He needs to understand this establishment more fully. What's more, he needs to determine if anything on the premises could be used as a murder weapon.
Further exploration of the ground floor accomplishes neither of these goals, yet Simon continues his way through the hallways of the building's rear portion, aiming to check every last nook and cranny. The employee lounge, a supply room... there has to be clues somewhere, but there is not, at least not that he can discern.
He should have asked Ms. Prior-Stewart if the victim or defendant had reason to interact anywhere other than in the loading dock, where the bulk of their work took place. As it is, he recalls the employee profiles on her desk when they spoke earlier; even, reading from them.
But what are the chances there is information she omitted?
Now, he hasn't the permission to rifle through her files, but if she left them on her desk? Open, available... if he were to just happen by them, while stopping in because he was certain he'd forgotten his pen...
Simon approaches her closed office door and jiggles the handle, only to find it locked. Huh, how peculiar. Even at the prosecutors' office, most of his fellow associates did not lock their doors, as there was nothing to hide.
"Mr. Blackquill. What else might I help you with?"
He whirls around, met with Ms. Prior-Stewart's imperious gaze.
He doesn't lie, exactly, but he doesn't admit the whole truth. And for why, he isn't quite sure. "I was only familiarizing myself with the layout of this floor."
"I'm not sure how that involves attempting to break into my office."
She had been nothing but pleasant with him thus far, but that accommodating nature has disappeared. Now, she shows the severity of a strict librarian, ready to shush Simon for speaking too loudly or needlessly—or even speaking at all.
The untruths continue in a mollified stammer. "M-My apologies. I had grown so misdirected in these hallways I did not even realize this was your office."
She nods, accepting his apology far more graciously than that bumbling dottard of a detective. "How goes the investigation?"
"Nearing its end, at least for today. We've made great progress." Again, Simon has nothing to bolster this statement with. But anything he can do to gain her cooperativeness and confidence will go a long way into obtaining a guilty verdict, considering he means to question her further. "Likely, we will be taking our leave shortly."
"Excellent. The sooner, the better. Then all the letters and packages being held up can be transferred to our Mid-City facility—and we can ensure the public receives all their mail in a timely matter. Only a day's delay, is what we're looking at."
"Pardon?"
"You know the U.S. Postal Service's motto, don't you, Mr. Blackquill? 'Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night will stay the couriers from swiftly completing their appointed rounds.'"
"Ah, yes, I have heard that at some point. Although I wasn't sure if that creed also encompassed murder"
Ms. Prior-Stewart laughs politely. "I also think of it as a disservice to Mr. Ecsprest, if we were to be held up any longer than absolutely needed. He was so proud of his occupation, you understand? Freddy—it would have disheartened him for us to interrupt our service, all over him."
It is quite a flippant way of describing a homicide, but Simon takes it as truth—and he can appreciate Mr. Ecsprest's dedication to his job.
Ms. Prior-Stewart presses on. "Now, what is it you were looking for up here?"
Simon blinks, the coolness in Ms. Prior-Stewart's tone leaving him feeling no answer he provides will be acceptable. Nevertheless, he must give one. "Nothing in particular."
"You were trying to break into—excuse me, you were trying to enter my office. You must be searching for something, other than... what did you say? Simply familiarizing yourself with this floor's layout."
"The restrooms," he blurts without thought. It was the answer he'd prepared should anyone have found him slinking about the darkened office hallways, but with Ms. Prior-Stewart eyeing him so suspiciously, it sounds anything but rehearsed.
Which, ultimately, he supposes, bodes well for his trustworthiness.
"Oh, of course. Down the hall and to the right. Men's room is the last on the left." She motions beyond them, to the intersection several strides away. "And please, keep me in the loop about when the investigation is wrapped up, so we can get those packages transferred. But if there's nothing else I can help you with, Mr. Blackquill, I really need to be going. My daughter is home sick from school today and really, the last place I want to be is here, when she needs me. And I know how important it is for Freddy's killer to be brought to justice, but it's... it's been only a few hours, and even that's unbearable..."
