Hi-Tech Horror
When it came to the world of finance, few businessmen could equal Maximillian Waite in astuteness. He was a genius when it came to knowing where to invest his money and predicting highs and lows in the markets. In all other respects, however, he was a dinosaur, a vanishing breed fast on the way to extinction. Although he owned stock in several leading hi-tech corporations, Maximillian himself was a throwback to the early twentieth century. He did not own a personal computer, a fax machine, a tablet or even a cell phone. He even insisted on dictating his correspondence directly to a stenographer who then typed it on an Olivetti manual typewriter (complete with a carriage return lever and moving platen) that should have been retired when IBM invented the Selectric typewriter.
Maximillian's resistance to change, at least as far as his office staff was concerned, posed a serious problem when his secretary, Hilda, announced her retirement. Like her boss, the elderly woman was a product of the old school: she took shorthand at one hundred and twenty words per minute, typed at ninety words per minute (error-free, mind you!) and never needed to make an erasure. She had no need for Wite-Out much less a fancy correcting typewriter or computer with a word processing program. But as her boss was to soon find out, they just didn't make them like her anymore.
"Why do you want to retire?" Maximillian asked with surprise when Hilda brought him the bad news. "You're only sixty-five. You've probably got another five, maybe ten, good years left in you."
If the poor woman felt any resentment at being spoken of as though she were a used car, she didn't show it. But then she was no doubt used to her boss's insensitivity.
"I've worked my whole life," she explained. "Now I want to enjoy the fruits of my labor while there's still time."
"I hope you'll at least stay long enough to train your replacement, to show her your filing system and explain office procedures."
"Of course I will, Mr. Waite."
No sooner had Hilda returned to her desk than she heard the intercom buzz.
"Get me the personnel director," her boss instructed.
The secretary rolled her eyes. In all the years Hilda worked for him, Maximillian had never dialed his own phone.
* * *
"What do you mean no one in the company knows how to take dictation?" Maximillian shouted at his director of human resources.
"There's no need. All our executives use pocket-sized tape recorders when dictating correspondence, sir."
"Then forget about our hiring-from-within policy. Call up the employment agency and get someone new."
"I've called all the local agencies. There are no applicants that know steno."
"Hell! Then just get me someone quick, but keep looking for a decent secretary."
By the end of the afternoon, human resources sent an attractive, highly competent and efficient candidate to fill the position. Ramona Garvey had gone to Katherine Gibbs School where she studied Office Administration. She was not only well prepared for the challenges of the job, but she was also able to handle her new boss without much effort.
"What's that thing you've got?" Maximillian demanded to know when he saw a Sony Vaio on his secretary's desk one Monday morning.
"It's my computer, Mr. Waite," she informed him. "Isn't it a beauty? It has the latest version of Windows and Microsoft Office."
"A computer? What happened to the Olivetti typewriter that was here?"
"I believe it's on its way to the Smithsonian via Pony Express perhaps."
The witticism and the mischievous sparkle in the young woman's eye unnerved Maximillian.
"That typewriter was perfectly good enough for Hilda," he protested.
"That may be, Mr. Waite, but I can be much more productive with a computer. Honestly, I don't know how Hilda managed without one. I use it all the time for emailing, faxing, word processing, bookkeeping, researching on the Internet ...."
"Enough already!" Maximillian exclaimed with frustration, throwing his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. "I've got a lot of work to do. I have no time to talk about these silly toys you young people are so fascinated with."
Ramona shook her head at the man's obstinacy. A moment later, the intercom buzzed.
"Get me my lawyer on the phone."
"He's number three on your speed dial," Ramona informed him. "Your wife is number one, your accountant is number two and your lawyer is number three. There is a complete list of all the numbers on the card next to the phone."
Speed dial?
Maximillian found himself in the unenviable position of being an old dog forced to learn new tricks, and he didn't like it one bit. As he stared open-mouthed at the buttons on his telephone, he hoped his human resources director would soon find him a new secretary.
* * *
Over the next several months, the presence of Ramona Garvey in his office presented quite a conundrum to Maximillian Waite. On the one hand, she was gradually turning the office into a hi-tech horror. On the other, she had his head spinning, his blood racing and his heart pounding. Like many businessmen past the age of fifty, he became enamored of his young secretary—or, as she insisted on being called, his administrative assistant.
Ramona, being a modern, ambitious, career-minded woman, believed that one of the quickest and surest ways up the corporate ladder was by sleeping with the owner of the company. Unfortunately, one year into her affair with her boss, she found herself still on the same rung. With no incentive to continue the illicit relationship, Ramona decided to end it.
