Chapter One

The single most perfect day in David's life began with breakfast. David knew it would be the perfect day, because he had planned it out the night before. Get up at five a.m. Breakfast, five-thirty. Pack a lunch. He would go in to work at six o'clock, get a head start on the day, and then get his promotion.

Breakfast that morning consisted of Flakes o' Crunch, the new health cereal, a banana, and some Valium. No milk in the cereal; David never had milk in his cereal. He drank water instead, carefully wiping the bottom of the glass with a folded paper towel before placing it on the kitchen table.

Then, once the dishes had been cleaned and stacked in the kitchen cupboard, it was time to go to work. David worked at Zing Advertising, Inc. (motto: “We put the ‘zing' in advertising!”). He was in Creative Planning, which meant, basically, he came up with all the ideas. And he was... well, if not exactly sick of his job, certainly ready for the long-awaited promotion to Vice President, now that George Gregory was retiring. Mr. McKowsky would certainly give it to him; who else was there? Moira, in Accounting? David gave a quiet snort, and put on his neatly-pressed suit jacket. He was ready.

The short bus ride down Lexington Avenue to work passed pleasantly enough; he sat in a far corner, away from all possible crazy people, and went over his memorized acceptance speech. He was focusing intently on the last few words of the speech (“I am especially honored and grateful to be working directly with our wonderful president, Richard McKowsky”) when two police cars blazed by, nearly sideswiping the bus.

What was that all about? David wondered, glad he had not brought coffee into the bus. It would have spilled across his lap, and possibly on his best blue tie, which he was wearing in honor of this perfect day.

The sound of the sirens echoed in his ears all the way to work. It was almost annoying. Not that David would allow anything to annoy him, today of all days. He wondered, though, why the police cars had stopped in front of the building which contained, among other things, the Zing Advertising business. Was something exciting going on? David hoped not. Not today.

But there was. When David got to Floor 31, home of Zing Advertising, he could tell something was definitely going on. Policemen and -women were bustling all over the place, generally looking efficient-yet-grim, as most policepersons did. David, who tried to be politically correct, always referred to them, in his head, as policepersons.

“What's going on?” he asked at large, entering the central office area, which housed cardboard boards decorated with advertisements for such products as God Chips (“They're heavenly!” read the placard), Root Wine (“Root beer for the sophisticated palate!”), and the controversial new product, Lunchables® Green Eggz and Ham (“Eat them anywhere!”).

“Mr. Snelley?” came a voice, and David turned to see a very large and grim-looking policeman approaching.

“Yes?” said David, extending one hand in his customary gesture of politeness. The policeman brushed him off.

“Come with me, Mr. Snelley,” he said instead, leading the way through crowds of other policepersons and stacks of advertising placards.

David followed, more than a little confused. What was going on? He had the awful, gut-wrenching feeling that this day was not going to turn out perfectly, after all.

The policeman led him down the hall to the right, straight to the door labeled Mr. Richard McKowsky, President, and opened it. David let out a gasp and stumbled backward in shock.

“Pretty damn sick, eh?” said the policeman. “Horrible thing, seeing that done to a person, isn't it, Mr. Snelley?” David could only gulp faintly. Mr. McKowsky was slumped over on the huge mahogany desk, dead as a doornail. Deader than a doornail, in fact. He was extremely, unquestionably dead.

“Oh my God!” David said, covering his face with his hands. “Ummyghurr!” he added indistinctly, lips burrowed into his palms. “That's--” he forced his shaking hands away from his mouth and wiped his lips with one jacket sleeve-- “That's awful!”

“Yes, it is,” said the policeman, folding his hands in front of him. “Yes, it is.

“Oh,” he added, “this is the detective on the case. Nick, meet David.” He motioned at the small man who had just walked up to them.

“The name's Nick,” said the small man. “Detective Nicholas Greever.”

“Nice to meet you,” David said automatically, shaking his hand. The large policeman moved off, barking indistinct orders to various other policepersons.

“You see, David,” said Detective Greever, “The thing is--can I call you David? Great-- The thing is, with a crime of this nature, we naturally want to do all the investigation we can. You don't mind if I ask you a few questions, do you, David?”

“No, certainly not,” David said. “It's just... can we get out of this room? It's a little--” He indicated the corpse sprawled at the desk.

“Ah, of course,” the detective told him. “Let's go to your office, shall we?” David nodded, though to be honest he didn't love his office. It was covered in large, arty posters and various advertising bulletins and placards. David did not particularly like the placards, though he designed a lot of them. All in all, the decor in his office was slightly disturbing and very garish. But not as disturbing as the decor which now decorated Mr. McKowsky's office.

