He gives her his trademark beaming smile. Despite his doe-eyed, aw-shucks demeanor, Atticus is sharp. Analytical. He’s a data person like her. And he has something you can’t teach most young law-enforcement professionals—he doesn’t need to hear himself talk. He listens, observes. He doesn’t have anything to prove. And he’s not one to tell you how things really are. He soaks things in. When he speaks, it tends to matter. Hal’s right, he’ll be a good detective once he gets some seasoning. Maybe that’s why Hal assigned him to Keller. No, Hal probably thinks she needs a little seasoning herself.
“They know we’re coming?” Keller asks.
“Yep. Got us an appointment with the department head.”
“You tell them who we’re here to see?”
He shakes his head. Not confidently, like he’s unsure it was the right call. “The notes in the file said this guy acted unusually during the investigation, was uncooperative, but it didn’t give a reason why, so I thought he might refuse to see us. Better to ask forgiveness than permission and all that.” He smiles again.
Keller nods.
Before they head in, Atticus gives Keller a look.
“Something the matter?” she asks.
“Um, I don’t know if you’re on social media, but there’s this video from yester—”
“I’ve seen it,” Keller cuts him off, signaling she doesn’t want to talk about it. Stan still hasn’t gotten back to her, so it’s giving her anxiety. For his part, Bob has texted her several GIFs: a clip of Will Ferrell in Anchorman regalia saying, “That’s the most badass thing I’ve ever seen.” Another of Chuck Norris giving the camera a simmering gaze: “You’re a badass.”
Inside, they’re met by a guy in a suit that’s seen better days. He escorts them to his office. The company’s in-house lawyer is there as well.
“What can we do for you, Agent Keller?” the lawyer says. He wears a tie that has a stain on it. Workers is a low-cost insurance provider, and company culture is obviously no-frills. You don’t want to show up in a nicer suit or car than the CEO.
Keller explains that they’re working the ice cream store murder case, which the lawyer and department head have of course seen on the news. Keller tells them the visit has nothing to do with the company. Instead, they need to speak with Walter Young, an employee.
The men don’t need any explanation. They know Walter’s daughter, Mandy Young, was one of the Blockbuster victims.
“He works in the actuary department,” the department head says, walking them through a winding series of hallways. Six-foot-tall cardboard cutouts of a worker bee, the company’s mascot from its cheesy commercials, are displayed in the elevator banks.
“We think the architect of our building was a fan of mazes. I still get lost,” he chuckles.
They take the elevator down several floors. The structure has a deep underbelly.
“We have a football field’s worth of computers. They gotta stay cool,” he explains.
The basement has a long hallway painted turd brown.
“I’ll warn you,” the department head says. “Walter is, um, eccentric. Not a people person. He asked to have his office down here. He’s a brilliant actuary. But … you’ll see.”
Keller and Atticus tap eyes.
They reach the closed door at the end of the hall. No nameplate. The department head knocks, waits a beat, then opens the door. A man sits behind a cluttered desk. He wears thick glasses and keeps blinking, giving his eyes an insect quality.
They hang back as the department head speaks with Walter, explaining why they’re here.
Under his breath Atticus asks Keller, “You ever see the movie Office Space?”
“No, why?”
“Never mind.”
The department head speaks louder now. “Agent Keller and Detective Singh, I’d like you to meet Walter Young, our best actuary.” His tone is sincere. Cautious and over-the-top, but sincere. “Walter designed our computer risk model. If you tell him three things about yourself, he can predict with near certainty whether you’ll get in a car accident.” He smiles. “Text me when you’re done and I’ll come see you out. We don’t want them to get lost in the maze, right, Walter?” The manager lets out a forced laugh.
Walter cricks his neck. Like a tic.
“That won’t be necessa—” He cricks his neck again. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”