Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018

Human Resources by David Dean

Although he is the author of three novels, David Dean has primarily specialized in the short story over his nearly thirty years as a published writer. Since getting his start in EQMM’s Department of First Stories in 1990, he has produced some four dozen stories for this magazine and others for anthologies, winning an EQMM Readers Award and receiving nominations for virtually every other award in the genre.

The phone rang twelve times before it was answered.

“Yes!” the voice on the other end shouted. “What is it? Who is this?”

Stuart almost dropped the phone; the pen he had been twirling between his fingers flew across the small office. “Mr. Twinning?” he managed. “I... this... this is Stuart Carlson, human resources director for Calypso Marketing Technologies. Remember me?”

There was a long pause. Stuart could hear the man on the other end breathing hard — a steady, heavy exhalation through his nostrils... puff... puff... puff, like a steam engine at idle. After what seemed a very long time, he answered in a voice pitched higher than Stuart remembered it, “Yes... yes... I remember you.” It sounded as if he were in pain, or trying not to laugh.

“Is this a bad time to talk?” Stuart asked, hoping that it was. He had not wanted to hire Brad Twinning in the first place, a fat, red-headed man whose jokiness had reeked of desperation.

Again there was a long pause.

“Bad time...?” Twinning replied at last. Stuart thought he heard him chuckle, but couldn’t be sure. “What is it, Carlson? What do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything,” Stuart managed, regretting the call even as his boss’s words rang in his ears — “Twinning is the one. He’ll do a good job for us, and I like him. We need some people around here that are likable. Call him, Stu.”

“Are you still interested in the position with us, Brad... or not? I’ll need an answer today, I’m afraid.” This wasn’t true, but he hoped it might help dissuade Twinning from accepting the job.

This time he did hear the other man chuckling.

“How long has it been?” Brad asked in return. “Six weeks... more...? That’s a long time, isn’t it, Stu? I wonder if you really know how long that is.”

After a few moments, Stuart realized that the man was actually waiting for an answer. “We’ve interviewed a lot of applicants for the position, Brad. I’m sorry if you were inconvenienced.” This wasn’t altogether true either — the interviewing process had ended four weeks before.

When Stuart discovered that all three of his top recommendations were being overlooked, he had found it difficult to cooperate with his boss’s wishes, forgetting to call Twinning before going on his vacation. As if in punishment, the time in the Bahamas had been a nightmare, two days lost to rain, his wife bored and indifferent, his teenage kids sullen and embarrassing.

His boss had been furious upon his return, hence the humiliating call today. “Do you want the job or not?” Stuart snapped.

This time there was no mistaking the laughter. “Let me check with the wife, Stu!” Brad roared. “Honey,” he shouted, his voice echoing down an unseen hallway, “it’s Calypso with a job offer! What do you think about that... ’bout time, right? I told ya and told ya they’d come through! What...?” he cried. “I can’t hear you! You’re gonna have to speak up, because I cannot hear you! No, I can’t, not a word!”

Stuart felt as if he were dreaming all this... having a nightmare.

Then Twinning began to howl like a dog, deep and heartfelt.

Snatching the phone away from his ear, Stuart disconnected, staring at it in his hand as if it might crawl up his arm. He let it slide off his sweaty palm onto his desktop, thinking that if it began to ring he might leap from his chair.

“Did you reach him?” Sonia Wycliffe, the company’s V.P. and number-one whip-cracker, asked.

Stuart turned with a start to find her in the doorway, arms folded; her long, lean figure slouched against the doorframe.

“Yes... I did...” he managed.

“Well...? What did he say?”

Stuart’s mouth felt dry, his lips chapped. “Well... he... he...”

Sonia straightened up, arms still folded across her crisp white button-down blouse, her grey skirt snug across her hips. “Stuart... did you make him the offer we discussed, or not?”

