As the time approached, to say that Robert was scared by the note would have been an understatement. Yet you wouldn’t have known it from looking at him, not the way he was acting. He responded, after he began to take the message seriously, that is, with command and anger. He could take care of it; he didn’t need help from the police or anyone else.
When Robert first found the typed note
on his desk, he took it as a joke. It was only after the camera situation
increased the peculiarity of the message that he was convinced otherwise,
and felt the need to take action.
Mr. Bent,
I regret to inform you of the end of your life at 20:37 of this day. I suggest that you choose the actions of your next few hours wisely, and I wish you the best of luck in things to come.
Unsurprisingly, the note was not signed. But the culprit could not escape him. He would show them that no one could make a fool of Robert Bent. Robert quickly folded the note, and put it into his pocket so that no one else would know of its existence. As he left his cubicle and headed for the security room, he glared down the hallways, as if daring someone to call him a name.
He had seen these kinds of things before, on TV mostly. It was classic. The unsigned death note, the timer running- Robert checked his watch. One hour and 43 minutes to catch the criminal. Robert was worried, but you wouldn’t have known it from looking at him.
“Robert? May I have a word with you about the design project?”
A question about the design project? Did she really have a question, or was she trying to prevent him from checking the cameras?
“Later, Sandra, I’m busy.”
He reached the room and began trying keys, one at a time. He wasn’t generally a suspicious man, so he had no reason to enter the security room on even a semi-regular basis. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in there. When he found the right key, an oddly shaped silver one, he quickly entered the room and shut the door behind him.
It took a moment to get oriented. There were three screens with poor quality images. Also in the room was a rotating stool, and a desk that protruded out from under the televisions. There were old papers scattered on the desk and the floor, and odd objects just about everywhere. A paperweight, a shot glass, a condom, a toothbrush- why would someone bring a toothbrush into the security room? There was a clock there too, a little electric one with the time blinking back and forth the way it does when someone forgets to reset it after a power outage.
Robert turned to the screens. The one on the right pointed to the front door, the middle one to the back door, and the left one to the lunchroom. That was all. No cameras pointing anywhere near his desk. Robert should have known that, but he hadn’t been thinking. Death notes have that affect on people.
Robert rewound the tapes, and watched the last few hours in fast forward. His employees had walked around, so had he, and most had left around 6:00. No one strange had entered the building at any time. He knew every face on the screen. The note must have been written by one of his employees.
So, one of his workers was threatening him. He would show them that that was no way to mess with Robert Bent. He would show them, but how? He could go up to each one, ask “did you leave a certain death threat on my desk,” but that was no way to go about solving a mystery. How demeaning, and besides which, who would answer such a question?
Robert retuned to his office. He pushed the intercom button on his landline, and spoke into the microphone. “Attention. All Malkotech employees must report immediately to conference room 24A. Repeat: all employees to conference room 24A.”
This was the part where the fear was coming in. But no one could see it. When all the other people in the building had assembled - there were four of them - all anyone could see on their boss’ face was the familiar rage.
“Does anyone know why they were called here?”
Robert’s employees remained silent.
“Has anyone seen this before?”
Robert pulled the wadded up piece of paper from his coat pocket and shoved it in the most conveniently located face.
Still silence.
“In that case, you will remain here until someone can tell me what is going on.”
Robert rose from his chair, threw the note to the table, and stormed from the room. There was a click that followed, and when George Herman went to check the door, he found it to be locked.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Sandra had grabbed the note, and Carl
quieted down as she began to read.
Mr. Bent,
I regret to inform you of the end of your life at 20:37 of this day. I suggest that you choose the actions of your next few hours wisely, and I wish you the best of luck in things to come.
“God.” That was Betty. “And we’re supposed to do something about this?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“So, one of us wrote this letter. And we’re locked in this room until we find out who did it. Am I right?”
“That and the fact that we have to turn the person in without getting killed ourselves.”
“If the threat is for real.”
“Of course.”
“One of us is a murderer. God.”
“What time is it?”
“About 7:15. That’s what I get for working so late,” said Carl, “being stuck in a room with a murderer.”
“So we have over an hour to figure this thing out. Where do we begin?”
They sat there, wondering. To accuse could be dangerous, not to mention a horrible thing to do to a fellow human being, even a murderous one. Sandra, George, and Betty had been working together for over five years now, and Carl, after one and a half years, was no stranger to the team. To accuse would feel horrible. One did not want to do such things to a coworker.
