Gene Novotny, Detective From Corporate Headquarters

Gene Novotny, Detective from Corporate Headquarters
In:
The Case Of The Permanently Dead Temp


One thing was clear. The temp was dead. Sometime that morning, between filling up the coffeepot and clearing the voicemail at the Cupertino branch of State Plan Insurance, the temp had been killed.

At first, her co-workers thought she might have had a heart attack or slipped and fallen, but then Helen Poole had helpfully pointed out that she had obviously been stabbed with the very large knife that was still sticking out of her back.

Another day, another case for Gene Novotny, Detective from Corporate Headquarters.

As soon as Gene stepped foot in the Cupertino office, fresh off his flight from Corporate Headquarters in Seattle, he knew that something was wrong. He could feel it in his casual pleated Dockers, he could sense it right down to his discount oxford shoes, purchased at a local Shoe Pavilion. Something was horribly horribly wrong: everyone was standing around, staring at the dead temp instead of making their cold calls.

“We’re not paying you to stand here staring at a body. If you don’t get back to your desks, I’ll write each of you up,” Gene said, “And somebody record the temp’s time of death on her time card. We’re not paying her for a minute more than she was alive.”

Gene set up his interrogation center in the conference room. Across from him sat Jim Garroulian from accounts receivable, nervously sipping coffee from a paper cup.

Gene’s eyes narrowed.

“What are you drinking, Jim?”

“Coffee.”

“In a paper cup?”

Jim gulped, “Y-y-yes.”

“Oh, then I guess you’ll claim never to have read this!?!?” Gene whipped a memo out of his briefcase. It floated to the table like a bird shot out of the sky on one of Gene’s weekend hunting trips with State Plan Insurance Vice-President of Human Resources Cal Kitter.

Jim picked up the memo. It clearly stated that employees were to bring in their own coffee mugs so that the company could avoid wasteful spending on paper cups.

“Yes, I guess I’ve read that,” Jim murmured.

Gene slammed his fist on the table.

“Speak up!”

“Yeah, I’ve read it. What of it?!”

“What of it?” Gene leaped across the table and grabbed Jim where his tie should have been, according to State Plan Insurance dress codes, available for anyone to read in the State Plan Official Corporate Manual available at the reception desk in each of its twenty-three branch offices.

“What of it? Do you think that Corporate sends out those memos just to make you laugh?”

“No,” said Jim, “But my mug broke yesterday when George Hollander threw it at a wall. He was angry because the temp, Cathy, made out with Hal Furman at happy hour at Applebee’s. George said she was the only woman he ever loved, and that he was going to stab her, stab her right in the back!”

Gene paused, and loosened his grip on Jim. He got a faraway look in his eye. Yes, everything was falling into place now. He knew who had killed the temp.

Clearly, Jim Garroulian, not wanting the temp to reveal that he had used a paper cup to drink his coffee that morning, had killed the temp as she was running to her computer to email California area supervisor Linda Dillman to report him.

Yes, yes. That was exactly what had happened.

“Stay right there,” Gene said to Jim, “Sit right there, murderer,” Gene said.

And then he went to phone corporate from a land line, since he knew that he couldn’t be reimbursed for roaming cell charges.