“I tried to,” he began, “but he didn’t... I mean...” He glanced up to find his boss staring hard at him, her green eyes taking on a smoldering look.

Would she believe him about the howling, Stuart wondered, or think he was making it up, stalling once again? Had he really heard it at all? “We got disconnected,” he blurted, “some kind of problem on his end.”

She took a step inside his office. “Did you call him back?”

“Yes,” Stuart answered. “I tried... several times. No luck.”

She continued to study his face. “You don’t look well,” she pronounced finally. “I hope you’re not coming down with something contagious. Why don’t you call it a day and go home.”

Stuart rose stiffly from his ergonomic chair. He didn’t, in fact, feel at all well now.

“And on your way home,” Sonia continued, “stop by Twinning’s house. It’s right on the way, if I remember the address from his file correctly.”

Stuart opened his mouth to object.

“Just do it, Stuart. No more fighting me on this, understand? It’s very important that you don’t.”

Picking up his jacket, he nodded and left the office without another word.

Stuart considered driving by Twinning’s house without stopping, telling Sonia that her pick for one of their choice sales slots had turned him down flat; had found employment elsewhere. But he knew that she would check, follow up on his visit.

Sliding his car along the curb, he parked across the street and wiped his palms on his trouser legs as he studied the house. He guessed the subdivision to have been built about sixty years before, and it was clear that quality workmanship had gone into the construction of the homes. After the birth of his first child Stuart had considered buying in this neighborhood, but Rita had been adamant about an open floor plan. She could not do without it, so they had bought in a newer neighborhood that entailed a much longer commute.

Twinning’s house appeared content with itself nestled amongst mature trees, its green tile roof almost the same shade as the sheltering leaves. Stuart noted that the lush lawn needed cutting, and that several branches scraped both the walls and roof in the fragrant breeze of early spring. As he exited his car and crossed the quiet suburban street, he also noticed a bicycle lying almost hidden in the rank grasses, a blue Taurus parked in the drive yellowed with pollen and dust.

Wiping his palms on his trousers once more, Stuart mounted the three steps to the small porch. His legs felt weighted and stiff.

As he reached for the bell, he saw that the door stood ajar. He had not noticed it from the street. His finger hovered as a dank atmosphere wafted through the narrow opening.

“Hello?” Stuart called, not recognizing his own voice. It sounded more like Brad Twinning’s had just an hour before, high-pitched and strained. “Mr. Twinning, it’s Stuart Carlson from Calypso! Are you home?”

As he bumped the door with his shoulder it swung inward enough to reveal the small foyer and the living room beyond. “Brad, we’d really like for you to consider our offer! We’d be very pleased to have you aboard!”

As his eyes grew more accustomed to the dim interior, he took a few steps into the house and halted, feeling his skin grow cold and pebbled — Brad Twinning knelt at the far end of the room facing the front door, his head bowed, his knuckles resting on the floorboards.

Confused, thinking perhaps the man was praying, Stuart took a step back, saying softly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize...” then stopped.

Twinning didn’t react or respond, just rested on his knees in silence.

Then Stuart saw the electrical cord that ran tautly from the doorknob of the closet behind Twinning to disappear between the folds of his neck.

“Oh my God,” he heard himself say.

Hurrying to the man’s side, he attempted to untie the cord from round the doorknob, but found it cinched too tight to give. Turning, he reached out for the cord’s other terminus, then stopped, his hand arrested. He could not bring himself to dig into the flesh of Twinning’s neck. Instead, he lifted one of his hands and felt for a pulse in his doughy wrist.

Though Twinning’s skin was still warm, his heart was no longer beating. Having apparently leaned forward until he blacked out from the stricture of his windpipe, his own weight had completed the task of strangulation.

“It’s not possible,” Stuart whispered. “I just talked to him. This isn’t possible.”

Releasing the arm, he looked into the face of the man he had not wanted to hire. “You didn’t have to do this,” he challenged the heavy, sagging face with its reddish whiskers, the half-opened eyes starred with burst blood vessels. “You didn’t. This is not my fault.”