Betty was the first to speak. “We must lay down ground rules if we are to get anywhere. George, will you record?”
George nodded, and, fetching a piece of paper from the room’s supply and a pen from his pocket, he began with the word Rules at the top.
“First of all, we must agree to keep our suspicions to ourselves until all facts are on the table. That means no accusing. Are we all okay with that?”
Nods and yeses followed, and George wrote No Accusing on his paper after a perfectly formed number 1.
“Next, we must agree to be honest. And in return, we must agree not to ask each other whether or not we wrote the note. No questions coming close. I assume that the author will share when they feel the time to be appropriate, but in the meantime, we shall not ask.”
Carl shifted in his desk chair, spinning to face Betty directly. “Don’t ask, don’t tell?”
“Precisely.”
“But how will we find out?”
“I believe we shall know when the time comes.” Betty looked into her coworkers eyes, one at a time. “Lastly, we all need to answer every question, as completely as possible. Are we ready to begin?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes.”
“Shoot.”
“I will begin with myself. How do I feel about my job?” Betty paused for a few seconds, and then continued. “I’m getting older now, and the idea of retiring has passed through my mind. However, I do not feel that I could quit my job at this point. Robert is not an ideal boss, sure, but I enjoy what I do, and I enjoy the company. I could never just sit at home. I feel investment towards my group, and overall, I am satisfied. Unlike with some of my previous occupations, I am content to come to work each morning.”
Again nods from her audience. “George?”
“Ok.” He had been taking notes on Betty’s statement. Underneath this was a bulleted list of his response to the question. “I am, for the most part, okay with my job. I appreciate the challenges I face in web design. Malkotech is a convenient distance from my house.”
“Not me,” Carl responded. “It’s a 45 minute commute if the traffic is good, an hour, and hour and a half if its not. This is the only thing I could find when Carioten was laying people off. But I’ve been doing this for a while now, and it’s not so bad as it was. As for the job? It’s good work. It pays, and I even have some old college friends around. You have no idea how cool that is. Just like the old times. Except the drive. I’m looking for a place around here though.”
“Sandra?”
“It’s ok. Puts food on the table. I think I could do better, but I'm not going to put in the energy to look. It’s fine.”
Betty confirmed that everyone had answered the question as completely as they had intended. They were being so cooperative, confirming Betty’s suspicion that the note had done nothing to change the relationship between this particular group of coworkers.
“How was your day? Sandra?”
“Not bad. I didn’t get as much done as I would have liked on the design project; that was why I was still here when Robert called. He was being pretty uncooperative the whole day, and I didn’t get a chance to corner him. But I had a nice lunch with Bob.”
Carl said, “He was being uncooperative. He’s good at that. I had a decent day myself though. Up until being locked in a room, unable to go home, that is. This is probably illegal, actually. Now that I think about it.”
But no one made any move to call for help. Most had already realized that they did not desperately want out of the room. Their minds turned to images of their desk piled in work. Forgetting the prompt for this conference, the actual discussion was quite pleasant. Betty stated this as she explained about her day. Nothing interesting had happened before the call. She too had extra work, and that combined with no one waiting at home had lead to her working late.
George was the last to speak. “My day was fine. I fixed the marketing team’s site, and worked on a few programs. Nothing exceptional.”
“You said nothing about Robert.”
“Betty didn’t ask.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Are you ready for me to ask? Are you ready to talk about Robert?”
“Sure,” said Carl.
After the others had indicated their agreement, Betty spoke again. “What reason do you have to be angry with Robert Bent? Carl, you begin.”
“A power struggle, really. He talks patronizing, gives me unnecessary directions, like I can’t complete simple tasks on my own. It gets to me, and I get mad. I’m not going to deny that we argue. Heck, we yell at each other, swear, you name it. I tend to think there’s some kind of mutual understanding involved. Something about how we get all our anger out screaming at each other, and then we can go about our business and feel better. That’s what I think, but I could be wrong.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Just the yelling. He’s mean, he threatens me, like ‘I’m gonna fire you over this,’ or just, ‘I’m gonna get you, you wait and see.’ But so far, its just words.” Carl sat back in his chair. He hadn’t noticed himself lean forward. “That’s all.”
“Thank you. Sandra?”
“He hits on me. A lot. I guess it’s my fault, really, I flirt quite a bit, and he returns it. Just, it gets creepy. Scary even. Sometimes I don’t feel safe.” Sandra stopped, and then added, “I don’t flirt with him anymore, though.”