David led the way to his office, which was located far down the hall from Mr. McKowsky's (former) office, through a set of glass doors labeled “Creative Planning” and through another, oaken door, labeled “Mr. Snelley, CP, Exec”. Walking there, David heard Detective Greever's sure footsteps echoing down the corridor behind him and had the uncanny feeling that the detective had already known where his office was.

They opened the oaken door and entered David's office. David looked around, and immediately saw that someone had been there first. His files, usually arranged in neat reverse-alphabetical order (to prevent discrimination on the basis of alphabetical placement) were slightly off; a file labeled “Angry Guppy Fish Chow” was now first in the filing cabinet, where David knew “Zestful Chile Soup” had been just last night, when he had left the office.

Detective Greever noticed the direction of his gaze and moved over to the filing cabinet.

“You wouldn't happen to have any documents pertaining to the case in here, would you, David?” he asked, flipping though the thick wad of files.

“What? Why-- you mean, the case, case? Mr. McKowsky's... death, that case? Of course not!”

“I see,” said Detective Greever. He selected a file and looked through it. “You were looking for a promotion, is that right?” He glanced at David, eyebrows bristling.

“Yes, I was, but I suppose now...” David sighed. With the company president dead, who knew what would happen?

“Indeed,” said Detective Greever. “Well, I suppose you want some time alone to mourn.”

David paused. Yes, he did have to mourn. He had liked his boss, respected him. His favorite memory of Mr. McKowsky was that time they had done the hamster wheel advertisement with the giant hamster wheel... that had been a lot of fun. Mr. McKowsky had even helped build the giant wheel and run on it himself, wearing a hamster suit. That was just like Mr. McKowsky. The ad hadn't done well, though. In fact, Happy Hamster Wheel Co. had lost--

“Well, I'll just leave you alone,” Detective Greever repeated, a little more loudly, walking over to the office door and opening it.

“Oh, yes,” said David. “Alone. Right.”

Another Mr. McKowsky memory was... oh, God. David could not think about it anymore. Mr. McKowsky was dead. He had been murdered, and who knew what psychotic had done it! Who knew what that person might do next!

My life is in danger, David thought.

“Wait!” he called after the detective, rushing to the open office door. “Who did it? Do you know-- who killed Mr. McKowsky?”

“We have some idea,” Detective Greever said, turning around to look at David. “Obviously we haven't gotten all the facts yet, he only died some seven hours ago.” He nodded at David. “Now, if you'll excuse me?”

“Sure,” said David. He returned to his office and sat there for awhile, thinking hard about various things. He went through his filing cabinet, idly straightening the skewed files. He noticed the corner had been ripped off of “Krazy Kitty Kat Kibble” and “Muted Tones Art School” had been put in the cabinet upside-down. He put the files back in their proper positions and wondered again who had disturbed them and why. He had a fairly good idea who had done it, actually. It had to have been the police, investigating. But why? How could he, dear friend or at least acquaintance to Mr. McKowsky, be under suspicion?

Well, the police did have to check up on everyone, David thought. They were just doing their job.

But somehow, he felt sure they had not checked up on Moira, in Accounting.

David sighed and leaned back in his chair. The image of Mr. McKowsky, slumped dead in his chair, seemed to be stuck in his mind. Mr. McKowsky, dead. Who had done it? Who could possibly want to kill the head of a minor advertising agency like Zing?

Well, it wasn't up to him to find out. David ran his fingers through his hair, then patted it flat. It was the policepersons' job to find the murderer, and he wanted them to do it quickly. If that meant searching his filing cabinet, so be it. It was just like those airport security checks; for the good of the public, or whomever.

Only this wasn't a security check, it was a murder. David leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. He just couldn't get the image of Mr. McKowsky out of his head! The blood! The awful bullet wounds! The pink slip on the desk! Had he been firing someone when he died? David shook his head, face still burrowed into his fingers.

“Mr. Snelley?” came a voice from the door, causing David to look up quickly. It was the large policeman he had spoken with earlier.

Wish I had my Valium, he thought. Sighing for perhaps the fifth time that day, he adjusted his tie-- it had been slightly askew-- and said, “Yes?”

“Come with me, Mr. Snelley, Nick-- Detective Greever wants ta see you.”

David came, or rather, was led to a-- hell, why was the policeman taking him to a broom closet? Unless... was he really a policeman?

“Are you really a policeman?” David asked, looking sideways at the man.

