The Loneliest Number
by Abigail E. Schuff
Jim Colt seems to be the only person interested in justice when it comes to Wesley Nathaniel. When he is sent to the archives to collect evidence, he struggles to tell if he’s surrounded by allies or enemies.
I have lost count of how many times April has handed me a “visitor” name tag. Whether I came to see Deb, Jordan, Wes, sometimes even Nelson when an officer was needed, April was always behind the front desk of Syntec Location 1.
I haven’t visited Syntec in a long time, but her eyes gleam with recognition as I walk through the door. The warmth of the room as opposed to the December chill outside clings to me. Then I catch sight of the Syntec clover, and feel cold again.
“Good morning, Officer Colt,” April smiles, a sort of glow to her grin. “Hello April,” I answer. My tone is a bit bland for greeting a woman who I consider a friend. Luckily, she either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.
“So what is on the agenda for today? More interviews?”
“Today, it’s the Records Department.”
April gives me a curious look. “Word to the wise, the manager never reads her emails.” I sigh and reach into my pocket. Pulling out a sheet of paper, I hold it up for her to see.
“Good,” April mutters. “You’ll have no trouble. I can take you to the archives.” “I know where it is,” I answer dryly. She furrows her brows.
“If you want to be an island, go ahead. I hope you find something.”
So do I.
I nod goodbye and make my way down the hall. The familiar walls and doors greet me as I saunter past. I acknowledge the people I encounter out of courtesy, but none acknowledge me. Instead, they stare.
The dull faces study my uniform with a careful scrutiny that I will never get used to, or learn to ignore.
Deb and Jordan never mention it, but I know that certain people within the company are starting to look too closely at me. I can see it in the way they stare when they think my back is turned. Sometimes I think they know about Deb and I’s little... agreement. Yet April is allowed to let me through the door day in and day out.
I can see the white door to the records office now. A large plaque with black letters spelling out “Records Department” stares me down.
I twist the well oiled handle and enter, the door clicking as I open it.
Holy Smokes
I had passed this room many times, but had never actually seen the inside of it. Nearly 40 feet in length, 30 feet wide, the space is filled wall-to-wall with filing cabinets, bookshelves, and even a few safes. Large mobile storage shelves run down the length of the room. Their outer edges are filled with boxes, files, and other unusual forms of containment. The warm air reeks of ink and a paper, nearly drowning me in the sheer amount of information it encapsulates.
“Can I help you?” The voice pulls me into the present, and I focus on locating it’s source, which proves difficult.
“Yes,” I respond, turning in search of whoever was talking. Sounds like a woman. “I would like to get some information.”
“Well, we have plenty of that,” the voice answers.
“Yes, I can see that. Where are you?”
A high pitched squeaking draws my attention towards a desk, concealed by a stack of boxes. Behind the desk sits a young woman. She appears to be in her late 20s with long dark hair in a loose braid, and soft gray eyes.
I catch a glimpse of the name tag that hangs from her deep purple blouse. “Myra Porter. Records Manager.” The rolling chair beneath her squeaks again as she stands and walks around the desk to shake my hand.
Right off the bat, I notice something. Her face is void of that suspicious look I’m so accustomed to. She did not look at me like a threat, but like an acquaintance. Eyes on target, Jim. Only trust Deb. Everyone else is a suspect.
“How can I help you, Officer?” she asks, after a glance at my badge.
I clear my throat and pull out the memo. “I’m Officer Colt, I’m here to gather information for the investigation of Mr. Wesley Nathaniel’s murder.” I hold out the unfolded memo to her. “The LAPD-”
“Oh yeah,” she interrupts after a quick glance. “I remember that. I’ll show you where you can get started.” Her response is without hesitation. She grabs an arm full of file folders and waves towards the first shelving unit. “If you’ll just follow me.”
The sight of the mobile shelves reminds me of the sheer amount of work ahead of me, and I feel tired. The woman leads me down the room to a table standing in the corner.
Only then do I notice the large vault door. The Syntec logo jumps out of the metallic surface in a bold display of color. A keypad is mounted on the wall beside it, marked with the words “CLEARANCE LEVEL 4-6 ONLY.”
I guess I won’t be going in there.
“This shelf here holds section “A-L” of level one clearance,” Ms. Porter says, placing her load on one of the shelves. “And this one here is “A-G” of level two.”
