Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 25, No. 7, July, 1980

The Body Snatcher by Gary Alexander

Since Malonson’s murder, DataAid was in big trouble...

“I feel almost disrespectful, Mr. Webber, coming to you so soon after Jerry Malonson’s passing,” Evan Neale said grimly. “I realize it’s only been a week, but I’m desperate for another finance vice-president. To say things are chaotic now would be a gross understatement.”

“I understand,” Blair Webber said. He too knew of Jerry Malonson’s “passing.” The newspapers reported that Malonson had been stabbed at least ten times more than necessary to send him to corporate Valhalla. Since Malonson’s apartment had been ransacked and cash valuables were missing, the police chalked up the unsolved crime to a burglar with a mean streak.

“For obvious reasons, I would like you to handle it for me,” Neale continued.

For obvious reasons. Webber, owner of Webber and Associates, Inc., Selective Executive Recruitment, had placed Evan Neale in his present position as president of DataAid, Inc., a computer-service firm specializing in accounting, tax preparation, and word processing. In the two years of Neale’s reign, DataAid had thrived. Their board of directors was happy, and Blair Webber was happy; the fee for placing Neale had been his first large one after striking out on his own.

Webber studied the form Neale had completed. “You’re asking for a candidate with both a CPA and extensive technical knowledge in computers. And management experience. You’re tossing me a tough one, Mr. Neale.”

Neale was a large man with grey hair. He talked with his hands. “Perhaps, but those are my requirements. The computer industry is changing so rapidly that technical expertise is essential. Naturally, cost is no problem if you deliver and deliver fast. There will be a nice bonus added to your standard fee if you can produce within a week. Relocation is no problem either, if he’s the right man.”

Webber nodded. That would make an impossible task slightly less difficult. Some corporations balked at repotting an executive from the East Coast because of the moving expense and other perk demands. “Well, that widens the playing field a bit, but still—”

Neale got up and smiled. “I have confidence in you, Webber. I appreciate what you’ve done for me in the past and I like the way you’ve kept your operation small and personal. If there’s a better body snatcher on the Coast, I don’t know who it is.”

Webber forced a return smile, shuddering inside. Body snatcher, head hunter — phrases coined by bitter employers who had lost key people when better opportunities had been presented to them. But it was a matter of perspective, Webber knew — whether your corporation was victim or beneficiary.

He slipped out of Neale’s handshake after the first squeeze. A wiry, natty man half Neale’s size, he had learned the hard way that Neale didn’t mind showing off his knuckle-crunching grip.

“I hope to get back to you in about three days,” he said.

Neale winked. “Think bonus, Webber. Forty-eight hours would be appreciated.”

Webber struck out locally and got on the phone. He had a loose working relationship with similar small firms in most major markets. It was a necessary symbiosis if he was to survive against the increasing number of large operations in the field. Perhaps Neale’s “small and personal” grated him even more than the “body snatcher” remark. Blair Webber did not want to remain small and personal forever. He would prefer to become ponderous and wealthy. But his income was about the same as it had been when he had resigned his position as a corporate personnel manager to hang out his shingle; his was no overnight-success saga.

He wished he could have sold Neale on a generic comptroller. There were literally thousands of them pounding the bricks, Wall Street Journals tucked under their arms. But an accountant who was also an engineer-scientist-manager? Webber wasn’t exactly sure why Neale had demanded this combination, since he had no knowledge of computers himself, but, as they said, the customer is always right.

Twelve working hours and a $700 deficit to Ma Bell later, Webber had gleaned a sum total of two prospects. The first held a high-level position in Philadelphia and seemed, if anything, overqualified. He must have thought his talents and experience put him in the same rare category as Julius Erving — his salary demand was twice Neale’s limit. The second, a younger man from Denver, had the proper education — an electronics-engineering degree with a minor in accounting, and he was studying for his CPA — but he was ground-floor management with a concern much smaller than DataAid. A tad shaky, but he was Webber’s only possibility.

Webber called Neale and gave him a thumbnail description of the Denver man, coming down heavily on his potential and Neale’s chance to sign on a moldable commodity cheap. Neale was only mildly enthusiastic, but he agreed to an interview. Webber set up a conference call to Denver while Neale’s secretary scouted airline schedules. The conversation was brief, but it went well and Neale wired the prospect a ticket.

Webber was uneasy. If it worked out, it would be too simple. Five-digit fees did not normally materialize after a day or two on the telephone. Usually it required a lengthy and complex series of meetings and dinners, a good deal of hand-holding, and intense sales talks to two parties whose needs and desires were not always compatible.

