Orrin’s Imperative
“John Bodak is dead.”
Though not particularly fond of him, Bodak was one of the few people Orrin had regularly been working with since his return to work and promotion to CTO four months ago and assignment to the Stargate Project.
He didn’t need to feign grief; genuine unease began involuntarily casting itself over his uncomfortable complexion.
“How?”
“Strangulation . . . but it’s still being investigated.”
“Suicide?”
“You’d be forgiven for thinking that; his body was found hanging in some apartment he was apparently renting in Brooklyn . . . a 169 Clinton Street in Red Hook.”
Orrin couldn’t help but flinch upon hearing the address spoken aloud.
“Rope?”
“No, his tie.”
“And not suicide?”
“Well, maybe, but apparently, it was more like he was tied to the ceiling by it, I guess he was tied so tightly it nearly severed his head . . . the police said it was like he was stapled to the ceiling. And get this, the tie was wrapped around a rafter in the ceiling, the thing is though, it wasn’t an exposed rafter, it was like something punctured a hole in the plaster ceiling, wrapped the tie around a beam and then punctured another hole on the other side to complete the knot . . . imagine the strength needed to do something like that . . . I mean, what the fuck could have done that?”
“Here, take a look.” Jeffries handed Orrin a folder containing the police report.
“Apparently, there’s some other shit in there about a break-in or robbery or something.
Whatever, if you ask me . . . it was autoerotic asphyxiation!”
And with that disgusting remark, Jeffries made a forced and imposing laugh at his own crass and hideous joke before pantomiming a man hanging himself and gesticulating in a masturbatory way before finally leaving Hull’s office.
This is the type of disgusting, untalented, pompous ass Orrin had been surrounded by ever since his promotion, corporate garbage culture -- incapable of anything close to an original idea, vision, or work ethic - - he hated them. In fact, while Orrin had a strong dislike for his personal indiscretions, the only man steering this project who had even a shred of the talent and discipline he himself had was, or, at least, had been . . . Bodak.
Hull looked down at the police report in his hands.
Neighbors called it in Thursday night after a suspicious kid was seen inside the building. Apparently, the kid knocked on the door of and briefly interrogated the family of the 3rd floor apartment while they were having dinner. It seems the incident would have otherwise been ignored until a large bang was heard from inside the 2nd floor apartment sometime later, neighbors said it sounded like something so heavy was dropped it must’ve nearly smashed through the floor - - that’s when they decided to call the police.
No suspects, yet. police found no fingerprints inside the apartment.
And, although there was no sign of forced entry to the 2nd floor apartment itself . . . there was indication of forced entry to the building. The huge, locked, exterior oak doors of the brownstone were forced from the jam, deadbolts ripped from their fixtures - - again, the immense amount of force that would’ve been required . . .
The report didn’t reveal much else, suggesting the police didn’t have much in the way of leads, thankfully; well, other than another neighbor, across the street, claiming to have seen something of a traffic accident shortly before the call came in - - a Buick Estate station wagon knocked into a few other parked cars in the street in front of the building - - no read on the plate though, witness said it was obscured by the weather and the position of the vehicle crammed into the spot pointing in the wrong direction; against traffic. Not much in the way of an i.d. of the driver either, save for that he appeared to be a man dressed in orthodox Jewish dress.
There was something else. Something was reported stolen by the building’s owner - - the apartment had been rented furnished. Orrin didn’t even need to read the rest to know what it was, he remembered it - - the antediluvian brass cube. The thing had captured his fixation and been the object of several nightmares since he first visited the site during the installation with Bodak.
Bodak had been selected along with several others at the company for beta testing a public access node. The company had Bodak rent the apartment in his own name for discretion to avoid public scrutiny before mass deployment. Orrin visited the site during the installation of network lines beneath the building last month. While there, Bodak bragged that he’d also been using the flat as a trysting place for an extra marital affair with some twentysomething - - an immense risk given the company’s absolute demand for discretion . . . and Orrin knew what these people were capable of.
The report revealed the owner placed immense value on the stolen item. At this level only he and Bodak knew the full scope of the project at 169 Clinton Street. If the owner pressed the investigation or, God forbid, began his own (if the item was that valuable to him) it would undoubtedly reveal the fingerprint of the company’s infrastructure - - they’d do anything to avoid that - - cover up the site and, eliminate anyone with too much knowledge about it - - he’d be a gray spot, at best.
He’d have to get the item back to the owner in return for his discretion. If he wanted to live, he had no choice. If the police didn’t have any leads, what chance did he have? Perhaps only one, the report suggested the cube was some type of antiquity - - while he didn’t know much about the occult or artifacts, he did know someone who did and, that person may also have information about who might be interested in stealing such a thing as well as markets where it might be trafficked . . . he hadn’t spoken to him since the murder and returning to New York and his job four months ago but, if he knew anyone who might be able to help him under these circumstances . . . it was Dr. Enki Madison . . . he had to talk to him.