There are over two dozen cabinet drawers in level one alone... I may be here a while. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
A sign of relief escapes my lips at Ms. Porter’s question.
“Do you have anything that would track Mr. Nathaniel’s movements? Mainly in July and August of last year?”
I see the cloud come over her face.
That look pierces my chest like a harpoon. After six years of police work, I have seen my fair share of grief. But I’m surprised to see it on the face of a Syntec employee. Other than Deborah, Jordan, Scott, and maybe one or two others, the entire staff seemed to not care that he was gone.
Ms. Porter lets out a long huff, like she is struggling to recall something.
“Mr. Nathaniel moved around quite a bit,” she finally says. “I doubt that I have a schedule of his on file here.”
Well, shoot.
How am I supposed to know where to begin this process if I don’t have a starting point? I guess I have to start somewhere. Might as well be with “A.”
My eyes are beginning to ache and my back reminds me that I just turned 40. If my age doesn’t become a cause for reading glasses, this case certainly will.
The table Ms. Porter provided me with is covered in the many level 1 “H” section files I’m reading.
My pencil is worn down to a stump, and my notepad is nearly full.
So many names. So many places. So many projects. I just need one thread to follow, but I’m looking at a tapestry.
All it takes is one word. A name, a time, a single frame of security footage. I feel suffocated by the sheer quantity of data I had gathered in 3 hours of reading. But I could no more connect them to Wesley’s death than connect two sides of a canyon with a jump-rope.
I flick closed the file in my hand with a grunt and write out another name in my notepad. I think I’ll undo my collar.
This is ridiculous. I count 9 pages of names so far of people who had connections to Wes that could be cause for murder. John Hammer, Christian Gomèz, Kevin Crest, the list just keeps on growing.
Miss Porter stands from her desk on the other side of the room.
“Found anything interesting?” she asks.
“No,” I grunt, rubbing my eyes.
“No need to get snappish, I was just asking.” Her voice dips and wavers.
Keep it together, Colt. You are a symbol of protection. Keep it together. “I’ve found plenty interesting, Ms. Porter. But I have no way to narrow it down.”
I hear the printer at her desk begin working. The clicking makes me think of a clock. Ticking away at the hours I sit at this little table. “Officer Colt?”
“Yes?” I sigh.
“Guess what I’ve got for you?” Her words ring with a playful banter, but my own thoughts drown out her vocal cues.
“10am, meeting with Jacobs.
11am, NBC interview, remind Wes.
4pm Pegasus trial, Loc. #13 (Wes?)”
I snap to attention with the realization of what she is reading. The clicking of the fax printer stops, and Ms. Porter pulls 2 sheets of paper from its arm.
“What is that?” I exclaim, hurrying over. She throws me a grin and hands me the pages.
My eyes scan the paper. They are photocopies of a monthly planner, pages July through August.
A chuckle and groan both escape me. Jordan, we’re not supposed to know each other. But thank you.
My eyes dart to Ms. Porter. Hopefully she didn’t notice who sent the fax. I read through the schedule again. Consistencies leap out at me left and right as I look from the pages to my notes, pages to notes.
I immerse myself in the process of cross referencing the schedule with the data I had collected, emerging an hour later. The two hours are spent chasing leads that go cold through the names of colleagues mentioned on the paper.
One thing is certain. Scott and Wes became much more active on two projects three weeks before Wes’s death. Projects Pegasus and Spire.
Wes had chemical and patient trials for Project Pegasus every day for the first week of August.
This had to be connected.
“Ms. Porter,” I call. Her eyes appear around the corner of the shelf. “Can I see your records on Project Pegasus?”
Oh, brilliant.
The expression on her face is easily readable as disappointment.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” she says. “Project Pegasus is above your clearance level.”
“You’re the manager. Can’t you give me clearance?”
She opens her mouth to speak. The phone rings out like a bell, startling both me and Ms. Porter. She rushes to her desk and answers with a disgruntled voice.
“Records...” she glances at me, mouthing “sorry.” “Of course...what patients again?” The conversation has nothing to do with me, so I turn my attention back to my notes. Pegasus.
Maybe I should skip ahead to the “P” section of the archives? I spend the next hour and a half in that section...nothing.
My sight rests on the door of the vault. I’ll have to talk to Detective Hoffman about this.
He got me Level 2 clearance before. I’m sure he can get me 6. All I can hope is that we get access soon. Paranoia tells me that wasting time is not an option.
