It had been another long day at the office. Johnson Teapants wrapped up his half eaten sandwich and switched off his tiny computer and leaned back in his Eames chair and sighed. The crisp evening outside his floor to ceiling windows did nothing to confort his deep inner malaise.
Detective Wiley had rung him that afternoon and their conversation over the phone had been replaying through his mind ever since.
He took extra time to do everything as he left. Dreading every step that brought him closer to home.
There had been another call. To the house. This time to tell the police in his living room to search the basement. They had found a muddy bootprint. The constable whose responsibility it was to patrol that section of the house swore on a stack of holy books that it hadn't been there on the last sweep.
The phone switchboard insisted the calls were coming from inside the house.
At first, he himself had been the prime suspect in the murder of the man found under his bed yesterday morning. At first, he had drawn some hasty conclusions about him.
Shock is a curious thing. His wife had fallen to pieces and an ambulance had taken her to the hospital. Thank God they hadn't had any kids yet. Johnson, however bizarre his behaviour might have seemed to the first officers on the scene following his 9-1-1 call insisted on returning to his investment banking office in the afternoon so he could wrap up some business with an immovable deadline.
Now all that had to be done had been done.
Hadn't anyone told his wife's lover?
Their no profit in fucking a banker's wife.