Understandably, Maximillian didn't take kindly to being dumped. Not only did he miss having a young, attractive mistress, but he also felt uncomfortable having his former lover as a secretary. While Ramona repeatedly assured him that the end of their personal relationship would have no effect on their business association, Maximillian remained skeptical. He had often heard scandalous tales of women scorned, and he had no desire to risk bringing such wrath down upon his head. The safest course of action, he decided, was to give her a promotion, preferably to a position outside the home office, one where there would be little chance of their running into one another on a daily basis.
"Yes, that's what I'll do," he concluded. "Once I get a decent secretary, I'll transfer Ramona Garvey to another office."
Despite the increased pressure the owner of the company put on him, however, the director of human resources had yet to locate a secretary who could take shorthand.
"Somewhere there must be an aging woman who can still take dictation and type on a regular typewriter. Keep looking," Maximillian ordered, "and if you find one, offer her any amount of money to persuade her to work for us."
After slamming the receiver down on the cradle, Maximillian glared at the new laptop computer that stood open on a corner of his desk.
"Miss Garvey," he shouted angrily over the intercom. "What's this infernal contraption doing in my office?"
The administrative assistant walked in and stood next to the laptop.
"This is your new computer. It comes with voice recognition software and a built-in microphone. It will take dictation. When you're through with your correspondence, I will proofread it and print it out for you to sign."
"You expect me to talk to a ... a machine?"
"Don't worry. You'll get used to it," she replied in her usual no-nonsense manner and then returned to her desk. "This is the twenty-first century. It's about time you had an automated office."
"Hmph! Automated office, indeed!" Maximillian grumbled. "There was nothing wrong with the old ways. Hilda always managed to get things done without all these silly gadgets."
Despite his anger, Ramona persisted in her attempts to modernize the work environment. It seemed to her boss that each day another new-fangled machine found its way into the office. Prior to Hilda's departure, there wasn't even an electric pencil sharpener. Now the office was cluttered with electronic devices.
Matters came to a head late one Friday afternoon as the office staff was preparing to leave for the weekend.
When Maximillian saw Ramona putting on her coat, he called to her, "That letter to my broker has to go out in the mail tonight."
"No problem. I've already prepared the FedEx shipper. All you have to do is sign the letter and put it in the envelope. The boy from the mail room will pick it up when he makes his evening rounds."
"Where is the letter?"
"All the day's correspondence is on the queue and will be printed out after the quarterly report is done. I'd stay and wait until it prints out, but I have a doctor's appointment, and I'm already late."
Ramona pointed to the Canon printer where completed pages of the quarterly report were arranged in a neat stack.
"The letter will come out here when it has finished printing."
A moment later she was hurrying down the hallway toward the elevators.
"Hilda would never have run out of here like that," Maximillian griped to himself. "She would have stayed at her desk until the letter was typed. She would have waited for me to sign it, and then she would have taken it to the post office on her way home. Now that was a secretary!"
Maximillian eyed the printer with loathing, but as he watched the pages slowly inch out of the Canon, he became mesmerized. It was as though the printer were reaching out to him, trying to cast a spell of modernity over his dogged adherence to the past. Finally, he shook his head to break the hypnotic spell.
"It's nothing but a blasted machine, a bucket of nuts and bolts, a mindless, soulless hunk of junk."
Having finished the quarterly report, the Canon switched paper trays, and the correspondence began printing on the pale blue stationery embossed with the company's logo. Maximillian watched as one ... two ... three letters came out, followed by the one to his broker. He reached for the sheet of paper, but one last page printed out before the Canon printer stopped and the green READY indicator light lit up.
Maximillian's hand trembled as he read the name and address on the final letter. Why was Ramona writing to his wife? He quickly scanned the body of the letter. His mouth dropped open as he read the details of his adulterous affair with his administrative assistant.
For one of the few times in his life, Maximillian Waite was at a loss for words.
* * *
When Ramona got home from her doctor's appointment, she was surprised to see her boss's car parked in her driveway. Even when they had been intimately involved, they never met at her home. They were always discreet, meeting at out-of-the-way motels, far from the eyes of nosy neighbors.
As Ramona pulled up in front of her house, Maximillian got out of his car and angrily confronted her.
"What's the meaning of this?" he shouted, waving a letter in her face.
"Shhh!" she cautioned. "Keep your voice down! Do you want the whole neighborhood to hear you? Come inside."
Maximillian waited for the front door to shut behind him before continuing his tirade.
"How dare you write this letter?" he screamed.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't write any letter."
"This came off your goddamned printer this afternoon."