He was right.

“You shipped me a goddamn space cadet,” Neale bellowed into the receiver.

“Settle down, Evan. What’s wrong?” Webber had never been comfortable with Neale on a first-name basis, but he hoped it would have a soothing effect.

“For starters, he’s just a kid. He probably shaves with whipped cream and a cat’s tongue. And the first thing he wants to know is my relationship with the community and whether we have an affirmative action program that’s meaningful! I thought he was going to ask if we dumped our garbage in the river! He didn’t even get to salary and fringies before I’d booked him back to Denver. I’m very disappointed, Webber.”

“There’s a limit to what we can learn in a hurry, Evan. Your case is my first priority, I assure you. I recognize your urgency. But you must realize that what we’re trying to accomplish is slightly more difficult than sending a warm body out of the union hall with a slip of paper.”

Neale lowered his voice. “I know, I know. But things are coming down around my head here ever since Jerry... Well, just do your best, Webber.”

“I’ll be back to you soon,” Webber promised, knowing it was probably a lie. He hated to lose a good fee, but with his limited resources he couldn’t search indefinitely for a two-legged Holy Grail.

The next morning a weedy little man in a checkered suit and horn-rimmed glasses walked into Webber’s office. Since his secretary had gone out for coffee, Webber was stuck with him.

“May I apply for a job here?” the man asked.

Webber lacked the heart to explain that he dealt primarily with employers, not people off the street, and at a level somewhat higher than this fellow’s appearance indicated. There were scores of employment agencies in town, but evidently this man’s delusions had led his fingers to walk the yellow pages from EMPLOYMENT AGENCIES to EXECUTIVE SEARCH CONSULTANTS. Webber gave him an application, which the man — Walter J. Heupel — completed quickly.

Webber glanced at it. “We’ll keep you in mind if anything turns up.”

Later, sorting through miscellaneous papers on his desk, Webber came across Walter J. Heupel’s application. It had been a slow day, so he studied it.

Walter J. Heupel not only had a degree in electronics engineering, he also had an MBA and a CPA. He had management experience too, at a company like DataAid. His past three years were unaccounted for, but Webber was so excited he didn’t worry about it. That gap could be filled in later. He didn’t see bright sunlight at the end of the tunnel, but he could distinguish shadows and fuzzy images. He called Neale, then Heupel, and arranged dinner for the three of them at a plush restaurant. He would ride shotgun and hoped Heupel was what he claimed, instead of what he seemed.

The veal was young, the wine old, the service slow and haughty. But Webber already had so much invested in the project that a larcenous dinner check wouldn’t make much difference.

Heupel showed up looking just as seedy as before.

Neale glared at him, then at Webber, who closed his eyes and prayed for a miracle.

The miracle was granted. He didn’t have a chance to say more than twenty words all evening. Heupel and Neale hit it off spectacularly, bubbling on and on about debits, credits, analogs, esoteric circuitry, and market penetration. Webber leaned back, nibbled at escargots, and sipped fine bourbon.

As they were getting ready to leave, Neale stopped him at the men’s-room door, beaming, and ground Webber’s hand into pulp.

“You’re a genius,” he declared, “an absolute genius!”

Neale’s check was delivered by messenger two days later. He should have been elated, but instead it made him suspicious. He regarded cynicism as healthy, a defense mechanism like pain.

He still had Neale’s file. He compared it with Heupel’s. There were some remarkable coincidences. Both had degrees in electronics engineering from the same school in the same year. Both had earned MBAs from that same institution two years later. And both had passed their CPA exams there two years after that. To be sure it was a huge state university, but it was unlikely that they hadn’t attended at least a few classes together. Yet at dinner there’d been no reminiscing, no talk about football or campus parties. They had been like utter strangers, with their only link career similarities and professional interests.

Webber made some phone calls and decided to dig deeper. Neale’s ridiculously outsized fee would take care of the overhead and more for a while, and with most big companies holding back on expenditures because of the talk of a recession he really didn’t have that much else to do.

DataAid had moved twice since Evan Neale’s appointment, each time to quarters substantially more spacious and elegant. The American Dream, Webber thought as he drove up the service road to the impressive new building.

Evan Neale slouched behind a massive rosewood desk when Webber was shown in. He was not smiling. “Didn’t you get your check?”

“Yes, and I appreciate the promptness. I came by because I don’t believe my assignment ends when I trot over to the bank. I feel that I owe my clients more than that, especially if I think I made a mistake.”