The general ambience of the station rattles around in my head like a pinball in a machine. The current task set before me is mundane and long, but I focus on it with a certain degree of discipline. Sgt. Dell wants this report on the Peterson group’s arrest done by tonight.
My mind wanders to Syntec’s halls as I compose my essay, only for me to yank it back into place.
Stay on target, Jim, I think. One task at a time.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a deep red shirt, and my resolve to stay on task is suddenly a memory.
“Hoffman,” I call out, pushing my chair back to tail the man. His square shoulders turn and his small eyes glance back at me. He doesn’t stop his stroll down the hall of cubicles.
“Any update on the Nathaniel case?” I ask, keeping pace.
Detective Hoffman’s voice grinds stone as he answers. “No, Colt. No update.”
“No update? It’s been a week since we talked, and you still haven’t gotten our clearance raised?” I demand.
“You sound surprised.”
“Hoffman,” I quicken my step. “This is our first lead in months. Shouldn’t we jump on it? All I need is Level 6 clearance to follow this lead out. Syntec must be willing to help us out.”
“Frankly, Colt,” he sighs. I catch pity in his expression. “I just don’t see the reason for higher clearance.”
That stops me in my tracks. My mind ceases to process information and I stand for a moment in shock.
A new emotion rushes through my veins. Anger. Pure and unfiltered anger that bubbles beneath the surface of my complaisant expression.
“Sir,” I begin again. “According to the employees at Syntec, Mr. Nathaniel was not one to take part in trials,” I snap. My feet quicken as I try to keep up with my superior. “He starts working on this one project every day, and ends up dead. His murderer was probably someone close to him. They might have worked on that project. Is that not enough to look into this?”
“Keep your chin up, Officer. We don’t know he’s dead.” His condescending tone stokes my irritation.
“Sir, the amount of blood reported in his car is more than enough to kill-”
“Colt!” He stops and faces me. His nostrils flair. “Until you come to me with a real lead and not just a whim, I will not waste my time calling in favors.”
“Then don’t,” I interrupt. “If you don’t want to waste time, get me a search warrant.”
“I will get you a warrant when you have more than just a hunch.”
Steam bursts from my ears. My voice jumps a few decibels as my temper comes to a boil.
“A hunch? Our job is following hunches. And right now, this is the only one we have.” Hoffman sips his coffee with a slurp.
“If you want names so bad, then look through the employee files. Don’t they record what projects they are a part of?”
I shake my head. “That will take too long. The last time we took the long way around things, we lost Mr. Nathaniel’s car.”
Hoffman ignores the fact like a whale ignores a wave. He instead looks down at his now beeping cell. A hefty sigh passes through his lips and he shakes his head.
The sound of the room around me is drowned out by my sheer lack of attention on anything but my superior’s face. The expression on his face reminds me of a sloth. A sitting, sleeping, not-a-care-in-the-world sloth who has no interest whatsoever in anything other than eating leaves. “I’ve got to go. Chan has something on the Hanson kid.” He takes another swig of coffee, and trudges off without another word.
That’s it? He’s just going to leave? We can’t be done with this conversation. Fine, I think digging my heel into the floor. Doing it the long way is better than not doing anything.
And I can’t not do anything. Not again.
Papers upon papers upon papers. I feel like I’m drowning in name upon name. I’m chasing the wind with these employee files. They are void of useful information. I’m not making any progress.
I slide a stack of folders back into their place on the shelf. The metal feels cold against my forehead as I lean against it.
I’m trying my hardest, Wes. I swear.
“You’re different, you know that?” I look up to see Ms. Porter leaning on the shelf at the back of the room, staring at me. “What?” I respond. I have always had a knack for deciphering people's emotions. It’s helpful as an officer of the law to know what the individuals around you are thinking. But the expression on Ms. Porter’s face has me confused.
It makes me uncomfortable that I can’t tell with what emotion she scrutinizes me. Is it curiosity? Confusion? Suspicion? Whatever it is, I don’t like it.
“I said you’re different,” she repeats. Her fingers twirl a pen. “Other cops have been in this department before, asking about Wes. They were part of your team, weren’t they?”
The faces of Officers I worked with pop into my mind. It was true, I was not the first one to be sent here.
“I have never seen an officer spend more than a day here before deciding that it was lost cause. But you’ve been coming here for 3 days now.”
Holy smokes, has it really been that long?
“Why are you doing this?”
