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THE MAN SITTING AT THE COMPUTER BEGAN TO TYPE:
Was that an appropriate way to announce a suicide? The man didn't feel sure. He had never seen a real suicide note before and wondered if the opening should have a less somber tone. He stared at the screen for a moment, then decided that the tenor of the farewell message wouldn't make any difference. "It's close enough for government work," he murmured. "Everyone will get the idea."
The man glanced at his wristwatch. 11:35 P.M. In twenty-five minutes the clock-thermostat would switch on the apartment's gas-fired heating system. Almost immediately the disconnected chimney pipe would begin to fill the apartment with carbon monoxide. Thirty minutes later the air in the bedroom would be fully saturated with a lethal dose of the odorless, colorless gas. He was running out of time; he had to finish typing this note quickly and then print a copy to place on the bed table.
When he looked back at the words on the screen, however, a new problem caught his eye. The greeting wasn't quite right. Only a handful of people will ever read this note, he thought—certainly not all my family, friends, and coworkers. The police could hardly be expected to communicate what they would find. A pity, he thought, because the more people who see the note, the better.
The man began to smile, delighted with the brilliant idea that had popped into his head. Why not send everyone an electronic-mail copy of the suicide note? Why not make the letter public right from the start? It was so simple. He could format the note as an E-mail message. Then, with a few mouse clicks, he could direct the E-mail program to broadcast the message to the immediate world at an appropriate time, say 2:00 A.M.—long after the carbon monoxide had finished its job.
A suicide note "spam." That will keep people at Campbell & McQueen talking for weeks. The man chuckled as he opened the E-mail program:
Dear Family, Friends, and Coworkers: By the time you read this message, I will be dead.
The very few of you who actually care about me know how much I hate the stress at Campbell & McQueen Precision Components. Well, I put up with it for seven solid weeks, but today the pain became impossible to bear—along with most of the people at C&M. So I have arranged a permanent resignation from my job and from my stupid life.
To Anne Goodwin, my wonderful mother, all I can say is, sorry, Mom! I think we both knew that this might happen some day.
To Karen Constantine, my dear fiancée, I hope you will move beyond me without too much bitterness. I never wanted to hurt you.
To my handful of friends at C&M, remember me kindly—if you can!
Barry Goodwin
Who is worthy of loathing? Who deserves to be skewered by a man about to commit suicide?
He rocked back in his chair and closed his eyes. The ideal target would be someone connected to Campbell & McQueen—someone whose name everyone would recognize—someone who made a credible enemy. Someone like ... Pippa Hunnechurch.
Another brilliant idea! Pippa Hunnechurch was an outsider. A perfect person to hate. A perfect person to blame for an unexpected suicide.
The man continued typing:
"Should I add another exclamation point?" the man murmured. "No. It's just right."
The one remaining chore was to create the list of recipients on the To: line. He began by typing everyone@campbellmcqueen.com, a blanket E-mail address that would automatically send a copy of the message to every C&M employee. Next, he opened the E-mail program's "Contacts" file and found addresses for Anne Goodwin and Karen Constantine. He copied them to the To: line.
Pippa Hunnechurch should get a copy too.
The man appended pippa@pippahunnechurch.com to the end of the list of addresses and checked his wristwatch again. 11:51. He configured the E-mail program to broadcast the message in 129 minutes.
Well done, he told himself, and then he began to laugh.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall when folks access their E-mails tomorrow morning.
I HAVE DINED AT MAISON PIERRE, the most expensive restaurant in Ryde, Maryland, a total of three times since I launched Philippa Hunnechurch & Associates, Executive Recruiters.
The first occasion was a Sunday brunch to congratulate myself for having the nerve to start my own business.
The second was a welcome-aboard dinner for Gloria Spitz, my one and only "associate."
The third—an expense-account lunch—turned out to be the last meal I shared with Barry Goodwin, a week before my first techie recruit went over the edge and killed himself.
It was a Monday in early December, and Maison Pierre was stylishly decked out with European Christmas wreathes and handmade angel candles. I spotted Barry sitting at a quiet corner table the moment I entered the chic dining room. His shock of carrot-red hair stuck out among the soft pastel colors of southern French decor like a bouquet in a bathtub. I waved at him, he nodded, and the beaming restaurateur, Pierre Renauld himself, led me to my chair with practiced Gallic courtliness, complete with a discreet kiss on my hand.
"Thanks for coming," Barry said as I sat down. "I apologize for not giving you more notice."
"No apologies are necessary. I'm always delighted to break bread with one of my recruiting success stories."