The corpse smelled of cheap liquor. Stuart noticed a pint of bourbon lying next to Twinning, empty but for a swallow. He almost reached for it.

Taking a step back, he thought, “I should just leave here. This has nothing to do with me — there’ll be police and questions. I did offer him the job, after all.”

Looking round the darkened home, Stuart noticed that all the curtains were drawn though it was the middle of the day. He also saw that the living room was missing its television, a dusty rectangle on the wall being all that remained.

When he glanced into the dining room it was empty of furniture, the hardwood floor coated with dust as well. There were no rugs, which accounted for the echoing acoustics he had noticed over the phone, and the air in the house felt thick with clammy moisture, as if the furnace had not run for some time.

Now the unmowed lawn, the unused car, began to make sense — Twinning’s life had been winding down, the homey comforts first, then the necessities, one by one, as he used up his savings.

Stuart recalled now that Twinning had been unemployed for over a year when he had applied to Calypso Technologies, and wondered how Brad’s wife and kids had reacted to the dissolution of their shared lives. He knew how his own would — Rita would have packed up the children and fled to her parents with the first missed mortgage payment.

This made Stuart remember the discarded bicycle in the front yard and Twinning shouting to his wife earlier. He turned his head to look up the staircase. If Twinning’s wife or kids were up there and didn’t yet know, then saw Stuart leaving, it would look strange, he reasoned, even incriminating.

“Hello!” he tried again. “Mrs. Twinning... are you home?” His voice echoed up the stairs and into the darkness of the second-floor landing.

Reaching out, he flicked the wall switch for the stairwell’s light fixture. Nothing happened. Extracting his cell phone from his jacket pocket he activated its flashlight function as he began to make his way up the stairs.

Gaining the landing, he swept the beam from side to side, revealing all the doors lining the hallway to be closed.

“Hello!” he tried again, but not as loud. The powerful shaft of light created deep shadows that appeared to grow or shrink with his nervous movements. Reaching the closest door, he took a breath, then turned the handle. It gave way without resistance and he peeked through, flooding the dim room with light.

It appeared empty but for a single bed made up with a pink cover and dust ruffles. Some posters on the wall featured pouty-looking teenage boys that he recognized as pop stars. Stuart pulled the door closed once more.

Glancing down the stairs, he could see the side of Brad Twinning’s face and his curly mop of hair, his corpse straining against its leash.

Forcing himself on, Stuart tried the next door and found another made bed, this time a teenage boy’s room, if he were any judge, but again no occupant.

Opening the third with more confidence, he discovered this room to contain a king-sized bed. Sweeping the light across its expanse, he saw at once that it was as carefully made as the others, but unlike those it was... occupied.

Beneath the taut covering three distinct figures could be discerned lying side by side, a blackish stain spreading outward from them.

With a cry, Stuart staggered back, turning in the same moment to flee down the hallway. Running headlong down the stairs, he was just able to maintain his footing, even as he tried to avoid the kneeling figure he had to pass. Bumping into it despite himself, he set it swaying side to side at the end of its short tether.

“Goddamnit,” Stuart cried, rushing out the front door and slamming it shut behind him.

Reaching the walkway, he slowed, then stopped, his breath coming in gulps as he gripped his knees and drew in the fresh, clean air. Outside, the world was just as he had left it, greening and silent but for the sound of distant freeway traffic, the street devoid of pedestrians, most of the driveways empty of vehicles. It was the middle of a typical workday — the moms and dads at their offices, the kids at their schools — the Twinnings dead... every one.

Straightening, he realized that he was still clutching his cell phone, the flashlight still on. With shaking fingers he switched it off and stared at its keyboard for several moments.

If I call the police, he thought, I’ll have to answer their questions, very likely be mentioned in the reporting of the incident. This kind of thing would make big news. Everyone would associate Stuart Carlson with murder and suicide.