I answer like a parrot repeating its master’s words.“The supervisor of this case wants a stronger lead before we move forward.”
The supervisor wants a good punch in the teeth.
Ms. Porter throws me a sarcastic look. “I’m not talking about the police department, I’m talking about you. Anyone could be sent to look for clues, but something tells me that you, Jim Colt, volunteered. Why are YOU looking for WES?” Her gaze begins to burn a hole in my head as I attempt to look disengaged.
“Why do you care?” I murmur.
She stops. Her face twists into a frown that speaks volumes. Now there’s an emotion I recognize. Pain. That’s what I see in her. Great pain. I know something of that feeling.
“I want to know I can trust you.” She moves a stray hair behind her ear. “When Wes was still alive...”she hesitates. I can sense the words held back on her tongue. “Let’s just say, he watched my back. He may not have been Saint. But anyone else here would’ve...” she trails off, like she is struggling to find the right words. I see fear flicker behind her eyes for just a second. Then it’s gone. “He saved me a great deal of trouble.”
A pause. She does not speak again for nearly a minute. For a moment, I think the conversation is over, and I’ve escaped having to explain my own experience with Wes. But then she nods to me.
“Your turn.”
Great.
I get the words out of the way, quickly. Perhaps too quickly.
“I knew him through Deborah.” The half-lie leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “Really? Because this looks a bit more like responsibility than ‘I knew him through Deb.’”
Is it that obvious? Yes, I knew Wes through Deb, but I also knew Wes through Wes. Not well, but well enough for me to stick my neck out while he was still around. Still alive. I’m not even sure where I first heard his name, first laid eyes on him. On television? Maybe. In the newspaper? Possibly.
Though my judgment is against it, I continue my story.
“Last year, Deborah asked me to get her and Mr. Nathaniel bodyguards. I put in the request, and had no reason to expect the LAPD not getting men on it that night. Three weeks later, Mr. Nathaniel is dead, and I find out that the station had never sent anyone out. Said we were “short staffed.””
“That’s not your fault.”
Isn’t it?
If I had got across the urgency of the situation, if I had trusted Deb’s suspicions about the department, if, if, if! I could have trained a bodyguard myself. I should have volunteered! If Deb thought she or Wes were in danger, I should have been the first officer to raise his hand in service. But no. “The station will get an officer when they are available,” they said.
That’s the time I trust my supervisors with anything I can do myself.
So here I am, up to my elbows in files that no one else has bothered to look at. On the outside, it looks like I’m the only police officer who cares if Wes’s murderer was ever found. On the inside, I know I am.
I grab my notepad and flip through, not really reading my notes. I’m lost in my own thoughts and with them comes the guilt. Deb’s face the day Wes’ disappearance was reported is stuck in my mind's eye. Tears should not be a part of her story.
I need to catch this guy for her. And for myself.
My ears suddenly pop. The vault across the room has opened, the stench of alcohol drifting through it.
Ms. Porter is no longer at her desk. She must have opened it. My eyes lock in the gaping door. I can see the edge of a filing cabinet.
It's right there, I think. The project Pegasus files are within reach. Maybe if I sneak in...
Ms. Porter walks out of the room. I’m caught staring. She says nothing. Her face is pale and...sad. She doesn’t move for a long time. She simply stands there. We wait, watching to see what the other will do.
Finally, Ms. Porter whispers “I know what it’s like to feel like you could have done more.” She gestures to the open door. “Cabinet 590. You have 10 minutes. I'll be at my desk.”
I can’t move. Why is she helping me? She’s a Syntec employee. She knows the horrors that go on in this building. But she turns and walks away, leaving the door to the vault wide open.
I waste no more time. I rush through the door, my shoes clicking as the floor changes from carpet to tile.
The small room is filled with steel filing cabinets, all labeled, not with letters, but with numbers. 161, 700, 541, 843, they go on and on and on. I spin on my heel searching for the number. 690...582...ah, 590. Wait...there is another, and another. I count 4 cabinets that share the number.
This must be quite the project.
I open the drawer closest to me, which is filled with project reports. The first one I grab has Wes’s signature at the bottom. I skim the page and locate 5 names.
Now we’re getting somewhere. I should really have my notebook.
Just as I’m about to step out of the vault, I hear the sharp creaking of the outer door opening and yank back.
The soft thumping of shoes on carpet puts me on high alert. The squeaking of Ms. Porter’s chair being pushed back, her voice wavering just a bit both tell me whoever walked in should not find me here.