He let out a soft groan and turned his attention to his menu, a tall, foil-covered extravaganza embossed with an enormous fleur-de-lis. I studied the reflections of our angel candle on the gold foil and wondered, What on earth has happened?
I waited patiently while a hovering busboy filled my glass with mineral water, stocked my side plate with enticing miniature baguettes, and positioned a dish of butter swirls in easy reach. When he left, I said in my most caring voice, "Tell me Barry— how have you been?"
His answer was a muffled "Not that good!" projected through the menu.
Barry sounded even more melancholic than when he had telephoned me early that morning and commanded, without any preliminary greeting, "Meet me at Maison Pierre today for lunch. I need to talk to you about my job as soon as possible. It's really important."
Both the unexpected directive and Barry's apparent urgency took me by surprise. When I pressed for an explanation, all he would say was, "I can't discuss it over the phone. I want to see you in person."
"And so you shall," I replied cheerfully, trying to ignore the alarm bells that clanged from ear to ear. We agreed to meet at noon. I rang off with an anxious feeling that stuck with me the rest of the morning.
Barry's odd behavior in person did nothing to allay my concerns. Hiding behind a menu was certainly not the sort of performance I expected from the spanking new director of corporate communications at Campbell & McQueen Precision Components, Incorporated. Campbell & McQueen is hardly a household name, but the company is quite well-known to those who build aircraft, design space satellites, and perform open-heart surgery.
C&M began as a specialist manufacturer of high-precision parts molded of engineering plastics and then used its molding skills to develop a line of medical prostheses—most notably replacement heart valves. C&M employed about eight hundred people and was headquartered in an upscale industrial park in the southwest corner of Ryde, not far from Route 50-301.
C&M had become Hunnechurch & Associates' newest client the previous summer. Sidney Monk, the company's vice president of human resources, asked us to recruit—I quote from his assignment letter—"an energetic public relations person with a solid technical background in plastics. We want a corporate communicator who truly appreciates the technology of making precision molded parts."
Gloria had bubbled with excitement. "If we can hit a home run on this one, we'll get a dozen more juicy assignments. I have great vibes about Campbell & McQueen, Pippa."
My friends call me Pippa because my full name seems to go on forever: Philippa Elizabeth Katherine Hunnechurch. I am a Brit by birth, a resident of Ryde by choice, thirty-seven by the inexorable march of time, and a "headhunter" by occupation.
A good headhunter.
I landed Barry Goodwin in only seven weeks—a feather in my cap because this was my first try at recruiting a techie. During my three previous years as a headhunter, I had searched for accountants, sales managers, mid-level executives, and the occasional attorney—but never a technologist. Barry broke the pattern. He held both a bachelor's and a master's degree in materials science and had worked as a plastics engineer. He loved plastics with the ardor of a teenage groupie and had written a flock of technical magazine articles about molding technology. Furthermore, Barry had recently earned a second master's degree in business administration with an emphasis in marketing and public relations, which made him a perfect candidate for C&M.
Sidney Monk swooned when I presented Barry. He was interviewed by C&M's senior executives and hired in less than a week, near record time for the company. He had now been on C&M's payroll for forty-six days, and according to the glowing report Sidney had given me scarcely a week earlier, was "fitting in like a hand inside a rubber glove."
So why the long face?
Barry was still holding his menu high when the waiter arrived to take our orders.
"I can't decide what I want," he said.
"In that event," I said, "have the specialty of the house. Coquille Chesapeake is similar to Coquille St. Jacques, but it's made with lump crabmeat instead of scallops. Everyone loves it."
Barry clapped the menu shut. "Sure. Why not?"
The waiter shot Barry a twisted smile before he walked away. I imagined him mumbling, sacré bleu! at the outrage of a patron treating Pierre's specialité with such indifference.
At that moment Barry Goodwin, who was thirty-five years old, made me think of a petulant child—the kind of kid who would stomp his feet then lock himself in the bathroom. It was a side of Barry I had not seen before, one that raised my hackles.
"You are plainly upset about something," I said as I prepared to sample a baguette. "I assume you asked me here to explain the problem."
He didn't hesitate for an instant. "To be honest, Pippa, I can't stomach C&M's business practices. I intend to quit."
Quit?
The Q word hit me with the force of a well-thrown punch. I coughed the morsel of baguette I had just bitten halfway across the table, then spent the next thirty seconds sipping water and clearing my throat.
"Are you OK?" Barry asked in a voice that sounded more amused than concerned.
"Fully OK," I said, although both my mind and heart were racing.
