Chapter 2: The Accountant’s Nightmare

But when I saw Brian in the security office, he didn’t look anything like some hardened criminal.

In the interrogation room, he sat stiff, eyes bloodshot, one cheek swollen from a beating—his good looks barely visible. As soon as I walked in, he blurted, “Detective, it wasn’t me. I was just passing by. I saw her naked, so I took off my coat to cover her. Right then, those four showed up and started beating me without even asking what happened.”

He held his hands out, helpless. “I can’t explain it.”

He looked so lost, I tried to keep things calm. “You can explain. But you’re an accountant at the plant, right? You don’t work nights. Why were you there so late?”

“Yesterday, the plant manager suddenly got a bunch of cash and asked me to keep it, but didn’t say what for. I thought things weren’t stable at the plant, got worried someone might target the finance office, so I wanted to check it out.”

I frowned. “But you don’t need to go past the warehouse to get to the finance office.”

“I...” He hesitated, searching for words. “I don’t know what I was thinking, just felt like I had to go there.”

He said, like it mattered, “I just felt something big might happen. I was uneasy, so I...”

I couldn’t help a little sneer. “So you walked over, found a naked body, and took off your coat to cover her?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what happened.” He looked relieved, doubling down. “Detective, that’s really what happened.”

“You felt uneasy, went to the crime scene, saw the body, weren’t scared, didn’t scream, just took off your coat to cover her. You really expect me to buy that?”

He was stunned, then looked hurt. “But that’s what happened. I... I was scared, but that didn’t stop me from covering her. She’s a young girl, naked. I think anyone would do the same.”

“No, most folks would be so freaked out they’d run the other way, not get close.”

He just stared at the floor. “But it really wasn’t me.”

He was clearly frustrated, rubbing his face, looking like he wished he could crawl out of his own skin. “Why did I even go there?”

From the way things looked, I thought Brian was suspicious too. But honestly, none of this was enough to pin him for murder.

Before we could get any real leads on the homicide, Plant Manager Sam Sullivan came barreling in to report a theft. When he saw me, he nearly fell to pieces—crying, wailing, and for a second, I thought the victim must be his own daughter.

“Detective Callahan, help!”

He rushed at me, so frantic I had to steady him. “What happened?”

He was a mess—wringing his hands, stomping his feet, looking about ready to spin himself into the ground. “The money is gone, $800,000! That’s the plant’s lifeline. Without it, the plant is finished, thousands of workers won’t have a dime for food.”

I got him a glass of water and listened to his story. Bottom line: he’d mortgaged the plant’s assets at the bank for $800,000 in cash to pay workers, but overnight, it vanished.

“When did it go missing?”

“Last night, just last night. I was afraid of trouble, so I quietly brought the money to the finance office. No one knew except the accountant.”

“Brian Bishop?”

“Yes, yes, that’s him.” Sullivan was still wound up. “He looks honest, how could he do such a thing?”

He kept crying, calling himself the sinner of the steelworks. Since he’d become manager, things had just gotten worse. This year, workers’ pay couldn’t be covered—barely enough each month to scrape by. Now, with the holidays coming, every family was counting on that money for Christmas. Without it, everyone was screwed.

“You think Brian Bishop took the money?”

Sullivan looked at me like I was nuts. “If not him, then who?” he practically shouted. “Only he has the key to the finance office safe, even I don’t. The lock wasn’t forced. If not him, who else?”

I had to admit, things just got a whole lot messier.

The forensic report was even worse: “Except for the face, her whole body is covered in injuries, but she wasn’t beaten to death—she was raped to death.”

“With all those injuries, she was tortured for at least an hour or two.”

“The killer stripped her to avoid leaving evidence and wiped down every place fingerprints might be left.”

Looking at the body, I tried not to let myself feel for the victim—if I did, I’d lose my head. If I pictured her as my own sister, I’d want to string Brian Bishop up right then, not figure out if he was actually the killer.

“Was she beaten first, or raped first? Or both at the same time?”

“From the injuries, she was beaten first, but the killer clearly didn’t intend to kill at first—he avoided vital spots.”

The forensic doc took a deep breath, thinking aloud. “The killer might have a thing for torturing women. She’s got old scars too, cigarette burns. So the killer’s probably someone she knew.”

From what we found, this was the main crime scene, but all the evidence had been wiped clean. We didn’t know who the killer was, but if it was Brian, the logic didn’t add up. If he’d already cleaned up, why come back?