Simon softens a touch at her wavering tone, picturing a little brown-haired girl with a fluttery cough and frail constitution: Athena's closest friend from school, Juniper Woods. "What is her name?" he asks out of genuine curiosity.
"Susannah. With an 'h'."
"Mm. Well, then, Ms. Prior-Stewart... Ursula, " He corrects himself with a flimsy smile. "I hope Susannah is feeling better by the morrow. Please, take your leave."
They exchange goodbyes and Simon sets off in the direction of the restrooms; he might as well visit them, while he's nearby. But he lingers right around the corner for a few moments, keeping an ear out and catching the distinct clicks of a door being unlocked, then locked again.
And it strikes him as rather interesting that, for as much as he's trying to learn about the case from Ms. Prior-Stewart, it's what she's not telling him that has taught him the most.
Instead of bypassing Ms. Prior-Stewart's office again, Simon opts to go left where he'd originally gone right when directed towards the restrooms.
He's all but certain he hasn't checked this hallway yet, because he passes a drinking fountain and knows he's yet to see one during his search.
At the hallway's terminus, he finds the only room not closed off. By the large mobile hampers lining the wall opposite him, Simon gathers this must be a sorting room. All of the hampers, save the one closest to the shelves of supplies across from the entrance, are empty.
Above the hampers, square metal doors are spaced out intermittently along the wall; they must connect to chutes leading down to the dock. In the remaining corner rests a desk, occupied by a computer and a scattered assortment of pens and other office stationary; in Simon's estimation, the ideal location to search first.
Judging by its dull hum and the column of lights along its tower, the computer is still on. Figuring he has nothing to lose, Simon sets his folio on the desk and hunches over the keyboard. He's not sure what he's looking for, but an errant swipe of the mouse brings the computer back to life with a startling piece of information
The bright blue welcome screen displays the username of FREDECS.
Now, that is something. Mr. Ecsprest was in this room if not the night of his murder, then conceivably sometime earlier in the day. He retrieves his phone and snaps a quick photo of the screen with its camera, eager to show it to Fulbright, when something else on the desk catches his attention.
Simon recognizes it easily from seeing similar tools at GYAXA. A box cutter—or more, a utility knife. And a rather nice one, a sturdy red plastic grip curved for ergonomic comfort.
He picks it up, ready to flick the blade up, but can not do so; it's designed for a left-hander. And so he switches it to his left hand and immediately sets it back down when the realization hits him.
The murder weapon.
Wouldn't a post office contain a large inventory of utility knives? It's the only object that makes sense for either man to carry on his person, or at least keep within reach.
Stabbings, in general, were often perpetrated within the heat of the moment, especially when at the hands of a male suspect. So that's the angle Simon's been chasing; that Mr. Herr used an object available to him as a weapon, opposed to purposely bringing a weapon along to work that night.
Well, first of all, he needs to verify that the box cutters supplied by the post office are fixed with blades matching victim's wound. Otherwise it's meaningless supposition.
And Mr. Herr's broken hand is his right one, therefore he's most certainly right-handed. So this left-handed box cutter... it may not have any variations from the right-handed version, but Simon needs to be sure.
He hurriedly searches the desk's drawers. Nothing. The supply shelf on the other end of the room also yields unfavorable results. He finds packaging tape, staples, labels, sharpies and pens... but no box cutters. But there must be some here; where else did the red-handled one on the desk come from...?
Simon turns his gaze upward. The shelves above him are stocked even more plentifully, packed three, four boxes deep. Not seeing a ladder (or stepladder) anywhere, he chances climbing up onto the first shelf. Carefully, he wedges his foot between a pyramid of bubble-wrap rolls and piled bags of styrofoam peanuts. With one hand firmly clamped under the lip of the shelf now at eye-level, he uses the other to peruse the first row of supplies—which turns out to be a century's worth of receipt paper.
Still unable to make out what's shoved all behind the receipt paper boxes, he climbs up another level. But his right foot clips a pack of pens instead of finding purchase. Luckily enough, he doesn't fall, but his slip sends the box of pens toppling off.
And unluckily enough, the pack is open, spilling the pens everywhere.
