”

The hole in my face balloons under her unflinching gaze. I’m fairly certain that she only blinks when she feels like it. “Are you a damn retard?”

“Um.”

“Ron killed himself. It’s a fact.”

“No, he wouldn’t have. He had—”

“He was bipolar.”

“Huh?”

“Ron was bipolar. Diagnosed at fifteen.”

“I—”

“When he was seventeen, he took a whole bottle of my sleeping pills. He would’ve died right then and there if I hadn’t found him. I pumped his stomach myself in the bathroom.”

“I—”

“Of course you didn’t know. He never talked about that stuff. He always had to be funny. Nothing funny about that.”

“Sorry I woke you up.”

“Sorry I spoiled your chance to play Columbo.” Ms. Tipken slams the door in my face.

I slump into the driver’s seat of my car wondering if I am actually a high-functioning retard. But I try not to dwell on how much of a jackass I am, and instead drive off snickering about her choice of Columbo as a detective reference.

Waking up a grieving mother and adding to her heartbreak with my naiveté wipes out my appetite, so I drive around for the rest of my lunch break. My brain tells me that this mystery has just been solved. But my gut tells me something is awry. My brain reminds me that I have horrible instincts in every other aspect of life, but my gut chooses to politely ignore that fact.

Ron will never get the justice he deserves if I give up now. And even if I do a thorough investigation and end up coming back to this suicide solution, it isn’t like I have anything better to do to pass the time without him.

* * *

I spend the afternoon reading articles about bipolar disorder and forensic evidence. I order a book about how to be a private detective. I might be the most private detective in history, since my only client is
me
.

Late in the afternoon, Eve knocks on my cube and stands above me with her work smile and a few sheets of printer paper. “Here’s that abstract you asked for. I thought I had an electronic copy, but I didn’t.”