The Big Sheep by Robert Kroese

Evidently, he’d gotten a call from Esper’s vice president of research and development, Jason Banerjee, who was eager to have Keane continue his investigation now that a “key suspect has been eliminated.” They’d lined up interviews with all the employees who had access to the lab.
    We got to Esper just after eight A.M. A security guard ushered us into a conference room, outside of which three lab coat–wearing employees were already waiting in the hall. None of them looked particularly happy to be there, and their demeanor wasn’t improved by Keane insisting that the interviews be delayed until the room had been adequately stocked with Dr Pepper and Circus Peanuts. It was almost eight thirty when we finally started.
    We had forty-six employees to interview, and I didn’t hold out much hope of getting through them all in a day. Fortunately, the interviews went quickly, with Keane disqualifying most of the prospective sheep thieves with only a question or two. He didn’t even bother to interview several of the employees on the list; Esper had provided dossiers—complete with criminal records, employment histories, and credit reports—on all the suspects, and Keane had evidently been able to eliminate many of them based on this information. He seemed to have a fairly solid idea of what a sheep thief was—or at least was not. I had to trust his judgment on the matter, but when we’d completed the interviews without identifying a likely suspect, I began to wonder whether he’d been too quick in his assessments.
    There was only one employee who seemed to interest Keane at all, but I found it hard to imagine she was our thief. Her name was Stephanie Kemp, and she was a cute, plump brunette in her midtwenties. She was a lab technician with good credit, no criminal history, and a spotless though unremarkable work history. Working for Esper was her first job out of college. Keane had allowed me to handle most of the interviews while he wandered around the room, chewing on Circus Peanuts and occasionally interjecting an impertinent question, but he definitely took an interest in Stephanie Kemp. He spent a good ten minutes asking her about everything from her taste in music to her hair color.
    â€œWhat was that about?” I asked when he finally dismissed her.
    Keane shrugged.
    â€œYou don’t think she’s our thief.”
    He laughed. “Not a chance.”
    â€œSo, what’s with the grilling?”
    â€œJust playing,” said Keane, with a grin. “Such a sweet girl. Very cooperative.”
    I sighed and let in the next subject. We interviewed three more employees after Stephanie, but Keane showed no interest in any of them. It was nearly six P.M.
    â€œNext!” Keane yelled.
    â€œThat’s it,” I said. “Unless you’ve changed your mind on some of the ones you dismissed out of hand.”
    Keane shook his head. “We’re missing somebody.” He slumped into a chair and began riffling through the dossiers again. “No. No. No. No. No. Wait, what about this guy? Hugo Díaz. Lab tech. Lousy credit. Eyes of a sheep thief. I didn’t dismiss this guy.”
    I took the file from him and pulled out the last page, which I handed to Keane. I pointed at the relevant line. It read:
    DECEASED JAN. 18
    â€œTwo days before the sheep disappeared,” I said. “Went home early on Friday afternoon, complaining of heartburn. Was found by his wife, dead of a heart attack early Saturday morning. The sheep theft occurred sometime Sunday night.”
    â€œHmm,” said Keane.
    â€œI’ll admit the timing is a little suspicious, but there just isn’t any way Díaz could have stolen the sheep.”
    â€œBut he could have been in on it. Working for a third party. The deal went wrong, and he ended up dead.”
    â€œThe police found no evidence of foul play. And we know whoever overrode the security system