Oliver took deep breaths and cracked the door. A stench that almost took his breath away overwhelmed him. Instinctively he dropped his briefcase and covered his face with his hands as a staggered backward until his back hit the wall. He fell to his knees and struggled to contain his gag reflex.
"What the..." he hissed between rapid breaths. "What is that?"
He struggled to his feet and approached the partially open door. With a flick of his ankle, he swung the door wide open.
A small reception desk greeted him. Papers were strewn across the surface of the desk and on the surrounding floor. A computer monitor had been knocked off the desk and lay on the floor, its cracked screen flashing intermittently as it tried in vain to display the computer desktop. The computer mouse dangled from the desktop like a mouse unable to escape a bird of prey. To his right was a closed door with a STORAGE sign on it, illuminated by another flickering light. The door to the office on the left side of the room was ajar.
All of Oliver's senses told him to run for it, to get out of there. His heart was drumming the inside of his chest and he felt sweat on his forehead as he shivered uncontrollably.
"Hello," he called, his voice cracking as he stepped through the door into the office lobby, bracing himself against the door frame. "Dr. Armstrong, are you here?"
Oliver took a couple of tentative steps into the lobby, stopped and listened. Everything was silent except for the muffled whine of the wind racing around the corners of the building. He spotted a name sign with Armstrong's name on the floor and froze. Why is it on the floor? With a gentle nudge, he pushed open the door to the office and stepped into the darkness.
The bluish light of a cracked laptop screen was the only source of light in the room, illuminating only a few papers across its keyboard. Oliver fumbled for the light switch and flipped it when his fingers found it. His eyes widened. He gasped and turned as he emptied his stomach onto the floor. Remaining on his knees, his eyes closed, as he took deep breaths and tried to ignore the sour taste in his mouth. I must be dreaming. This isn't happening.
Oliver sat down and leaned up against the door frame as he tried to absorb Armstrong's office. The office chair was pushed over on its side. A pool of blood surrounded the chair, and blood splatters covered the wall beyond it. Bloody drag marks stretched from the chair around to the empty area in front of the desk where another pool of blood had seeped into the rug. Dozens of bloody footprints surrounded the now stained carpet and a severed hand and forearm rested in the center, the shredded remnants of a plaid shirt still wrapped around it. A gold ring remained on the ring finger. Somehow, no footprints led in or out of the office.
Oliver stood up and stumbled out of the office, feeling lightheaded. Although he had no way of proving it, there could be no doubt that the arm belonged to Armstrong. It had to be his. Who else would be in his office? It occurred to him at that moment that he was standing in a crime scene.
"I have to get out of here," he said to himself and returned to the hallway and walked rapidly towards the stairs. Just as he opened the door to the stairwell, he heard the unmistakable echo of someone walking up the stairs. The cone of light from a flashlight danced over the walls and the stairs is its owner made their way up the stairs. Oliver immediately backed out of the stairwell and shut the door quietly. Who was coming up the stairs? The killer? Police? Someone else? Something else?
Oliver was the only person near the remains, which meant he would be the prime suspect. He was certain he would be taken into custody if a police officer was on their way up those stairs. If it was the killer, was it likely Oliver would escape the same fate as Dr. Armstrong?
"Hide, I need to hide," he whispered to himself as he rushed over to the nearest door and tried the handle. Locked. As was the next one, and the next one. The maintenance closet, its door still ajar, was empty, but it had no lock. It was not a good place to hide. Moments later, he was back at the door into Dr. Armstrong's office.
He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to calm his racing mind. Every problem had a solution, even this one. The answer had to be somewhere in Armstrong's office. With a deep breath and his fingers pinching his nose, he stepped back into the office just as the door to the stairwell opened.
The storage closet! With a few steps, Oliver was at the door. It was unlocked. Without hesitation, he opened the door and stepped inside, careful to close the door as quietly as he could. When the door clicked shut, he locked the handle from the inside. He collapsed on the floor, his back against the door, and exhaled as quietly as he could. Then he waited.
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After what seemed like an eternity, he heard the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps. There was a scraping on the floor accompanied by mumbling and grunts. Then there was quiet.
