Company Man by Joseph Finder

Nick’s heart began to thud. A few more mouse clicks, and the man’s grim face took upmost of the screen. The resolution wasn’t bad. The man’s face was clearly visible.
    â€œRecognize him?” Eddie said.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, he knows who you are.”
    â€œNo doubt. What, did he just walk through? Some security.”
    â€œClimbed the fence in the wooded section, actually. Cameras there get triggered by motion sensors. No alarms there—they’d get way too many false alarms with all the animals and shit—but cameras up the wazoo.”
    â€œGreat. Who is he?”
    â€œHis name is Andrew Stadler.”
    Nick shrugged. He’d never heard the name.
    â€œI narrowed it down by laid-off male employees in their fifties or older, especially with outplacement irregularities. Man, I spent most of the morning looking at mug shots. My eyes are crossing. But hey, that’s why I get the big bucks, right?”
    Eddie double-clicked the mouse, and another photo appeared on a split screen beside the surveillance image. It was the same man, a little younger: the same heavy black glasses with the ogling eyes, the same slit of a mouth. Under this photograph was the name ANDREW M. STADLER and a Social Security number, a date of birth, a Stratton employee number, a date of hire.
    Nick asked, “Laid off?”
    â€œYes and no. They sat him down for the layoff meeting and he quit. You know, said, ‘After all I’ve done for this company?’ and ‘Fuck you,’ and like that.”
    Nick shook his head. “Never even seen the guy before.”
    â€œSpend a lot of time at the model shop?”
    The model shop was where a small crew of workers—metal-benders, solderers, woodworkers—built prototypes of new Stratton products, in editions of one or two or three, from specs drawn up by the designers. The model-shop employees tended to be odd sorts, Nick had always thought. They’d all done time on the factory floor, bending metal, andthey were good with their hands. They also tended to be loners and perfectionists.
    â€œAndrew Stadler,” Nick said, listening to the sound of the name, scanning the data on the man’s file. “He was with the company thirty-five, thirty-six years.”
    â€œYep. Started as an assembler on the old vertical-file-cabinet line, became a welder. Then he became a specialist level two—worked by himself in the chair plant repairing the returns. Refused to work on any of the progressive build lines because, he said, he hated listening to other people’s music. Kept getting into fights with his floor supervisor. They learned to leave him alone and let him do his work. When there was an opening in the model shop five years ago, he put in for it, and they were glad to get rid of him.” With another couple of clicks, Eddie brought up Stadler’s employee reviews. Nick leaned closer to read the small type. “What’s this about hospitalization?”
    Eddie swiveled around in Nick’s chair and looked up, his half-wild eyes staring. “He’s a fucking nutcase, buddy. A brainiac and a maniac. The guy’s been in and out of the locked ward at County Medical.”
    â€œJesus. For what?”
    â€œSchizophrenia. Every couple of years he stops taking his meds.”
    Nick let his breath out slowly.
    â€œOkay, Nick, now here’s the scary part. I put in a call to the Fenwick PD. Something like fifteen years ago, Stadler was questioned in the possible murder of an entire family that lived across the street.”
    Nick felt a sudden chill. “What does that mean?”
    â€œFamily called Stroup, neighbors, used to hire this guy to do repairs, odd jobs. Mister Fix-It—guy’s a mechanical genius, could fix anything. Maybe they got into some kinda fight, maybe they looked at him wrong, who knows, but one night there’s a gas leak in their basement, something sets it off,