And what would Sonia think? He could almost see the look on her face when she learned of what had happened — the smug flattening of her lips, the shaking of her head that would say, “I told you to call Twinning weeks ago. Maybe if you had done as you were told this would never have happened. You’re a self-important little prick, Stuart.” That’s what she would be thinking... and that’s what she’d be saying behind his back.

Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Stuart glanced around once more and, seeing no one but an older woman with her back to him watering flowers, hurried to his car and drove away.

“Are you having some kind of problem at work?” Rita asked.

Looking up from his mostly untouched dinner, Stuart tried to keep his expression neutral. “No... of course not. Why do you ask that?”

“You came home early today... which never happens. Is something going on you want to tell me about?”

“No! There’s nothing going on!” Stuart said with more force than he had intended. There was no way he could tell Rita about what had happened — about what he had discovered in that house. She would ask why he went there in the first place and why he had yet to call the police. “Sonia Wycliffe is giving me a hard time, that’s all — nothing new.” This was true enough, he thought.

“When are you going to get over her becoming your boss?” Rita snapped, surprising him with her vehemence. “It’s getting old, Stuart. Either accept the situation or apply somewhere else, for God’s sake.”

“Grow a pair, Dad,” his son added, chuckling.

“Shut your smart mouth, Tommy!” Stuart rounded on the sixteen-year-old. “And pull that goddamn hood off your head at the dinner table.”

It angered Stuart that the boy slouched around wearing a hoodie wherever he went, pretending to be some kind of inner-city thug despite the expensive braces on his teeth.

“I’m done,” Tommy replied, pushing away from the table and standing, his face blank and indifferent. “Peace out.” He walked from the room without a backward glance.

Turning on Rita now, Stuart said, “Nice job, babe. You set me up good there.”

“You’ve set your own self up, Stuart,” she countered without raising her voice, her dark eyes sparking.

“I think I’ll cut my wrists if you two get started tonight,” Stuart’s daughter remarked from her seat. With dyed black hair, black clothes, and dark makeup round her eyes, Stuart thought Shelia looked dead already.

“Let’s drop this now,” he agreed, speaking to Rita while wondering if Brad Twinning had endured dinners like this one. “I don’t want to argue tonight.” Wadding up his napkin, he rose from the table and went in search of a bottle of scotch.

“I don’t care if you change jobs, Stuart,” Rita called after him, “but we can’t afford for you to be fired. We’re carrying too much debt and I’m not making enough money yet to carry the load alone.”

Stuart didn’t miss the “yet” — someday he might become expendable. “I’m not getting fired,” he responded.

When he reached the liquor cabinet he changed his mind and poured himself a stiff shot of bourbon instead.

“What did he say, exactly?” Sonia asked, having summoned Stuart to her office shortly after his arrival at work.

Stuart’s mouth felt dry and cottony; he had drunk too much the night before while sitting up to watch the news for word of the Twinning family. There had been nothing. Now he felt muddled and sweaty. “Just that he had accepted a position elsewhere, but appreciated the offer. Was flattered, he said.”

Sonia seemed to give this some thought. “Where?” she asked.

“What...?”

“I asked where he got hired.”

“Umm... I don’t think he said.” Stuart was having a hard time keeping his eyes on Sonia’s sharp face.

“You drove over to his house and didn’t bother to ask that? You didn’t think I’d want to know who hired away my pick out of two dozen candidates?”

“Well... I... I didn’t actually go to his house, Sonia — I really wasn’t feeling well, remember, so I tried again on my cell and got him that time. So there was no need to actually go there.” He threw up his hands. “I think he might have said Burton-Voight, I’m just not sure.”

Sonia sat looking at him.

“You didn’t go there.” It was a statement, not a question.

Stuart shook his head anyway.

“Stuart,” Sonia began, rising from her seat, “I think you need to give some serious thought to the direction your career is taking here.” She opened the door to her office.

