“I’m Bulger, sir.”The guard’s gruff manner wilted instantly.
“Bulger. I see. You’re the man I need to talk to. This is Mr. Hrumrehmen in Human Resources.” He spoke rapidly and angrily, deliberately garbling the name.
“Yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. How can I help you, Mr.—?”
“You certainly can help me, Bulger. There’s a problem here with certain, ah, asseverations in your personnel file, Bulger.”
“What kind of problem?”The man sounded suitably alarmed.
“It’s confidential. We’ll discuss it when you get here.”
“When?”
“Now, of course.”
“Yes, sir, but I didn’t catch your name—”
“And tell O’Neal I’m sending someone down to review your procedures in the meantime. We’ve had some disturbing reports about laxity.”
“Yes, sir, of course, but—?”
Smithback replaced the phone. He looked up to find the elderly volunteer eyeing him curiously, even suspiciously.
“What was that all about, Professor?”
Smithback grinned and drew a hand over his cowlick. “Just a little trick on a co-worker. We’ve got this running joke, see…Gotta do something to lighten up this old pile.”
She smiled. The dear innocent, Smithback thought a little guiltily as he made a beeline back down the stairs to Old Records. On the way, he passed one of the guards he’d seen through the crack: huffing down the hall, belly jiggling as he walked, panic writ large on his face. The Human Resources office at the Museum was a notoriously feared place, overstaffed like the rest of the administration. It would take the guard ten minutes to get there, ten minutes to wander around looking for the nonexistent Mr. Hrumrehmen, and ten minutes to get back. That would give Smithback thirty minutes to talk his way inside and find what he was looking for. It wasn’t a lot of time, but Smithback knew the Museum’s archival systems inside and out. He had infinite confidence in his ability to find what he needed in short order.
Once again, he strode down the hall to the copper doors of Old Records. He straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath. Raising one hand, he knocked imperiously.
The door was opened by the remaining security officer. He looked young, barely old enough to be out of high school. He was already spooked. “Yes, how can I help you?”
Smithback grasped the man’s surprised, limp hand while stepping inside at the same time.
“O’Neal? I’m Maurice Fannin from Human Resources. They sent me down here to straighten things out.”
“Straighten things out?”
Smithback slid his way inside, looking at the rows of old metal filing cabinets, the scarred table covered with foam coffee cups and cigarette butts, the piss-yellow walls.
“This is a disgrace,” he said.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Smithback drilled his eyes into O’Neal. “We’ve been doing a little looking into your area here, and let me tell you, O’Neal, we are not pleased. Not pleased at all.”
O’Neal was immediately and utterly cowed. “I’m sorry, sir. Maybe you should talk to my supervisor, Mr. Bulger—”
“Oh, we are. We’re having a long discussion with him.”Smithback looked around again. “When was the last time you had a file check, for example?”
“A what?”
“A file check. When was the last time, O’Neal?”
“Er, I don’t know what that is. My supervisor didn’t tell me anything about a file check—”
“Strange, he thought you knew all about the procedure. Now, that’s what I mean here, O’Neal: sloppy. Very sloppy. Well, from now on, we will be requiring a monthly file check.” Smithback narrowed his eyes, strode over to a filing cabinet, pulled on a drawer. It was, as he expected, locked.
“It’s locked,” said the guard.
“I can see that. Any idiot can see that.” He rattled the handle. “Where’s the key?”
“Over there.” The poor guard nodded toward a wall box. It, too, was locked.
It occurred to Smithback that the climate of fear and intimidation the new Museum administration had fostered was proving most helpful. The man was so terrified, the last thing he would think of doing was challenging Smithback or asking for his ID.
“And the key to that?”
“On my chain.”
Smithback looked around again, his quick eyes taking in every detail under the pretense of looking for further violations. The filing cabinets had labels on them, each with a date. The dates seemed to run back to 1865, the founding year of the Museum.