"Damn..." Simon swears, hopping down and lowering to his knees to collect the pens, to erase any sign that he'd conducted his own investigation. If it weren't for his run-in with Ms. Prior-Stewart earlier, he'd wait until after he found the box cutters to bother cleaning them up. As it is, the last thing he needs is to get caught skulking around, even though he's positive he's the sole person still roaming this floor. He needs to just get out of here, and report what he's seen, and what he now hypothesizes, to that Fulbright imbecile.
Eleven of the pens are quickly swept up, slid back into the box indicating it holds a dozen. The twelfth, however, has gone missing, and the first place Simon checks is under the nearby mobile hamper, where he's sure it must have rolled.
His hand pats around, arm stretching further and further beneath the hamper until he has to lower himself flat onto his belly. He finds and snares the renegade pen, but winces at the tacky warmth squishing against his fingers when he does.
And when Simon retracts his arm, his eyes widen and his heart springs into throat, turning a cry of shock into a choked, animalistic squawk.
His hand is covered in thick, congealing...
Deep, rusty red...
Oh no.
Simon stares at his fist, at the... the blood smeared across it. At the pen, also stained, clutched with a vice-like grip and beginning to tremble.
Investigating crime scenes is one thing. Happening upon them unexpectedly is something else entirely.
He returns to his stomach, dirtied hand tucked under him, attempting to peer beneath the hamper. The lighting is too dim for him to see it clearly, but he can make out an obvious discoloration puddled directly under the hamper's center. The metallic scent of it reaches, and sickens, him.
He doesn't have Fulbright's number in his phone, not with him being a last-minute substitution. But he needs that dimwit and his crew up here, posthaste. He dreads the image of him frantically rushing out from the elevator, sounding like some hysterical blatherskite as he tries to convince his team of detectives—Fulbright, especially—of what he's discovered.
Unless... His gaze falls on one of the metal doors that open to the connecting chutes.
Of course.
Simon nearly grabs for the closest one to him, but stops himself at the last moment; this is a crime scene. This is the crime scene.
Already his fingerprints are on the shelf, the desk, the computer. The last thing he needs is to further add to what is already a forensic detective's nightmare. Especially with prints caked in blood.
Simon covers his left hand with his jacket cuff and throws open the door of the third chute. The sharp stench of blood, of death, causes him to gag.
Oh, hell. It's in here too.
He turns away momentarily to suck in a fresh breath, then calls to the dock below.
"Fulbright!"
Through the chute he hears the harried buzzing of surprised officers; Simon can only imagine how his voice must have carried throughout the dock, hollow and disembodied and likely frightening at least one of them enough to shave years off their life.
"Sir?" Fulbright's voice ricochets up the chute, sounding from all sides, as if there's a dozen Fulbrights. Simon internally shudders at the thought. "Sir, is everything okay?"
"Hasten up here! The mail—" Simon pauses, coughs. "The mail sorting room!"
"What's wrong, Sir? What is it?!"
"There's blood." Simon raises his sleeve to under his nostrils, the scent of his own person muting that of the blood as he inhales another filtered breath. "Everywhere."
"Right away, Sir!"
Simon throws the door shut with a heavy clang and backs away. He drops into the chair by the computer desk, right hand suspended in front of him, still grasping the pen and still soiled in blood. He notices, now, how the blood narrowly avoided staining Athena's charm.
He vividly recalls her last night, stopping him as he left GYAXA. Looking up at him with big blue eyes, she'd slid the ribbon onto his wrist with the wish of, "Good luck, Simon! I just know you'll catch the bad guy!"
He hadn't bothered to explain that the "bad guy" had already been caught, and it wasn't Simon who had, or even could, "catch" them.
No, he'd made the stupid promise of vowing that he'd tell her all about it tonight, when he returned to GYAXA for a meal Aura and Dr. Cykes were to prepare as a celebration of sorts.
Now all there is to tell is how he's stuck with a maroon of a detective who holds no respect for him, and although stumbling across what looks to be the true crime scene certainly quantifies as luck, he is reluctant to say it's the good kind Athena wished for him.
The nerves unraveling in his chest escape in a sudden, piteous sob. The pen falls from his grip onto the concrete floor, a loud clack echoing through the empty room.