“Commendable,” Neale said icily, fidgeting with a pencil. “But what’s the point of this visit?”

“I investigated Mr. Heupel further,” Webber replied. “While he may seem at the outset a model—”

“He is proving to be such.”

“—candidate, there was an important omission.”

“Really?”

“I recently situated a retired FBI agent into a good security job. He was quite grateful and we’ve remained friendly. He was happy to do me a favor. His former colleagues were happy to do him a favor.”

“Your point?” Neale snapped.

“Your Mr. Heupel, as qualified as he might be, had a lengthy employment lapse. It turns out that his last three years were spent in a minimum-security prison in California. His conviction was for grand larceny. Translated, that means — in his case — computer theft; specifically, drawing the sap from credit cards at the bank where he was employed. Being a layman, I don’t know precisely what he did, though it was probably worth his while. At his trial they could only approximate how much he stole.”

“I know,” Neale said evenly. “He admitted that to me. He’s paid for his mistake.”

“I’m not here for a pound of flesh, Mr. Neale, although Mr. Malonson might like a chunk of yours if he were alive.”

Neale flushed crimson and glanced at his watch. “Fascinating, Webber, but there’s no room on my schedule for games today.”

“This is no game,” Webber said. “Jerry Malonson certainly wouldn’t consider it one. I’m speculating that he was helping you steal from your clients and maybe even your clients’ clients. Maybe you argued over the percentages. Maybe not. Maybe he just caught you with your hand in the cookie jar up to your shoulder and, being totally innocent, he was outraged. The possibilities, like the future of the computer business, are virtually endless.”

Neale cracked his knuckles. “Is that a murder accusation?”

“Oh, no. I doubt there’s enough evidence for that. The police would have fingered you by now if there were. You’ve always impressed me as being rather thorough. And you’re not the type to go to pieces and blurt out a confession.”

Neale smiled. “You enjoy playing Perry Mason.”

“More important,” Webber continued, “since we’re talking business, is the matter of Mr. Heupel. Your time is obviously valuable, so we shouldn’t waste it with a denial that you and he are old cronies. In fact, you probably had him in mind for this job when you took over DataAid. But — shall we say? — he had accepted another position.”

Neale’s stare was arctic. “That’s rather speculative, Webber. Why would I go to the expense of hiring Webber and Associates if I knew Heupel and knew he was available? That college we attended is one of the biggest in the country. You can get lost on that campus.”

“To stroke your board of directors,” Webber answered. “To make them believe you’d found your man after an exhaustive search. If you’d pulled him out of a hat a day or so after Malonson’s murder, there would have been a peculiar odor in the air. Your board likes the job you’ve done, so they pretty much leave you alone, but they might have become suspicious about your relationship with Heupel and his break in employment. It could have become untidy.”

Neale stood up, his knuckles massive and white. Webber sucked a breath to the floor of his chest and said, “I imagine you have quite a temper.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“That’s why I met with a couple of your directors before coming here. I showed them your file and Heupel’s. They drew similar conclusions, hazy but incriminating. They spoke of a complete audit. There must be computers that can find indiscretions made by other computers. Of course, if the investigation proved out as expected they would like nothing better than to stand you up against sandbags in a public square, but that would be terrible for business.”

Neale was seated again, motionless.

“I believe the chairman has been notified. It’s possible he will call you to discuss a quiet resignation. The corporate equivalent, I believe, of delivering a pistol to your cell with one round in the chamber.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me too much,” Neale replied. “And I wouldn’t be shocked to hear that you’ve been assigned to replace Mr. Heupel and myself.”

“They did mention that it was refreshingly unusual, in this day and age, for a private contractor to assume the initiative of further work after he has been paid.”

“And Mr. Heupel and myself?”

“The board members, Evan, are from the old school. They believe in chin-up, carry on. God put carpets on earth for dirt to be swept under. Cooperate and you can get on with your career.”

Neale was smiling again, stiffly. “Two years in one place is enough,” he said. “As much as I love the Northwest, I haven’t really been able to adapt to the rain here. Arizona, Texas, or Los Angeles might be a nice change. Walt is flexible. New frontiers and all that. Any number of burgeoning companies need our talent and experience. If your workload permits—”

Webber rose and opened his briefcase. He had, in fact, talked to a colleague in Alaska just this morning. There were several openings in Fairbanks for top-notch computer people. The hardest thing to explain to prospects was that they couldn’t always have everything they wanted. Webber pulled his chair closer and sat down again. “Let’s update your file, Evan, and see what we can do,” he said amiably.