As Stuart walked past her and out into the maze of cubicles that formed the work floor, she added, “I’ve got a good friend who works in personnel at Burton-Voight. I’ll give him a call.”

Walking away, Stuart felt her eyes on his back.

After his meeting with Sonia he spent the remainder of the day pretending to be working, picking up the phone whenever he heard anyone approaching and covering the mouthpiece if they stopped at his office, eyebrows raised at the interruption.

Sonia put in an appearance late in the afternoon. She wasted no time. “Paul Tracy at Burton-Voight has never heard of Brad Twinning, and they haven’t done any hiring in months.”

“Well, I said I wasn’t sure,” Stuart answered. “Twinning seemed upset about something, was kind of hard to understand.”

“Was he, Stu?” Sonia said, not bothering to mask her disbelief.

“Why don’t you call him and ask?” he challenged, knowing what the result would be.

“I did. No one answered... which is strange. You called Twinning on your cell yesterday, right? And he answered?”

“I said he did.”

“Do you mind if I try your phone, then? Maybe I’ve got the wrong number plugged in.” She put out her hand, palm up... waiting.

Stuart almost handed it to her out of reflex, then stopped, realizing that she would see there had been only the one call to Brad Twinning. He felt his face growing warm. “You don’t believe me,” he stated, feeling the walls moving closer, even as his indignation swelled to meet them.

Sonia appeared to give this some thought, then said, “No, Stuart, I don’t. In fact I think you’ve intentionally blocked me on this from the beginning, though why, I am at a loss to understand. So maybe you better give me something here.”

“I’m not used to being called a liar, Sonia!” he shouted, both his frustration and fear of discovery boiling over together. “Get yourself a goddamn warrant if it’s so important! I’ve got a right to privacy!” Brushing past her, he fled toward the lobby, heads popping out of cubicles to witness his passing.

When Stuart returned two hours later, drunk enough to throw himself on Sonia’s mercy, it was to find the contents of his desk packed into a cardboard box and left for him at security. After demanding his ID badge, the guards escorted him off the premises.

On his way home that evening, he stopped his car across the street from the Twinning home. It had not been his intention when leaving the office, but now here he was, staring at the house in the fading light as the shadows beneath the trees swallowed it up little by little.

Sipping from a pint bottle of whiskey, Stuart found himself hating the dead man inside almost as much as he hated Sonia Wycliffe. It felt as if the taint of Twinning’s failed life had been communicated to him like a disease.

As he considered the spread of this contagion, a thought, a possible solution to his situation, crept into his mind: Instead of keeping the deaths of the Twinnings secret any longer, what if he, through an anonymous tip, contacted the police? Once the investigation was done and the times of death determined, he might be able to reverse his trajectory. Despite what ammo it might give Sonia about his having contributed to the tragedy, Stuart could say to any and all how lucky it was he hadn’t stopped at Twinning’s house as Sonia had wanted — he could’ve ended up as dead as the rest of them!

And wasn’t he the better judge of character by dragging his feet on Sonia’s selection — her choice had been a psychotic killer! This was something he could argue with the president of Calypso to his favor. He could get his job back and damage Sonia’s credibility in the bargain!

Feeling more confident now, Stuart took another pull on the bottle, capped it, and tossed it into the glove compartment.

“Home,” he muttered, pulling away from the curb, having already decided that Rita and the kids were to know nothing about the day’s events. What good would it do? Anyway, he would have his job back before missing a single paycheck, he felt sure now.

Arriving at his house, he slid into the driveway and clambered out of the car with some difficulty, leaving the box of his office furnishings in the trunk. Unlike the Twinning household, his own was well lit in the cool darkness of the evening, nearly every window glowing. “Let’s keep the goddamn electric company happy,” he said as he fumbled open the front door.