"Those were the ones you dictated to your computer."
"Oh, you're saying I wrote a letter to my wife telling her about our affair?"
Ramona took the letter from her boss and read it.
"I didn't have anything to do with this," she protested.
"If you didn't write it, then who did? Who else is hooked up to your printer?"
"No one. It's not connected to the company's network. It's hooked up directly to my computer's USB port."
Maximillian knew close to nothing about computer networks, USB ports or the operation of computers and printers, but he did know that if no one else had access to the Canon printer then Ramona had to have written the letter herself.
"Are you attempting to blackmail me?" he demanded to know.
"Don't be a damned fool," she fired back. "Why would I risk going to jail? Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if you wrote this letter yourself in some sick attempt to get me to go back to you. Except I know you don't have the computer literacy of the average kindergartener."
Having a woman—a mere secretary, at that—insult his intelligence struck a nerve with the pompous businessman. He lunged forward, and his hands went to her throat. Ramona panicked and her instincts led her to fight back. She scratched and kicked and, had she been able to get free of his grasp, would have bitten him. In response to his assistant's struggles, the irate financier tightened his grip.
Suddenly, Ramona stopped resisting. Her boss let go of her throat, and she fell to his feet. Trembling with fear, Maximillian stared at the body on the floor. What had he done? More importantly, what should he do now? He couldn't call the police, for he would be caught red-handed.
The frightened businessman crossed the room to the window and peeked out the curtain. There was no one in sight. Had anyone seen his car outside Ramona's house? He hoped not.
"I'll just have to take the chance," he said.
Maximillian opened the door, tiptoed outside to his car and quickly drove away.
* * *
When homicide detective Elliott Cassadine stepped off the elevator on the twenty-first floor, he immediately noticed the empty desk outside Maximillian Waite's door.
"May I help you?" a pretty young receptionist asked.
"Yes. I'm looking for Mr. Waite," the detective replied.
"I believe he's in his office, but I haven't seen him all morning. I'll have to buzz him. His secretary's not in. She must have called in sick."
Detective Cassadine knew Ramona had not called in sick, for she was lying on a slab down at the morgue.
Maximillian looked up from his desk when the detective entered his office. Cassadine took his badge out of his jacket pocket and identified himself.
"What is it you want, Detective?" the financier asked, using all his self-control to appear calm.
"Mr. Waite, when was the last time you heard from your assistant, Ramona Garvey?"
"W-why? Is s-something wrong?"
"Could you answer the question, sir?"
"I saw her yesterday. She left at five o'clock, the normal quitting time for the office staff."
"Did she say anything to you before she left?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, she did. She mentioned that she had a doctor's appointment, which was why she couldn't stay and finish sending out the day's correspondence."
"Do you know which doctor?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Did your assistant ever discuss her personal life with you? Ever mention any boyfriends?"
"No, she didn't. Ours was a strictly professional relationship."
Cassadine asked several more routine questions, and then, seemingly satisfied with the answers, thanked the man for his help. Then he stood up and walked out of the financier's office.
"This was Miss Garvey's desk, wasn't it?" the detective asked through the open door.
Maximillian nodded, walked out of his office and stood beside the police detective.
"Mind if I look through it? There might be some clue as to her killer: an address book, photographs, something along those lines."
"Be my guest," Maximillian said, confident that there was no incriminating evidence that would link him to the crime.
The detective looked through the desk drawers and scanned the file folders on top of the desk. The sound of the Canon printer powering up made Maximillian jump.
"I hate that stupid contraption!" he spat, as the machine printed out a test pattern. "A damned waste of money, if you ask me."
"So you're one of those people who are resistant to modern technology?" the detective laughed.
"If it were up to me, I'd load all these computers and printers on a barge and dump them in the Atlantic Ocean."
A moment later a second sheet of paper followed the test pattern. Both Maximillian and the detective turned to see a full-page color photograph of an older man strangling a beautiful young woman. Detective Cassadine compared the face of the woman in the printout with the Polaroid snapshot he had been given of Ramona by her grieving mother. Then he looked from the image of the killer to the face of the dead woman's employer.
"It can't be!" Maximillian cried. "Who could have taken that photo? No one else was there."
"Mr. Waite," the detective announced, "I'm placing you under arrest for the murder of Ramona Garvey. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law ...."
As the detective read Maximillian his rights, the financier turned to stare at the green READY indicator light on the Canon printer. He then nodded his head in defeat, respectfully acknowledging the victory of his hi-tech nemesis.
No need to fear; that's just Salem printing out his Christmas list.
Image © actioncat.com