“Hello, Mr. Syphus,” Ms. Porter greets casually. I freeze.
Why him? Why did it have to be him?
My heart rate alerts me to my growing alarm. Calm down, Jim. The worst he can do is kick you out...or have you arrested...or have her arrested.
I don’t dare move. I just stand in silence, listening.
“Hello Ms. Porter,” Mr. Syphus coos. He speaks with a poisonous silvery tone that drips with pride dressed up to look like charisma.
“What can I do for you?” asks Ms. Porter. I detect strain in her cadence.
A pause.
“Are we alone?” he asks. Ms. Porter doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
“Do you make it a habit to leave the vault open?”
Oh shoot. I instinctively take a step back. The sole of my shoe lets out a clear and loud “clap.” The sound echoes through the vault like a pebble falling in a cave. I don’t dare take another step. I have no idea if Mr. Syphus heard me.
I can’t be found out now, not after this lead. I feel so close to Wes’s killer I can taste it. The name is in here, I just know it.
Not only that. I can’t get Ms. Porter in trouble.
I scramble to come up with a plan before I hear her exclaim, “Did I do that again?” The sounds of footsteps and her voice grows louder. “I’m so sorry, sir. I always forget about this door.”
She appears in the doorway and locks eyes with me. Her body language is calm. But a deep and terrible emotion I cannot identify is locked behind her eyes. Is she afraid? No. I have seen fear before. This is dread.
Turning so Mr. Syphus cannot see her face, she mouths “leave.” Then shuts the door.
I’m left in thick darkness. I realize I’m holding my breath, and drink in the stale air of the tiny room. The project report is still in my hand, now wrinkled where I gripped it.
I’m drawn to Ms. Porter’s muffled voice through the door.
”That’s better,” she says with a grin in her words. “How can I help you?” Her voice fades as she walks away. I press my ear to the cold metal of the door, but can only catch a few words.
“I.....if I could....a word...you.”
“...course.” The squeaking of her chair? “What....?”
“...office...don’t mind.”
Was that the door closing? I can’t tell. I stand with my ear to the door for a few more minutes to be sure I am alone before I begin searching for the door knob. After a moment, a cold bar knob finds my hand. I hesitate. The “590” cabinets are still open to me, away from prying eyes. Should I look?
I take a quick breath, and slowly turn the knob. I’ll trust her direction to leave. She said I was different. Something tells me she is different too.
April is not at her desk today. I feel like my routine has been disrupted when a strange woman hands me my “visitor” tag.
As I make my way down the hall of Syntec, I’m once again greeted by the same doors. Their clicking and tapping as they open and close only reminds me of how close a call Ms. Porter and I had last week. I wish I could have come back sooner, I had been assigned to chase an escaped convict, which took longer than expected.
The Records department door is cracked open, so I enter without knocking. The familiar smell of ink envelops me. The squeal of Ms. Porter’s chair wheels makes me turn.
“Can I help you?” Wait...That’s a man’s voice.
I have to peer over the boxes to see the desk’s occupant.
An ancient looking man with gray hair sits in Ms. Porter’s chair. I have grown accustomed to this being her space. The imposter sets me on alert. This feels wrong. Keep it together, Jim. I clear my throat and plaster on a smile. “I’m Officer Colt. I’m looking for Ms. Myra Porter?”
“Oh.” He pushes himself out of the chair with some difficulty. “Ms. Porter has been transferred.” “Transferred?”
“Yes. I am Gerald Homer. I’m the new head of Records for this location. So anything you need, officer, I’m here to help you.”
My eyes flick to the vault. “May I ask why she was transferred?”
Careful.
“I’m afraid I cannot tell you that, but she no longer works at this location.”
Worry creeps up on me. Did Mr. Syphus know she let me in the vault? No, no, no. He would have fired her, or worse.
Stop it, Jim. No need to worry. Stay on target. I can worry about Ms. Porter later.
I look back at the vault door. My only lead is locked behind it, and I no longer have a key. Wes’s face pops into my head. I take a deep breath.
Fine. I’ll take the long way around.
Stay tuned for the next short story next Friday at 3PM PST!
Abby, it’s sooooo good! Wow! I’m in love with the new characters! My heart jumped into my throat when Syphus came into the archives room. Ahhhhh.
I’m so glad everyone enjoyed it! Thank you so much for your comments! Poor poor Myra...😏