Mr. Turlep did not look like a criminal. Wearing a navy blue suit, white shirt, and a tan striped necktie, he watched as his assistant locked the bank’s front door. He waited while his employees left their posts, said good night to each other, and headed home.
When he was the only one left in the building, he took the calendar out of his top desk drawer and, as he did each day at closing time, drew a big black X through June 18, that day’s date. He’d done this every day for more than two years, even taking the calendar home with him on weekends so he could X out the Saturdays and Sundays. Except on the thirteenth of each month. Mr. Turlep felt it might be bad luck to cross out the number thirteen, so every month he left it untouched.
Each X brought him one day closer to the happiest moment of his life: the time when he would walk out of the Hillside Bank forever, retrieve the money, and start his new life in Florida. He would spend every day fishing in the sunshine and would never again—not once—sit behind a desk in a bank.
Mr. Turlep had begun working at the bank forty-three years ago as a trainee and had slowly worked his way up to manager. He had relished the work for many years, but he didn’t enjoy it anymore. Now the government regulations and the unnecessary paperwork and the intense competition with huge national banks had taken all the pleasure away. Even the customers were less polite and more demanding. Everyone wanted to borrow money, but no one wanted to save it.
Mr. Turlep loosened his necktie and went out the back entrance, making sure the door locked securely behind him. He walked to his car, started the engine, and began the second part of his biweekly ritual.
Twice a week on his way home from work, he drove thirty miles out of his way in order to go past the sleepy little Carbon City cemetery, where he’d buried the money. He didn’t worry that someone might accidentally find it; in all the months (seven hundred eighty days, to be exact) since he’d hidden it, he had never seen a person in the cemetery.
His visits were a way to comfort himself after a hard day’s work and to stay focused on his plan of never having to work again. He liked to drive slowly past the little graveyard, his eyes on the spot he’d chosen, while he thought of what lay hidden there and how it would soon enrich his life.
By now, he’d nearly forgotten that the money didn’t really belong to him, that he’d taken it at gunpoint from two terrified bank customers as they approached the night-deposit box. He had erased from his memory the fact that the entire community had been outraged by the theft of the Cash for Critters proceeds.
At the time, he had pretended to be as furious as everyone else. As manager of the Hillside Bank, he had posted a one-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of the thief, and then he had personally matched that amount.
When his customers thanked him for his generosity, he had said, “Whoever did this robbed us not only of our animal shelter, but also of our community spirit. It’s tragic, that’s what it is. Tragic!”
Much of the money was in one-hundred-dollar bills. The rest he exchanged over a week’s time for more one-hundred-dollar bills until that was all he had. He bundled the bills securely, locked them in the small metal box he’d bought, and then used the ideal hiding place.
The crime was never solved, so eventually people quit talking about it and went about their business. The police had meth labs, drunk drivers, and assaults to deal with each day. With no clues to go on and no suspect, the theft of the Cash for Critters money slid gradually into the “unsolved” category, where the case was ignored.
The money was not forgotten by Mr. Turlep. Each day at closing time, as he Xed out the date, he thought of the difference the box of cash would make in his life. Without it, his retirement years would be meager. With it, he could live out his dream.
He should not have had to resort to theft in order to have a comfortable retirement. After years of living frugally and saving his money, Mr. Turlep’s dreams had been crushed by a corporate scandal that cost him, through no fault of his own, all his savings. Unscrupulous officers of the company where Mr. Turlep’s pension was invested had bilked the shareholders of millions. The money he had counted on for his retirement vanished.
When the news sank in that he had lost his personal savings and his bank pension, which were invested in the same place, Mr. Turlep changed. Overnight the man who had always been a mild-mannered, law-abiding banker became a bitter, cold-hearted criminal.
He knew his Social Security income wouldn’t buy the coveted condo on the beach, nor would it be enough to pay for weekly deep-sea fishing trips. The life he’d dreamed of for years had been within his grasp, and then it had vanished—until he’d planned and pulled off the perfect crime.
Who had been hurt by his theft? Nobody. It wasn’t as if he’d taken food from starving children or medicines from cancer patients. Oh, sure, a few hundred dogs and cats were left to fend for themselves each year instead of getting food, veterinary care, and loving homes. No big deal about that. They weren’t any worse off than they’d always been around here.
Mr. Turlep had worked hard all his life; he deserved a happy retirement. Now, with only one more day to go, the time was almost here. Tomorrow—Friday, June 19—he would make the last X, leave the bank for the last time, and make his final drive to the Carbon City cemetery.
Tonight he would finish packing. Tomorrow he would dig up his money and head for Florida. Those fish were waiting for him.