Crimes of Strategic Passion Part III, the Stunning Conclusion

 

As the family and staff filled the great dining room in the morning and sat down to breakfast, I recommended that they carry on their duties as if nothing had happened the night before. Just then, the gardener came in.

“Newspaper!” he announced.

“Let me have that” ordered Ivan Gettim, the police detective.

“Did the report from last night run?”

“Yes, it is here. Just as you requested, too:

Mr. Stratmon was discovered near death, but managed to leave the room before collapsing. He was found, is recovering, and hopes to finish a bit of important work tomorrow before convalescing abroad.”

“Where’s the butler?” I queried.

“I didn’t do it!” stormed Maher.

“I didn’t say you did. Why are you so sensitive?”

“Well, it just seems that whenever this sort of thing happens, the consulting detective always suspects … nevermind. What is it that you wanted?”

“When does the mail go out?”

“By noon.”

“Did Mr. Stratmon tend to wear a certain outfit on days like today, and can you make those clothes available?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, everybody!” I announced, “beginning at 11:00, nobody enters the library. Don’t do anything markedly out of the ordinary, just avoid that room.”

Tut Tutworth was still seething from the previous night, when it was clearly demonstrated that (a) true strategic management is commonly at odds with the objectives of asset management, and (b) the information stemming from the General Ledger really has nothing to do with strategic management.

“What’s the point, Raspberry?” he stormed. “If the killer is close enough to be lured back, then you would almost certainly have tipped him off by telling everybody what they need to do to help set the trap!”

“Except the killer isn’t among the household staff, or immediate associates. Otherwise, Stratmon would have written the name down as he was dying. Yet the killer did know when Stratmon would be the only person in the library, indicating some level of observation or familiarity. Just leave this to Ivan and me, Tutworth.”

Tut stormed out, but Piem O’Dagger, head of the Project Management Office, spoke up.

“Okay, Raspberry, if you’re so sure that the reason Mr. Stratmon was killed was due to some matter pertaining to strategic management, you’re on very thin ice. Software packages that perform advanced strategic management analysis are commonplace – my shop runs one, in fact. It’s not as if Mr. Stratmon had exclusive control of some piece of information or insight that would be worth getting killed over.”

“Software packages that claim to execute strategic management are commonplace, you are correct, Piem.” I began. “But to actually do strategic management involves an entirely different set of methodologies and data than typically belong to PMO software, claims of ‘portfolio management’ capability notwithstanding. But, it’s getting close to 11:00, so, if you don’t mind…” I said, nodding towards the door.

Maher brought in a set of Mr. Stratmon’s clothes, and I switched in to them. As the library cleared out, I sat in his big chair, and swiveled it to face the large bay window overlooking the well-manicured grounds.  Ivan took up his position behind the auras, in the back of the room. Everything became quiet, and when the large grandfather clock in the entry chimed 11:30, I almost jumped out of the chair. Just then, I heard footfalls, coming closer to the library door. The door’s hinges creaked open, two more steps, and then the door closed. A thick, guttural voice spoke up.

“Alright, Stratmon. I don’t know how you got away from my attempt yesterday, but this time my instrumentation is flawless.” I heard the hammer click on a large-caliber revolver, and spun around in my chair.

“Raspberry!”

“Ian ‘the weasel’ Rockicide. I should have known. Who’s paying you this time?”

Rockicide glanced at a piece of folded paper in his button-down shirt pocket.

“What, you have the invoice on your person?”

“It won’t do you any good, Raspberry” he began. “In about two seconds, you’re going to be dead’ern him”

As I winced at an adult man using the term “dead’ern him,” Ivan emerged from the auras behind Rockicide, gun drawn. “Drop your weapon, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Rockicide complied, and I walked over and retrieved his invoice from his shirt pocket.

“I should have known – it’s Monolithic, again. Just one thing, Rockicide: how did you kill old man Stratmon without leaving a mark?”

“It was easy. I put him on the mailing lists of every single software company that claimed to be able to do portfolio or strategic management, and the sheer number of solicitations, combined with their intellectually vacuous approach, literally sucked all of the oxygen out of the room. It wasn’t artificial intelligence he was after – it was business intelligence, and, after reading this one book, he was too close to figuring it out. It would have meant curtains for Monolithic, so they called me – and I almost got away with it!”

As the arriving police cuffed and took away Rockicide, I took Ivan aside.

“You’ll get my invoice at the end of the month. Also, I have to note that…”

“Don’t say it!”

“I must. Yet another case solved by Stanly Raspberry, Private Eye.”