Джозеф Файндер - Company Man

Nick placed a hand on Hardwick’s bony shoulder. “Stratton’s been around for almost seventy-five years,” he said, “and I can assure you, it’s going to be here long after you and I are gone.”

Hardwick gave a wan smile. “I wasn’t asking about Stratton. I’m asking if you’re going to be around.”

“Count on it,” Nick said. He gave Hardwick’s shoulder a squeeze as, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eddie Rinaldi leaning against the wall by the entrance to the Lab, arms folded.

“Excuse me for a second,” Nick said. Eddie rarely dropped by, and when he did it was always something important. Plus, Nick didn’t mind taking a break in this awkward exchange.

He went up to Eddie. “What’s up?”

“I got something for you. Something you better take a look at.”

“Can it wait?”

“It’s about your stalker. You tell me if you want to wait.”

Eddie sat down in front of Nick’s computer as if it were his own and pecked at the keyboard with two fingers. He was surprisingly adept for someone who’d never learned how to type. As he navigated through the corporate intranet to the Corporate Security area, he said, “The boys in the guard booth at your little concentration camp were more than happy to help out, of course.”

“You’re talking about Fenwicke Estates.” Eddie smelled of cigarettes and Brut, the cologne he’d worn back in high school. Nick didn’t even know they still made Brut.

“Now, they’ve got a nice setup there — high-definition, high-res Sony digital video cams positioned at the entrance and exit. Backlight compensation. Thirty frames a second. The cops didn’t even ask to look at their hard-disk recorder, know that?”

“Like you said.”

“Shit, they didn’t even do the bare minimum, for appearances’ sake. Okay.” A color photo appeared on the monitor of a lanky, bespectacled figure. Eddie clicked the mouse a few times, zooming in on the figure. He was a man of around sixty with a deeply creased face, a small, tight mouth, close-cropped gray hair, eyes grotesquely magnified by the lenses of heavy-framed black glasses. Nick’s heart began to thud. A few more mouse clicks, and the man’s grim face took up most of the screen. The resolution wasn’t bad. The man’s face was clearly visible.

“Recognize him?” Eddie said.

“No.”

“Well, he knows who you are.”

“No doubt. What, did he just walk through? Some security.”

“Climbed the fence in the wooded section, actually. Cameras there get triggered by motion sensors. No alarms there — they’d get way too many false alarms with all the animals and shit — but cameras up the wazoo.”

“Great. Who is he?”

“His name is Andrew Stadler.”

Nick shrugged. He’d never heard the name.

“I narrowed it down by laid-off male employees in their fifties or older, especially with outplacement irregularities. Man, I spent most of the morning looking at mug shots. My eyes are crossing. But hey, that’s why I get the big bucks, right?”

Eddie double-clicked the mouse, and another photo appeared on a split screen beside the surveillance image. It was the same man, a little younger: the same heavy black glasses with the ogling eyes, the same slit of a mouth. Under this photograph was the name ANDREW M. STADLER and a Social Security number, a date of birth, a Stratton employee number, a date of hire.

Nick asked, “Laid off?”

“Yes and no. They sat him down for the layoff meeting and he quit. You know, said, ‘After all I’ve done for this company?’ and ‘Fuck you,’ and like that.”

Nick shook his head. “Never even seen the guy before.”

“Spend a lot of time at the model shop?”

The model shop was where a small crew of workers — metal-benders, solderers, woodworkers — built prototypes of new Stratton products, in editions of one or two or three, from specs drawn up by the designers. The model-shop employees tended to be odd sorts, Nick had always thought. They’d all done time on the factory floor, bending metal, and they were good with their hands. They also tended to be loners and perfectionists.

“Andrew Stadler,” Nick said, listening to the sound of the name, scanning the data on the man’s file. “He was with the company thirty-five, thirty-six years.”

“Yep. Started as an assembler on the old vertical-file-cabinet line, became a welder. Then he became a specialist level two — worked by himself in the chair plant repairing the returns. Refused to work on any of the progressive build lines because, he said, he hated listening to other people’s music. Kept getting into fights with his floor supervisor. They learned to leave him alone and let him do his work. When there was an opening in the model shop five years ago, he put in for it, and they were glad to get rid of him.” With another couple of clicks, Eddie brought up Stadler’s employee reviews. Nick leaned closer to read the small type. “What’s this about hospitalization?”

Eddie swiveled around in Nick’s chair and looked up, his half-wild eyes staring. “He’s a fucking nutcase, buddy. A brainiac and a maniac. The guy’s been in and out of the locked ward at County Medical.”

“Jesus. For what?”

“Schizophrenia. Every couple of years he stops taking his meds.”

Nick let his breath out slowly.

“Okay, Nick, now here’s the scary part. I put in a call to the Fenwick PD. Something like fifteen years ago, Stadler was questioned in the possible murder of an entire family that lived across the street.”

Nick felt a sudden chill. “What does that mean?”

“Family called Stroup, neighbors, used to hire this guy to do repairs, odd jobs. Mister Fix-It — guy’s a mechanical genius, could fix anything. Maybe they got into some kinda fight, maybe they looked at him wrong, who knows, but one night there’s a gas leak in their basement, something sets it off, whole house blows.”

“Jesus.”

“Never proven if the whole thing was an accident or this wacko did it, but the cops suspected he did. Never could prove it, though. Had to let him go — no evidence. Just strong suspicion. Nick, this guy Stadler is one dangerous motherfucker. And I’ll tell you something else you’re not going to want to hear. This fruitcake’s got a gun.”

“What?”

“There’s an old safety inspection certificate in his name — found it in the county records. Like twenty years old. And no record of sale, which means he’s still got it.”

“Jesus. Get a restraining order.”

Eddie made a soft, dismissive pfft sound. “Come on, man, TROs are bullshit. Piece of paper.”

“But if he tries to go on my property again—”

“You can get him arrested for trespassing, man. Not for stalking. Big fucking deal. You think that’s going to stop a goddamned psychopath? Guy who eviscerated your goddamned dog? Guy who hears voices, wears a tinfoil hat?”

“Jesus Christ, Eddie. We got a time-stamped image of this nut climbing the fence right around the time my dog got killed. The cops got a knife that might have prints on it. They got enough to charge the guy with my dog’s death.”

“Yeah, and what have they done, right? They haven’t done shit.”

“So how do we make them take action?”

“I don’t know, man. Got to apply some serious pressure. But they’re going to be busy covering their big fat asses, so they’re not exactly going to snap to. I say we scare the shit out of this loon first. Once the police get involved in any real way, we gotta keep hands off Stadler. But in the meantime, we got to make sure you and your family are safe.”

Nick considered for a moment. “All right. But don’t do anything that’ll compromise me in any way. So no getting rough with him. I just want the fucker locked up somewhere.”