When the door handle above him turned with a squeak, he had to cover his mouth to stop himself from shouting out in surprise. He held his breath as the handle jiggled and someone tried to push open the door.
His eyes darted around the room as scraping sounds came from the other side of the door. One side of the room was made up of metal shelving, packed with chronologically stacked archive boxes and office supplies.
On the opposite wall, tucked in between two shelves, was a small window. It seemed just large enough for him to squeeze through. With two long steps, he approached the window and pushed on the glass. It swung open with a squeak that made Oliver shudder. If his presence previously was only suspected, now it was certain. Great work, Oliver.
The wind whipped across the flat rooftop outside the window. On the far side of the roof, Oliver spotted the top of a ladder. He hesitated momentarily. The window had been open already. Did the killer escape through the window? Was he waiting on the roof, ready to pounce on whoever followed?
Behind him, the door handle jiggled again. Something slammed against the door, straining the lock and the door itself. He had no choice and climbed out of the window headfirst. As he landed hands first on the roof, the wind tore into his clothes and rain hammered his face like a thousand needles. With no time to waste, he staggered across the flat roof, his arm raised like a shield against the wind. Leaning sideways, he staggered across the rooftop as quickly as the wind would allow him to.
The ladder down to the ground was an old, rusty metal ladder. As Oliver set his foot on the first rung, he felt it sway in the wind. He took a deep breath and continued down, ignoring the sideways swinging motion the wind and the decrepit ladder was subjecting him to. When his feet met the solid ground, he couldn't help but smile. I made it.
Without delay, he walked around the building towards the car, continually glancing across his shoulder for any sign that he was being followed. He rounded the corner of the building and headed towards his car, only to freeze in his tracks halfway between the corner and his car. A dark figure stood on the sidewalk by the road next to one of the few functioning light poles, thirty yards from the car, on the opposite side of where Oliver stood.
Oliver couldn't tell whether it was a man and a woman, but they were dressed in a long, dark trench coat, dark pants, and a dark shirt. Long, stringy hair fell across the face, hiding the eyes and other features of the face.
"Who are you?" he said to himself as he wiped his own hair from his face. He continued towards his car, one step at a time while keeping an eye on the rest of the parking lot. The dark figured didn't move.
"Hello, can I help you?" he shouted towards the figure as he fumbled with the key to his car and opened the door. When there was no response, he slipped into his car and slammed the door shut and turned the ignition. The engine turned over but refused to start.
"Come on, start," Oliver said and pumped the gas pedal while he glanced towards the light pole. He felt his heart skip a beat when it was no longer visible by the light pole, leaving just the cone of light illuminating the surrounding parking lot. He craned his neck around in all directions, trying to spot the person. Then, a shadow approached with slow and deliberate steps from the direction he had just come.
Oliver muttered a string of curses and tried to start the car again. The engine turned over, sputtered, but refused to start. He slammed his palm on the steering wheel, pumped the accelerator while the shadow approached on his left. Instinctively, he slammed the electronic door lock and heard the click of all four doors as the lock engaged.
He felt panic well up inside as he turned the key a third time, just as the shadow stepped up to his car. The engine came to life just as there was a tap on the side window. Oliver barely held back a scream as he shied away from the door, covering his face with his arm. Nothing happened.
There was another tap. Oliver lowered his arm and saw a distinct metal badge of a police officer held against the window, the tip of a gun immediately next to it. The face of a police officer was visible a couple of feet beyond in the dark.
Oliver kept his right hand on the wheel as he rolled down the window. A gush of wind and rain immediately hit him.
"Can I help you, officer?" he shouted over the wind.
"Get out of the car, sir," the officer shouted and waved the barrel of the gun. "Now!"
"All right, all right," Oliver said and opened the door. He had barely put his foot on the ground before the officer reached for his arm, forcibly pulled him out and wrestled him to the ground. Before Oliver had the chance to protest, he was flat on the ground and heard the clicks of handcuffs around his wrists behind his back.
"Sir, you're under arrest," the officer grunted and pulled Oliver up on his feet.
"Under arrest? Whatever for?"
"Murder."
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