Free Fall

59

“So, who’s Bart Smith?” I ask as we drive back to the worldwide headquarters of Sinclair Enterprises.

“If the theory I have been formulating is correct, he is an alias created by David Rosen.”

I remember David Rosen’s Bart Simpson watch and desk clock. Maybe he took John Smith, the most obvious alias in the world, and added a little Simpsons twist.

The compact printer in Ceepak’s new ride is spitting out the details of “Bart Smith’s” potassium cyanide purchase: 97 % analytical grade; came from a company in New Delhi, India. Mr. Smith purchased half a gram for $499.99 and billed it to Sinclair Enterprises.

The lethal oral dose of potassium cyanide? 200 mg or 0.2 grams. A rounded teaspoon of the powder would be about two and a half times the amount needed to kill a person. Bart Smith’s sample? If it really went to David Rosen, he could’ve killed his dad sixty times over.

“So David had the poison sent to his office but to a fake name. I can understand why. But there had to be a chance it would wind up on the wrong desk.”

“Not really,” says Ceepak. “Do you remember my father’s ‘Guns And Ammo’ magazine?”

“Somebody brought it to David.”

“And the stack of mail that arrived at fifteen hundred Ocean Avenue for the second ride operator, Shaun McKinnon?”

Right. My friend Shawn Reilly Simmons gave it to David Rosen.

“As head of Sinclair Enterprises’ human resources department,” says Ceepak, “David Rosen was responsible for making certain all the company’s short-term summer hires received their forwarded mail.”

“So,” I say, “he knew that if he cooked up a name nobody at the company recognized and had a package sent to that name care of the office, it would eventually find it’s way to his cubicle.”

“Such has been my supposition, Danny.”

“And he killed his father because of what Michael said on Friday night? That he was close to proving that Little Arnie wasn’t his father’s legitimate ‘living legacy.’”

“Which,” Ceepak says, “would’ve jeopardized David and Judith’s favored state in Dr. Rosen’s will-if he lived long enough to amend it in light of Michael’s revelations.”

“But wait a second-how come he ordered the cyanide before he knew any of this stuff? I mean, no way he ordered it after dinner on Friday night and got the package in time to doctor the pills first thing Saturday morning.”

“I suspect that David had been contemplating terminating his father’s life for quite some time.”

“Why?”

“To free him from the unrelenting pressure of his wife’s harangues. I’m sure Judith was constantly badgering David, telling him they deserved their full inheritance, now. That they had earned it by putting up with David’s judgmental, demanding, and controlling father. We’ve heard how Judith talks about David. Not just today, but earlier. Imagine what she says to him in private. Late at night. After she has been drinking heavily. Undoubtedly, she hinted at how David could prove himself to be a man. How all their dreams could come true if only …”

I finish Ceepak’s though by paraphrasing Judith’s drunken late-night remarks to her father-in-law: “If only Dr. Rosen did everybody a favor and died.”

“Indeed. I suspect Judith’s constant, emasculating outbursts took their toll on David. He saw an easy way to slip free before his spirit was completely crushed. He purchased the cyanide but couldn’t find the courage to actually do the deed until Michael’s thinly veiled threats on Friday night pushed him over the brink.”

“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.