“Yes.” The policeman's voice sounded amused. “Wanna see my badge?” He held it up before David could answer, not that this was much help. How was David to know what a police badge looked like? But there were a lot of policepersons here; if they weren't all real, something more strange than David wanted to think about was going on. David decided he was being really irrational, thinking all of this about the police, who were only looking out for his safety after all, and followed the policeman into the broom closet.

“Now, Mr. Snelley,” said the policeman, fingering his badge and glaring down at David, “wait here for Nick. I mean Detective Greever.” He strode briskly from the broom closet, slamming the door behind him and raising a large cloud of dust. David coughed into his pocket handkerchief and settled down to wait there in the broom closet. He wasn't bored, though he had to wait almost five minutes for Detective Greever. He had plenty to occupy him, brushing the dust off his clothes.

“Well hello, David!” said Detective Greever, opening the door and raising another cloud of dust. David was coughing too hard to respond. The detective waited a few seconds, until David's coughing subsided, then went on, “We have a few things to discuss, David.” He patted David on the arm in a friendly manner.

“Do we?” David asked, trying to squirm away from the patting arm. “I mean, didn't we finish our discussion earlier? And may I ask why this discussion has to take place in a broom closet?” He tried, ineffectually, to slap the dust out of his clothes.

“Ah, no,” said Detective Greever. His voice sounded jovially regretful, like a doctor telling someone his cardiogram was abnormal. “I actually do have a few more questions for you, David.”

“Yes... right,” David said, “Well, go ahead, let's get them over with.” He tried to smile.

“All right.” Detective Greever folded his arms and stared straight at David, looking a little less jovial than he had before. “May I ask, David, where you were last night?”

“At home, asleep.”

“Let me rephrase. At what time did you leave this office, David?”

“Could you-- ah, never mind.” David had been about to request that the detective stop saying his name every other breath, in that JOVIAL tone, but decided at the last minute it would be bad manners to do so. “I was actually here quite late last night. I don't remember exactly how late; I think I left sometime around ten-eighteen or so. Working on the new line of Angry Guppy products, you know...” David trailed off.

“You left without saying goodbye to Mr. Richard McKowsky?”

“Well, it was late; I assumed he had gone home. I suppose he hadn't,” David added. Well, of course not, not if he had been killed at midnight. Killed. Killed! It was hard not to panic thinking about it, here in this little, dusty closet with Detective Greever. For the second time that day, David wished for his Valium.

“And, David,” said Detective Greever, causing David to grit his teeth in annoyance, “I assume you locked the office, presuming you were the last to leave? Though this was not true, was it, David, if indeed Mr. McKowsky was killed after you left? David?”

“Yes!” David yelled, at the end of his figurative rope. “I'm right here! You can STOP SAYING MY NAME NOW!” He took a breath and adjusted his tie. “Um. Excuse me.”

“Ye-es,” said Detective Greever, looking sharply at David. “You don't mind if some officers escort you home, do you Da-- do you?”

“Ah,” David said. He played with his tie again, leaning against one dusty wall of the closet. “No. Not at all. It's for my safety, right?”

“Yes, it is for your safety, Da-- yes.” Detective Greever nodded very slowly, then moved to open the door. On his way out of the closet, he asked, “By the way, Da-- er, are you on any... medication?”

“Oh,” David said, straining toward the light outside of the closet, “Yes. Um, Valium, but I'm not really ON it, I mean to say-- well. Yes.”

“I see,” said Detective Greever. “I'll call the officers right now. You'll be leaving now, of course?”

“Yes!” David said. “Yes, I will be leaving now! Right away in fact! He pushed his way past Detective Greever out of the closet. “Thank you very much!”

“You're welcome, David,” said Detective Greever, firmly shutting the closet door behind him as he exited. “The police officers are over there.” He nodded to a far corner of the room, where several young-looking policepersons were loitering. “Guys!” Detective Greever called out, “Meet David. You'll be taking him home, isn't that right, Da-- uh.”

David ground his teeth. What with the closet, the constant mention of his name, and that piercing stare, Detective Greever was one annoying detective.

“Um,” said David, walking over to the policepersons, “hello. Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand for shaking, and he got it. Each of the policepersons (their group was comprised of four men and a woman) hung onto his hand like he had just saved them from drowning, or something.

“Well,” said one of the policepersons (David still hadn't learned their names and had the feeling he wasn't going to), “It's time we were going, isn't it? Come on,” he said, turning to David, “You get to ride in an actual NYPD vehicle.”
David was not exactly excited.