The Wrong Man

Then he laughed softly. The detective was walking steadily away.

As if he didn’t have a care in the entire world, O’Co

Recognition, O’Co

Murphy would never imagine that O’Co

He thought he was finished with me.

O’Co

Within forty-eight hours, Michael O’Co

He now knew, within reason, when each of the other offices in Murphy’s building closed up for the night. He knew that the last person to leave each day was the office manager for the counseling center across from Murphy, who merely locked up the front door with a single key. The lawyer who occupied the ground floor had only one paralegal. O’Co

He didn’t know much about Murphy’s secretary, but he’d acquired a few bits and pieces about her. She was in her early sixties and widowed. She lived alone, a dowdy woman in a dowdy life, accompanied only by two pugs, whom he’d learned were named Mister Big and Beauty. She was devoted to the dogs.

O’Co

“Excuse me, ma’am, I wonder if you might help me out… My girlfriend has just adopted a small dog, and I wanted to get some real gourmet pet food, but there are so many to choose from. Do you know much about dogs?”

He suspected that she walked away a few minutes later, thinking, What a nice, polite young man.

Michael O’Co

One tricky moment, he told himself. Then the rest should be easy.

O’Co

At the end of the block, he paused, letting the first shafts of darkness creep around him. The New England night drops abruptly in the first days of November, seeming to pass from day to midnight in a matter of moments. It is an unsettled hour of the day, the time when he was most comfortable.

It was just a matter of getting inside without being seen, especially by Murphy or his secretary. He took another deep breath, placed Ashley firmly in his mind, reminded himself that she would be much closer by the end of the night, and moved rapidly down the street. A lamp blinked on behind him. He considered himself invisible; no one knew, expected, or imagined that he would be there.

When he reached the front door, O’Co

He could hear a whooshing sound as the elevator descended toward him. He immediately walked across the hallway into the emergency stairwell, closing the door behind him just as the elevator arrived. He pushed himself against a wall, trying to imagine the people on the other side of the solid steel. He thought he could hear voices. As sweat ran down under his arms, he imagined Murphy’s unmistakable tones, then his secretary’s.

Need to feed those pugs, he said to himself. Time to get going.

He heard the front door close.

O’Co

He pushed himself back against the wall and waited. The stairwell wasn’t a particularly good place to hide. But he knew this night it would serve his purposes. Just another sign, he thought to himself, that he was destined to be with Ashley. It was as if she were helping him to find her. We were meant to be together. He moderated his rapid breathing and closed his eyes, letting the patience of obsession overwhelm him, his mind blank except for memories of Ashley.

In his life, Michael O’Co

It was nearly seven when he heard the last creaking noise from the elevator. He paused, bending his head toward the sound, and suddenly the world around him descended into darkness. The office manager had hit the master light switches next to the elevator. He heard the front door open, close, then click as the single lock was fastened. He glanced down at his watch, the illuminated face glowing just bright enough to read.

He waited another fifteen minutes before pushing through the door to the stairwell and reentering the vestibule. He was almost surprised by how easy it was all turning out to be.

He peered carefully through the glass front door, up and down the empty street. Then he quickly turned the single dead-bolt lock and let himself out.

Moving quickly, he walked the two blocks to his car and opened the trunk, removing the duffel bag that he’d concealed there.

It took him only a few minutes to return to the office building.

First, he reached inside his bag and removed several pairs of surgical gloves. These he rapidly pulled on, one on top of the other, a double thickness of protection. He took out a spray bottle of ammonia-based disinfectant and generously sprayed the lock handle that he’d touched. As soon as he’d finished that, he once again locked the door. He then sprayed the door handle to the stairwell and any place else he might have put his hands. Next, he climbed the stairs to the second floor, removing a small flashlight on the way up. He had covered the lens with a piece of red tape, cutting the light in half, making it next to impossible to spot from outside, through a window. He took his time, searching the hallway for any signs of exterior security devices, but found none. Michael O’Co