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JERRY MONROE ENTERED the building via the rear door and stepped out of the sun and into the dark hall. The corridor smelled of pine and there was a deserted coolness to it. He’d been in this building several times before when there were people inhabiting the halls. On a Sunday, the Jasper Times building was empty and felt creepy.
You don’t belong here, Jerry old boy, he heard his father whisper into his ear. The voice of his conscience always sounded like his father. He did turn and leave because that voice always held sway over him, but then he remembered the envelope on his dresser at home, the thickness of it, and the way it bulged at the edges like an overstuffed pizza puff. And there would be more. There would be more than the money. There would be exposure.
To a man in his profession, exposure was worth a lot. He needed something big to get him through the door and this job was good enough to get his foot there, long enough to keep it from slamming in his face.
As promised, the janitor had left the door unlocked and had vacated the building. Jerry was alone here, wandering through the halls and feeling much like a schoolboy sneaking around without a hall pass, waiting at any moment for a hall monitor to stop him.
At the end of the first hall Jerry turned left into the main newsroom. The design was an open concept with thirty or forty cubicles with four-foot-high walls spread out in a complex maze. To Jerry, the room looked like one of the puzzles he used to work at solving in Boys Life magazine; there was a starting point and you had to trace a line through the maze until you found your finish.
When he came to the end of the main hall, he passed the elevator and found the stairs. He did not want to take the elevator. Although he knew no one was in the building, he feared the elevator because he might get stuck and no one would know he was there until Monday morning. He was deathly afraid of small spaces.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Jerry made his way up four flights with his camera case banging softly against his thigh. For a man of only thirty, he felt completely out of shape. He was not overweight—he still had the trim body of his youth—but too many years of drinking and smoking cigars had finally caught up with him. When he reached the top of the stairs, he had to pause to catch his breath. The air tore out of his lungs, sounding raggedy, as if he were in a fit of bronchial attack.
He stared at the red door marked ROOF: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY in large white letters. For the moment, he was authorized personnel in the employ of the town’s richest and most powerful man. The push bar would open the door. His hand lay upon it, but he did not immediately push it. There was a big clunky box attached to it that would set off an alarm when opened. He hesitated; his fear of drawing attention overwhelmed him again. He’d had many assignments where his cover was of utmost importance to get the right shots and every time, he felt the same fear. His guts clenched, and he felt his throat constricting. If he messed up, if he were caught, he would not get his shot.
“Come on Jer, let’s go. The janitor left the door open, I’m sure he deactivated the alarm.”
The sound reasoning of his own voice calmed him and gave him the courage to push the handle. The door opened with only the squeak of un-oiled hinges and he was met by sunlight. He stepped out onto the warm tar, waiting for his eyes to readjust to the day. When he could see clearly, he surveyed his surroundings noting places he could easily slide behind where he would not be seen by passerby, but where he could also see the street below.
He walked the length and width of the roof several times before finally deciding on a spot to the rear of an air conditioning unit. From his vantage point on the roof of the Jasper Times building, he was allowed a clear view of the sheriff’s office that was directly across the street. The building was a squat two-story with steps like those at the federal courthouse. The expansive steps seemed ridiculous attached to the small building and Jerry thought it was a grand joke, played by the architect on the township of Jasper.
Jerry set his equipment bag and lunchbox down next to the unit and ran back to the entrance that would lead him back into the building. He wanted to search for something to sit on because he feared the tar might heat up as the sun grew warmer and he would become stuck to the roof. As he reached the door, fear gripped his belly again.
Shit, the door is locked, he thought. I’ll be stuck here until Monday when someone discovers me. Hell, it may a lot longer than that before someone checks the roof.
His sweaty palm gripped the handle. “Please, God,” Jerry said and pulled the handle forcefully. The door swung open easily and the momentum of his tug sent him backward where he landed hard on his ass. His face flushed, and he got quickly to his feet. He glanced around to be sure no one had seen him before he realized he was on a roof, four floors above the ground. He brushed the seat of his pants.
“Real good, Jer. Way to be Colombo.”
He reached the door before it closed again and stepped back into the hall. He walked to a door marked JANITOR’S CLOSET and tried the knob. The door, of course, was open. Thornton did have reliable sources and he did have a long reach. He flipped the light switch and looked around at the contents of the room. The first thing he saw was the mop bucket and he pulled that out of the cramped space of the closet. He set it upside down on the floor and sat down on it. It was quite uncomfortable, and he would be sitting for a while, so he decided to search for an alternative.
He threw the bucket back into the room and scanned the items again. He finally settled on an old canvas tarp, used when the building had been repainted two years ago. The canvas, once white, was now grayish, with flecks of dried paint splattered in abstract patterns. He held it up, looking at it from different angles. It looked like some of the crap he saw on display at the Art Museum in New York when he was there on assignment a couple of months ago.
Taking the canvas tarp with him, he exited the building again. When he reached his place near the air conditioning unit, he flipped the canvas open, as if here were at the beach spreading a picnic blanket. He set his equipment bag and lunchbox on top and sat cross-legged on the canvas. He could feel the heat of the sunbaked tar on his rear end, but it was bearable.
Opening his equipment bag, he began removing what he needed for this job. He pulled out the Cannon EOS Rebel 2000 and set it gently on the paint-splattered canvas. Reaching back into the back he removed two lenses: an EF 100mm f/2.8 USM and an EF 135mm f/2.8 with Soft focus. Both were thick and formidable. Holding them both up, he moved his hands up and down, as if he were holding the scales of justice. He finally decided on the shorter of the two—the EF 135 mm—and set it beside the camera, replacing the other in his equipment bag.
Lifting the camera and lens, he married the two together and peeked through the viewer. The building across the street sprung into view and he found himself staring at the painted motto above the entrance to the sheriff’s office: To Protect and Serve. The telephoto lens was very powerful, and he could zoom in on any object from over 50 yards away as if he were right there.
He set the camera down and consulted his watch. It was only 7:30 in the morning. According to his instructions the woman was not expected until sometime after 9:00. Thornton had assured him he would be able to create a commotion and draw the psychic out, as well as put the sheriff in a compromising position. All Jerry had to do was get the shots, simple as that. Then collect another $5000.
He opened his lunchbox and pulled out a banana, peeled it, and took a bite out of it. As he chewed, he held the camera up to his right eye and using the powerful lens and started spying in some of the windows in nearby buildings. He saw an old man in the hardware store, carrying out his cash register drawer, preparing for the day ahead. In the second-floor window, above the hardware store, a woman in an apron and curlers sat at the window reading the paper and puffing at a cigarette. He scanned several more buildings until he saw a woman silhouetted against the sheers.
Taking two more quick bites of his banana and finishing it off, he wiped his hands on his pants and picked up the camera again. He pointed it back toward the woman and set to the task of refocusing. The picture was very clear, as if he’d been standing outside her window on a ladder, looking in. She stood topless in front of her mirror, putting on make-up, preparing for Sunday morning church. She was about sixteen, with small pert breasts and unusually pink nipples. Jerry felt guilty spying on her, yet, at the same time, he felt the tingle in his groin; it was exciting to spy.
He watched her for several more minutes as she made herself up. His eyes were focused on her breasts as they moved ever so slightly as she spread the make-up on her face. The nipples seemed to burn brightly in his pupils, like miniature versions of the sun. Finally, she finished painting her face, stood, and moved out of view. When she returned, she was wearing a bra.
Jerry put down his camera and pulled a Twinkie from the lunchbox, peeled back the cellophane, and began eating. He picked up the camera again and began to spy some more. He hoped to find a woman closer to his own age, preferably, with larger breasts.