Rita was waiting for him in the foyer, arms folded across her chest. “Calypso called to say that they forgot to collect your cell phone. Now that you’re no longer employed there they want their property back.”

Stuart thought she looked almost happy about it.

“That bitch...” he snarled, thinking of Sonia Wycliffe’s sharp, foxy face, her long, slender neck, and how good it would feel to put his hands around it and throttle her to death. Instead, he raised his arms to take Rita by the shoulders. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” he began. “I’m gonna get my job back, believe me. This is just a misunderstanding that I’ll get—”

“And you’re drunk...” Rita observed, her pretty features frozen in distaste. “Classic.”

“I’m not drunk!” Stuart slurred. “I’m just upset! Who wouldn’t be?”

Shaking free of his grasp, she walked away, answering, “You’ve got that much right, Stu — who wouldn’t be?”

Stuart thought of rushing after her, demanding her loyalty, a loyalty that at one time had been given freely.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” he screamed instead.

Rita spun round, her face no longer frozen, but startled and fearful.

“Don’t you ever walk away from me!” Stuart repeated, advancing on her now, hands clenched into fists.

Tommy appeared in the hallway, eyes wide, mouth open. “Dad...” he began, his normal cockiness forgotten.

Stuart raised a finger in warning. “Not one word, smartass, or I swear I’ll...”

Tommy’s mouth remained open but soundless.

From the corner of his eye Stuart saw Shelia watching from the kitchen, her funereal makeup beginning to run onto her cheeks like black blood, whimpering in fear of the stranger who had broken into their home.

Was this how Brad Twinning had felt at the end, Stuart wondered? Abandoned and despised? It seemed very likely.

He took another step closer to Rita as she raised a hand to her face. Up close, he could see his own reflection in her trembling tears, an image looming and distorted, terrifying and monstrous. Like his wife and children, it seemed that he too had transformed into something unrecognizable.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a shuddering breath, struggling to regain control, praying that no one would say anything, do anything. “It’s been a very stressful day... as you might imagine. I probably shouldn’t have started drinking.” They continued to stare at him, motionless. “I’m going to get everything straightened out, I promise... first thing tomorrow.” He nodded his head in emphasis. Seeing that no one dared respond, he nodded once more and turned away.

Stopping as he opened the front door, he added, “I have to go out for a little while, but I want you and the kids to be here when I come home, Rita. I want all of you here. Don’t make me come looking for you. Yes...?”

“Yes...” Rita answered in a faint voice.

As he drove away, Stuart couldn’t get her face out of his mind, her blanched cheeks, her large startled eyes. “So beautiful,” he thought. “She’s so very beautiful.”

Stuart arrived at the Twinning house after midnight. Before he made the anonymous call, he needed to cleanse the death house of any traces of his previous visit. He had seen enough television police dramas to know that a forensics team would descend on the scene once it was reported. If his prints or DNA turned up after his denial to Sonia of ever having been here, the police might come to the wrong conclusions. So he had made a stop at an all-night pharmacy on his way.

Easing the car door shut, he glanced at the neighboring homes, finding all but a few darkened, the cars in their driveways glistening beneath a sickle-shaped moon. The street was so quiet that Stuart could hear the soft shuffle of his footsteps as he crossed the street and entered the greater darkness of the Twinning yard.

Setting down the small plastic bucket he was carrying, he pulled on a pair of thin latex gloves. When he touched the door handle a pulse of fear joined in with the hammering of his heart, and he steeled himself for what lay beyond. Retrieving the pail, he pushed open the door and slid through.

Closing it behind him, he risked switching on the tiny LED light he had purchased along with the other supplies. The icy blue beam shot out to capture Brad Twinning still straining at the end of his tether; his face swollen grotesquely and almost black now.

Taking a breath, Stuart tried to concentrate and remember what surfaces he may have touched the day before. Setting down the bucket once more, he removed a scrub pad and a plastic spray dispenser of alcohol-based cleanser, then approached the dead man.

