Chris Grabenstein - Free Fall

“He murdered his own father.”

Ceepak nods grimly. “However, I feel certain that, in David’s eyes, he merely hastened his father’s exit from this world; shortening the old man’s life by a few meaningless months.”

“But it’s still murder. Right?”

“Roger that.”

We arrive at Sinclair Enterprises around 2 P.M.

David Rosen is sitting on the far side of the floor in his glass box, working his phone.

“Hey, how’s it going, fellas?”

Seems Bob, the manager from the StratosFEAR, is visiting headquarters today, too.

“Fine,” says Ceepak, his eyes laser-locked on David. “Nice of you to inquire.”

“You know, Detective Ceepak, your pops gets off work early today. Might be a good time for you two to grab a little chow, knock back a couple cold brewskis, bury the hatchet.”

“Not going to happen,” I say. “We’re busy. Need to arrest someone for murder.”

“Really?” says Bob, eagerly. “Who?”

“Danny?” says Ceepak, shaking his head.

“Excuse us,” I say to Bob.

Ceepak and I march across the wide room. Bob goes over to a nearby copy machine and pretends like he’s ready to collate a couple documents. But I can tell, he has his eyes glued on Ceepak and me.

“Sorry about that,” I mumble in a whisper.

“It’s all good,” Ceepak whispers back. “However, we can only arrest David Rosen when we have sufficient evidence to press formal charges.”

“So you’re hoping he confesses?”

Ceepak nods. Then, outside David’s cubicle, he clears his throat.

“Hugh? I’m going to have to call you back. It’s those cops again. Right. I’m not sure. Okay. You’re the boss. Appreciate it.”

He hangs up the phone.

“Mayor Hugh Sinclair,” he says like he expects us to be impressed.

We’re not.

“He’s in the neighborhood. Might pop in to say howdy.”

Ceepak ignores what, I’m guessing, David hoped would be a threat.

“Mr. Rosen? We need to talk to an employee of yours.”

“Okey-doke. Which one? I’ve got a million of ’em.”

“Bart Smith.”

“Smith? Name doesn’t ring a bell …”

“He recently ordered half a gram of potassium cyanide from a chemical company in India.”

“Coincidentally,” I add, “that’s the same chemical that killed your father.”

David strokes his goatee.

“Smith, Smith, Smith …”

“ Bart Smith,” says Ceepak.

David snaps his fingers. “Right. Bartholomew Smith. One of our custodians. Said something about ordering poison to take care of rodents in the rafters over at Cap’n Scrubby’s Car Wash.”

“May we speak to Mr. Smith?”

“No. ’Fraid not. He didn’t last very long. Liked to sleep in the dryer room with the warm towels. We had to let him go. Back in late May, I believe.”

“So did the package come to your desk?”

“Pardon?”

“After you fired Bartholomew Smith, did the cyanide sample he ordered from India end up on your desk?”

“I don’t think so …”

“Shawn Reilly Simmons signed for it,” I say, placing a copy of the order form Botzong e-mailed to us on David’s desk.

“Really?” David makes a confused monkey face. “I really don’t recall any packages. You say it came from India? I think I would’ve remembered the stamps. I still collect them. How about you fellas?”

“This shipped DHL,” I say, tapping the form. “No stamps.”

“Did you order the potassium cyanide under an assumed name, David?” asks Ceepak.

“Me? No?”

I hear the front door whoosh open. Feel a blast of humid air.

“What’s going on here?”

Get ready for a sunny, funderful day.

Mayor Sinclair is in the house.

“Officers, what is the meaning of this intrusion?” demands the mayor.

Ceepak gestures at David Rosen, who is still sitting trapped inside his glass cage and looking more and more like a hamster who lost his wheel.

“Your honor,” says Ceepak, making a pretty loud pronouncement, “we have reason to believe that your Human Resources director, Mr. David Rosen, poisoned his elderly father, the late Arnold Rosen, with potassium cyanide purchased by Sinclair Enterprises.”

Mayor Sinclair looks stunned. The other employees have stopped doing any kind of work. They’re all staring at David.

I notice Bob over at the copy machine. He silently mouths something that looks like it rhymes with “moldy grit.” He heads for the door like he is ready to tell everybody he knows, “Hey, guess who murdered his old man?”

I notice tiny droplets of sweat forming on top of David’s bald dome.

“And tell me, Detective Ceepak,” says the mayor, “do you have any proof to substantiate your accusation?”

“We are currently piecing together a trail of evidence,” says Ceepak, once again telling the truth when I wish he would just say, “ Yeah, David did it .”

The mayor scoffs. “A trail of evidence?”

“Yes, sir. Information recently obtained by the New Jersey State Police Major Crimes Unit suggests that the poison-the murder weapon, if you will-was purchased by David Rosen under an assumed name and paid for by a Sinclair Enterprises corporate credit card. We further hypothesize that he placed the order for that chemical compound right here, from one of your computers or telephones. Therefore, we will be requesting a search warrant granting us permission to impound your computers, confiscate your files, subpoena your phone records …”

“Whoa, wait a second, cowboy. It’s summer. Business is booming. You can’t come in here and shut down my back office operations.”

“Yes, sir. We can. Immediately after Judge Rasmussen signs the search documents, which I anticipate happening within the hour.”

The mayor turns to Rosen.

“David?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Did you do this thing the detectives say you did?”

Sweat is dribbling down David’s brow. “Of course not.”

“We’ll also need the complete pay records for one Bartholomew Smith,” says Ceepak.

“Who?” asks the mayor.

Ceepak doesn’t answer.

So the mayor turns to Rosen. “David?”

“Short-timer, sir. Worked here in May. A little bit of June. Had that rodent infestation problem.”

“What? Where?”

“Cap’n Scrubby’s, I think. Could’ve been one of the ice cream parlors, though …”

Panic fills the mayor’s eyes. The last thing he wants is for rumors to start spreading around town about what those brown lumps really are in his Moosetracks ice cream.

“David, I’m wondering if, perhaps, you should take the rest of the day off. Maybe take a few personal days as well-until this police matter blows over …”

“I promise you, sir, what these detectives are saying …”

“ Paid personal days, David. Okay? Go home. Spend some time with Little Arnie and Judith. Find yourself a good lawyer.”

We follow David Rosen as he drives home to Tuna Street.

On the ride, Ceepak advises Mrs. Rence, our dispatcher, to pull the cops keeping an eye on Christine Lemonopolous and Michael Rosen off their assignments.

“However,” he adds, “we need to continue the twenty-four-hour surveillance detail outside 315 Tuna Street. David and Judith Rosen’s home.”

“Will do,” says Mrs. Rence over the radio.

“Can you put me through to Chief Rossi?”

Ceepak and the Chief hammer out the details needed to get the legal paperwork moving through the system-warrants that will allow us to toss the headquarters of Sinclair Enterprises and confiscate all their hard drives.

It’s a little after two in the afternoon when we reach the Rosen residence on Tuna Street.