“Gate called ahead. DGSI?” Mr. Fontaine asked, his lip still quivering.
John nodded, scratching at the stretch of scar beneath his chin. “Yes, I’m here on a case.”
“We had DGSI here before. This time do you promise not to scream at my employees?”
John was reminded of Foucault’s confrontation with Adele. He hadn’t heard much. “It’s actually about that,” John said. “Can you tell me what happened? Who, exactly, are you talking about?”
The small man shook his head, frowning. He glanced toward the glass window, which looked out onto the factory floor. John saw old machines and conveyor belts, and employees moving throughout. He saw one man in particular; a pale, bearded fellow, carrying a clipboard. This guy kept glancing nervously toward the glass.
Just another person he would have to add to the list of suspects. Guilty until proven innocent.
John decided the overseer would be on the list too. No one could be overlooked.
“Oh, I don’t remember her name,” said the overseer. “A loud woman. Obnoxious. Wouldn’t obey protocol. Scared some of my employees.”
John nodded solemnly. “She is very loud and annoying, I agree.”
The overseer looked at him to see if John was joking, but couldn’t seem to detect anything. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, his foot still tapping nervously against the tiles, “regardless, I’m not sure what I can tell you.”
“Who was she talking to when she had this altercation?” John asked.
The overseer waved his hand through the window. “As luck would have it, it was the operator. Andrew Maldonado. She started yelling at him.”
John cleared his throat. “Did she talk to anyone else?”
At this, the overseer hesitated, examining John with a note of suspicion. “She did,” he said slowly. “With me and the gate guard. But that was it. She was asking about another employee of ours, but he retired.”
“And how many people were on staff the day she was here?”
“Bare bones that day. It was still early, if I remember correctly. A hard experience to forget, mind you.” His eyes narrowed again. “The afternoon shift is when we have most employees come in. No sense in everyone here until the machines are running. Regardless, a couple of the truckers, myself, the operator over there, and maybe four other employees.”
John counted in his head, including the gate guard. Less than ten. Less than ten people who could have possibly interacted with Adele that day. Ten names wasn’t too many. How hard could it be to narrow a list of ten?
John sighed, glancing toward the nervous, twitchy overseer. If Adele was a bloodhound, and could sniff out guilt and deceit, John was more of a battering ram. It didn’t much matter to him to figure things out through guile, or cleverness, or paying attention. Rather, he liked to lower his head, barrel forward, and see who was too stupid to get out of the way.
And right now, the overseer was worried. The small man kept glancing at the window to the factory floor, and then back to John.
“I’m going to need you to tell me what you were doing ten years ago.”
The overseer blinked.
“I’m serious.”
The overseer shook his head, stammered a bit, then said, “I have no clue. How would I know? When?”
“March 2009,” said John, without missing a beat. “What were you doing?”
The man spluttered, shaking his head, swallowing, and then spluttering some more. “How should I know?” he said at last. “That’s ten years!”
“I know. And I still need you to tell me. Receipts, pictures, family photos, airplane tickets… Anything. You need to give me proof of where you were ten years ago in March.”
The man gasped. “When in March?”
John thought back to the case notes. Thought back to the day when Elise Romei was murdered. “The first week,” he said. “Give me a broad alibi.”
The man seemed ready to protest further. Before he could, though, John said, “You, those truck drivers who were here the same time as the loud agent, and anyone on the factory floor.” Then he added, “The gate guard too. All of you need to convince me you were in the clear ten years ago.” John nodded once. “In addition, I need you to provide me an alibi for last week. Seven days ago. All of you.”
“Last week I was working! Clear of what?” the small man demanded.
“Murder,” John said simply. “And if I’m not convinced—if you don’t take this seriously, I’ll have teams of federal agents uprooting your lives for the next decade. Understand?”
The overseer looked ready to roll his eyes, but then paused, studying John’s expression to see if he was joking again. John didn’t change anything about his countenance—he knew he was as serious as the grave.
At last, the overseer sighed. “I’ll see what I can find, and I’ll send out a memo. Is that all?”
John shook his head. “I’d like to speak with some of the other factory workers. Get their account of each other and of you…”
“Of me?”
John nodded, patting the small man on the shoulder before turning to the glass partition which led to the factory floor. “Yes,” he replied over his shoulder. “To see if they think you’re capable of murder. Good day.”
Then John moved toward the glass partition separating the entry of the factory from the assembly floor. He spotted the indicated pale fellow with the dark beard stepping around a conveyor belt, a clipboard in his hand. A Mr. Maldonado, according to the overseer. John frowned, mirroring the expression of the overseer behind him, who was studying his every movement, watching as John stepped through the sliding doors.
Was it just his imagination, or was the man with the clipboard trying to hide his face?
“Excuse me,” John called out, waving a large hand in the direction of Mr. Maldonado.
But Andrew Maldonado paused on the opposite side of the conveyor belt, glancing shiftily about. For a moment, John thought he might bolt, but he didn’t run, and instead, with slow, furtive movements, began to meander toward the back of the factory floor, disappearing behind a large, metal machine.
“Hang on,” John called, “Mr. Maldonado, DGSI—I need to speak with you!”
But the man picked up his pace. Not running, still. And now, out of sight, the only indication of his speed was the quick tapping sound of footsteps against the concrete floor.
John frowned, his temper rising as he maneuvered around the conveyor belt as well, ducking beneath the swinging arm of some metal gearbox attached to one of the larger machines.
He hadn’t realized how much was equipment was required to pack small candy bars.
He gritted his teeth as he glimpsed Mr. Maldonado disappearing around a floor-to-ceiling set of shelves, laden with Styrofoam boxes and packaged containers. John picked up the pace, his lengthy stride closing the distance between him and the fleeing factory worker. Mr. Maldonado glanced over his shoulder, still seemingly hiding his face with the edge of his clipboard.
“Excuse me!” John called, allowing a growl to creep into his tone. “Stop!”
Another couple of factory workers were glancing in their direction. At last, as John moved around the shelf, he found Mr. Maldonado backed up against a wall, with two shelves on either side. For a moment, Mr. Maldonado reached down, a hand gripping the black handle of a forklift. John’s eyes narrowed. He’d seen this sort of desperate look before. For a second, he thought perhaps Mr. Maldonado might try to swivel the forklift around, using it like a battering ram or a defensive weapon. John’s own fingers slipped to his hip.