Let me explain the shock to my system. My headhunting contract is a fairly traditional affair. A clause on the second page explains that we will send an invoice for our services when the recruit joins the company but that the client need not pay the bill until the new employee has completed sixty days of work. This reasonable "no-risk guarantee" protects my client should a candidate be fired for cause or unexpectedly leave the company.
I had never experienced a situation where the clause might be invoked, but it seemed to be happening now. Hunnechurch & Associates' "home run" was in danger of becoming a strikeout. If so, we would lose a fat fee—and blot our reputation inside Campbell & McQueen.
I had regained most of my composure when I asked, "Can you be more specific, Barry? What kinds of business practices have upset you?"
He stared at his bread and butter plate. After what seemed an eternity, he shook his head. "I can't tell you the details, without ... well, without hurting people who have enough to worry about right now. What I can say is that C&M does things that are both illegal and immoral."
I chose my words carefully. "That comes as an enormous surprise to me. After all, C&M is one of the most respected companies in its field."
"How do you think I feel?" Barry spoke loud enough to make several heads turn in the dining room. He realized his gaffe and cranked his voice down to a loud whisper. "I planned to spend the rest of my career at C&M. I never would have accepted the offer if I had known the company played fast and loose with critical quality specifications."
"I still don't grasp what C&M has done wrong."
"Good! I told you more than I meant to."
"Have you spoken to anyone at the company about your ... concerns."
"Like who?"
"Why not Sidney Monk? He strikes me as a pillar of integrity."
"Sidney doesn't know anything about plastics. He's like you. He'll never understand what I'm talking about."
I ignored the slight. "But you report to Hilda McQueen. She's the president and chief operating officer— and a Ph.D. chemist. I'm confident that she would want to be warned about shoddy business practices going on in her company."
Barry glared at me. "You just don't get it, do you? Hilda already knows what's happening. I'm pretty sure that she's responsible."
"I see," I said, not sure what else to say.
"No! You don't see! If Hilda is a crook, it stands to reason that Richard Campbell, our esteemed chairman and chief executive officer, is also involved. The whole executive suite has to be corrupt."
"Blimey!"
"Yeah. Blimey."
I placed my hand on top of his. "Don't take this the wrong way, but is there any chance that you are mistaken?"
He snatched his hand away and slapped the table with his palm, making our cutlery rattle. "Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I'm blind? C&M is cheating its ..." Barry reached for the right word, "customers big-time."
My brain struggled to wrap itself around his accusations. Could someone who worked at C&M for so short a time have discovered such serious wrongdoing? It didn't seem possible, but what else could explain his vehemence and determination?
I remembered another name. "Is Jerry Nichols part of this ... conspiracy?"
Jerry was Campbell & McQueen's master molder. I had spent several days with him at the start of my search to learn some of the vocabulary of plastics technology. I had promptly forgotten most of the arcane words he defined for me.
Barry reacted with an angry toss of his head. "No. Jerry isn't involved, but he has stuck his head in the sand. He refuses to acknowledge that a problem could exist."
I took his hand again; he didn't object. "When do you intend to submit your resignation?"
"I don't know— probably not for another month or two."
I'm sure I gawked at Barry. "Let me get this straight. You have witnessed unethical behavior at C&M that reaches to the boardroom and has caused you profound distress, yet you plan to work on for another month or two. Why?"
He looked me straight in the eye. "I'm not leaving C&M until I have solid evidence of what's going on—enough to get the problem fixed, maybe even enough to send people to jail. That means I have to keep doing a bang-up job as director of corporate communications." He had begun to sound like the chipper technical whiz I had interviewed four months earlier. "Next week I'll throw the best darn news conference Ryde has seen this year. C&M is going to announce an expanded line of heart valves. I'll send you an invitation."
"Please do." Now it was my turn to stare at a bread-and-butter plate. Barry obviously felt better after sharing his lurid accusations with me, but I was bewildered by his finger pointing, his mood swing, and his intended course of action.
Is my first techie a nutter?
The waiter delivered two giant ramekins piled high with Coquille Chesapeake. Barry dug in and seemed to enjoy every mouthful, while I had all but lost my appetite. I poked at my food and ate what I could, but our bizarre conversation kept getting in the way. I finally asked the waiter for a doggy bag to pack up more than half of my lunch. He provided one, along with a disapproving glower.
When I reached for the check, Barry said, "This is C&M's treat." He tucked his American Express card into the folder and pushed it toward the edge of the table. A few minutes later we stepped into the cool December air on High Street.
"Thanks for the lunch, Barry," I said.
"Don't thank me, Pippa. We've just enjoyed some of C&M's ill-gotten gains."
I watched him walk away past several holiday shoppers, his red hair as bright in the sunlight as the holiday packages people carried.
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