I’ll start with the doorknob the cord is tied to, he thought. That’s where I went first. Then the bannister, the upstairs bedrooms, and lastly, the front door, both sides, on my way out. And don’t forget Twinning’s wrist, he reminded himself with a shudder of disgust.

Being careful to avoid the body, he slipped by it to kneel at the closet door. Spraying both the knob and some of the cord stretching away from it, he began wiping every wetted surface with gentle movements. As he rubbed at the wire he could feel the faint vibration of his efforts traveling along the cord to the corpse leashed to the other end. After several minutes of this, he stood to consider his work.

At that moment the doorknob surrendered to the strain.

With a metallic pop it launched outwards, striking Stuart in the knuckles, causing him to drop the flashlight even as it released Twinning’s bulk to topple over, crashing into his thighs and knocking him backwards with a cry. Slamming into the floor, Stuart felt his breath rush out, even as he struggled to free himself from the dead man. From somewhere near, Stuart thought he heard voices, and for one mad moment was afraid that the rest of Twinning’s family was rising to come to his aid.

“Let me go,” Stuart managed at last, trying to kick free. “Let me go, goddamn you!”

Then he was loose and scrambling to his feet. Snatching up his flashlight, he shone it down on the bloating corpse, his breath coming in gasps. Twinning lay face down, his ballooning arms at his sides.

Thinking hard, the last effects of his earlier drinking shocked from his system, Stuart dragged the body back to the closet. Fearful that Twinning’s altered position might lead investigators to think he had been a victim and not the perpetrator of his family’s slaughter, Stuart set to work restoring the scene as best he could.

Threading the wire through the hole where the doorknob had once been, he tugged hard to pull Brad back up to a kneeling position and tie him off. Concentrating on this gruesome task, his heaving lungs and pounding heart filled his ears.

He failed to hear the opening of the front door.

“Don’t even think of moving,” a voice from the darkness warned as a brilliant light captured him and Twinning in its beam like actors in some macabre play.

For several moments Stuart couldn’t speak or move as he stared stupidly into the blinding radiance. Finally, he managed to say, “He’s... he’s dead.”

Several shadows detached themselves from the mass framed in the doorway and moved toward him.

“We can see that for ourselves,” one of them said.

They were close enough now that Stuart could see that they were police officers. “I didn’t do this. He was... already dead when I found him,” he explained, trying hard to appear rational, to be rational, even as everything he thought he knew of himself seemed to shatter like glass and fall away.

“When was that?” the smaller of the two asked, as the larger cuffed Stuart’s hands behind his back. “When you came here before... or now? We got a witness who saw you and wrote down your license-plate number, thought you were acting strangely. I think she was right. She called us when she saw you come back tonight.”

Shining the light on Twinning’s blackened face, the officer answered his own question, “I’d say before.” The beam swept across the overturned pail, the cleaning supplies. “I see,” he murmured. Turning the light onto the stairs, he barked at two officers who had remained near the door, “Sean, you and Will check the bedrooms. There’s supposed to be a family lives here.”

“They’re dead too,” Stuart said in a hopeless tone, surrendering his flimsy composure and beginning to weep as he thought of how different things would be if he had called Brad Twinning when he should have. Thinking, too, of his own family cowering before him earlier, terrified of what they saw in him, dreading what he might do when he returned.

“Sarge, there’s three more up here!” a strained voice called down in confirmation.

Bowing his head as large, hot tears ran down his stubbled cheeks, Stuart began to plead, “I didn’t do this... I didn’t... I swear I didn’t!”

Patting him on the shoulder, the police sergeant began to lead Stuart away, replying in a reasonable tone and with the faintest of smiles, “Of course you didn’t — you just dropped by to lend a hand with the housework.”

As he began to chuckle, one by one, the other officers joined in, and soon the rustle of suppressed laughter echoed within the house of the dead.

© 2018 by David Dean