“Do you have anything else to add?” The two women’s eyes locked. Carl noticed, but by the time George’s eyes had left the floor, each woman was looking straight ahead. Betty nodded in his direction, and George began to talk.
“The same as Carl. He treats me like a child, as if I hadn’t been working at Malkotech for nearly as long as he has. He screams at me sometimes; I don’t think he appreciates me. I don’t yell at him though. I get mad, but I do not yell.” George found himself again looking at the table; at the set of rules he had written out half an hour ago. He turned to Betty. “I’m done.”
“I tend to ignore his patronizing. We’ve been working together for so long, I’m pretty used to it. But he does get on my nerves sometimes. Sometimes his actions are inexcusable.”
Silence. The four of them looked down at their feet, around at each other, and back to their feet again. Carl looked to his watch, and announced that they had 52 minutes to go. The timer had turned to 50 before anyone said anything else.
Finally, Sandra spoke. “There’s more.”
“I was hoping there would be.” Betty’s voice was softer now, much different from her take-charge tone.
“We went on a date once. It was pretty early on, three years ago now, and I didn’t know any better. I thought it would help me. We went to a restaurant, and then a movie, and a bar, and ended up in his bed. I said no, but he didn’t listen. Too drunk, I guess.” Sandra put her face in her hands. A new weight had fallen on the room; somehow much heavier then the weight of having a potential murderer among them.
Betty said, “She told me about this two months ago. I didn’t know until then, and I was shocked. I told her to report it, but she couldn’t. I went to Robert. I went to him to talk about rape, but I was too scared. I’ll never forgive myself for that. Hell. I’ll get him tomorrow. If he lives through today, that is.”
“Heh.”
“Jesus Christ.” They were awake now, as if the weight had changed its direction, pushing at their hearts, causing them to beat faster. Carl said, “I’d kill him for that.”
“That’s not funny,” said Sandra.
“Oh, but I’d do it too,” said George.
“We just went from zero confessions of intent to two.” Interesting, thought Betty, how that wasn’t uncomfortable. She had predicted that those words would emerge, and that a possible confession of guilt would follow, but whenever her thoughts had wondered over that point, she’d imagined strain, awkwardness, and fear. Somehow these words, which could not be taken lightly in such a premise, were comfortable.
“I’ve always hated the man, but I would never think to do something about it. However, rape is inexcusable. The fact that he got away with it for three years! This is ridiculous. He should have been fired and convicted then. As a civic duty. God knows how many more he’s –“
“But I went with him. I agreed to the date, even agreed to go home with him. I can be such a slut.”
“Don’t you go making excuses for him, Hun. What he did was completely wrong, and we all know it. He raped you. Completely valid definition of rape.”
“So what do we do?”
“We could set a trap. Set a bomb in his cell phone. He hardly uses the thing, so he wouldn’t discover it until we called. The bomb would go off when the phone opened at a specific time.” Everyone looked to George.
“I wrote the note.”
Nobody talked for a few minutes. Then
Betty, “Did you mean it? Did you actually plan to kill Robert when you wrote
the note?”
“I’m not sure. I was quite mad at him at the time. I wrote it a few days
ago after he attacked me for my poor social skills, and the letter was to
vent. When he did it again today, I dropped the message on his desk. He’s a
sick human being, I’ll tell you that,”
“But did you intend to follow through?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But that doesn’t matter now,” said Carl. “Because we’re going to do it.”
“God, are we?”
“This is murder. Murder is illegal. We’ll be arrested for sure. It’s so wrong.”
“But it’s so easy. And think about how much he has done to each and every one of us. To the others who already went home.”
“He’s evil, sure. We all agree on that.
But does he deserve to die?”
Robert had been waiting in the office, pacing, counting the minutes. Why he’d hung around he wasn’t quite sure. The best thing he could think of was that he didn’t actually believe the note. He didn’t want to get in trouble for abandoning his employees in a locked room, but he didn’t quite want to let them out either, He’d wait it out, he figured. No harm could come to him while they were all in there. Even so, he had decided to step out of the building as 8:37 approached.
On the steps of the officer building across the street from Malkotech, Robert sat, staring at the passing cars. After what seemed like forever, he felt a buzz in his pocket. Good, he thought. They must have figured something out. Robert reached into his pocket, and was comforted to see the name George Herman on the outside display window.