Sorry, Teddy, But This is Goodbye
By Laura Cody
Of course, no one was surprised to find Teddy dead in the hot tub when we woke that Sunday morning. If anything, the surprise was more from the fact that he was entirely submerged, since most of us expected a dead body to float. But Marcus explained that they only float later, once decay gets underway and gas byproducts build up in rotting tissue, so that was that.
It was good news, really–the part about Teddy being dead. It meant the murderer had stepped up to the plate and honored the pact. It was always refreshing when responsibilities were taken seriously.
Anyway, we all knew one of us did it. Just like we all knew not to ask which one.
#
I doubt I was actually the first one to wake up that morning, since I don’t think any of us really slept, but I was the first one to walk outside and “discover” the body. I’d put it off long as I could, taking my time in the cabin’s rustic kitchen, measuring out coffee beans and grinding them to the consistency of fine silt. While the pot brewed, I gazed out the window over the kitchen sink, observing the squirrels and birds at morning chores, trying to postpone the inevitable.
Six of us had come to Teddy’s camp for our annual retreat, but we’d all known only five would be going back. Well, we’d all known except for Teddy. He wasn’t there on Saturday afternoon when we’d passed the hat. He was out on the dock fishing for wide-mouthed bass or something.
#
The “rustic” cabin sat on a tiny, private island in one of the lesser waterways between upstate New York and the Canadian border, accessible from the mainland only by boat. By “lesser,” I mean lesser-traveled, a body of water essentially free from commercial or ferry traffic. There was certainly nothing “lesser” about the grandeur of the place. It possessed all of the unspoiled, natural beauty affordable exclusively to the very-wealthy, precisely so the very-wealthy could enjoy solitude and quiet at a comfortable distance from the bustling, tourist-infested warzones that funded their very-wealthyness. Real estate, hospitality, charter companies, you get the idea.
Teddy had become a “very-wealthy” by the time he hit thirty. Born into well-to-do circumstances with well-connected parents, it hadn’t been much of a stretch for him to get into Wharton, where he met yours truly. In his twenties, Teddy had the hutzpah to start a fledgling investment business for which no one who was anyone had any real expectations. Against all odds, though, this tiny firm took off like a racehorse at the sound of a shotgun. Teddy had a gift for recruitment, and people couldn’t wait to hand over their cash and get in on the proverbial ground floor. Investments grew rapidly, investors were pleased with their returns, and Forbes even ran the name “Theodore Dascall” a few times. Dascall Investments became a Big Thing.
Theodore “Teddy” Dascall built his business from the ground up. He hand-picked his company’s leadership and had the good sense to surround himself with a team of ultra-brainy, hard-working souls.
He had the bad sense to trust us.
#
I filled my mug, opened the sliding door, and stepped out onto the deck. Teddy lay at the bottom of the hot tub, face up and eyes open. Beyond, a heron glided over the wide expanse of lake, and water gently lapped the dock. The scene was idyllic, marred only by the presence of a corpse. I looked into Teddy’s lifeless eyes. “I’m sorry, Teddy. It shouldn’t have been like this.”
Teddy had been my best friend, more of a brother to me than either of my actual brothers. After Wharton, we shared a Manhattan apartment as we worked sixteen-hour days getting our feet wet in the business world. Together, we went sky-diving, hiked Machu Picchu, and endured lackluster double-dates. He sat beside me at my mother’s funeral and got drunk with me after my father’s. When he started his company, he made me, Benji Asher, his CFO. That is to say, he gave me the reins to the cash.
Every man plays a role in his own downfall.
#
I’ve always found “embezzlement” an interesting word. I think it’s the double z’s that make it so. It’s an interesting activity, too. Interesting to the embezzler because it exclusively serves the embezzler’s interests. So, while Teddy was securing investments, the rest of us were funneling the funds into personal interests. I could say it started off small and innocent, but, really, there was nothing innocent about it. The small part is true, though. But, then, you know how it goes. Money begets greed, and greed begets money. If you read the papers, you’ve seen this story a dozen times. The only difference is that, in the newspapers, it’s always the company founder or CEO who is the mighty greed-monger. Think Ken Lay. Think Bernie Madoff. Think Sam Bankman-Fried.
But in Teddy’s case, he didn’t have a clue.
You probably don’t believe that, and I don’t blame you. How could the boss not know what was going on right under his nose? How could someone so incredibly smart have been so astoundingly stupid? Impossible. No one would believe that Teddy didn’t know.
We thought we could twist this expected incredulity to our advantage when the end of the ride came into view. If Teddy wasn’t around to defend himself, wouldn’t the world assume his guilt? I mean, no one would believe Teddy didn’t know. And if the world assumed his guilt, maybe it wouldn’t suspect ours.
Okay, that sounded a little naïve. Everyone would be suspect–but at least a dead guy would make for good distraction. And scapegoating.
So, yes, six of us came to the island, but we knew only five would be leaving. Hence, the hat. Five folded pieces of paper slipped into a hat and passed amongst the five of us. One paper had an “X” on it. Whoever pulled the “X” would be the “doer of the deed” or the “fixer” or the “finisher” or whatever they wanted to call themselves – so long as they kept that info to themselves. The remaining four of us did not need to carry the burden of knowing who, though we’d probably spend the rest of our lives trying to guess.
My only thought as the hat came around: Please don’t let it be me.
I’m sure I wasn’t alone in that thought. I’m sure none of us sat there hoping for the golden ticket. We were a group of self-serving sociopaths, not full-fledged psychopaths, for heaven’s sake.
You may have wondered about the timing. Why that weekend? Easy answer. I received a tip from a trusted source, so I knew the jig was up. One of our largest investors was gearing to pull out, which would create what is called a “liquidity crisis.” At that point, bankruptcy would be inevitable, and an investigation would ensue.
So, the question became: “How far would we go for self-preservation?”
The answer: “Pretty damn far.”
#
I gazed out over the lake. The day was clear and sunny, the water smooth as glass. No sign of groundskeeper Mike yet, but he would be coming soon. Each morning, Mike and his wife, Lucy, boated over from the mainland with requested supplies (booze), then tidied up the house and took away the garbage. They usually came around ten. I checked my watch. It was almost time, which meant we needed to move things along here, so we’d have a consistent story to tell the police.
I took a deep breath and flipped into frantic mode. I ran back in the house and shouted, “Everyone, something happened to Teddy! Come now!”
A moment later, Marcus and Mallory rushed out onto the deck, fully dressed but a little bedraggled. They were a married couple in charge of our Research and Development Team. I looked at them the way I imagined the police might look at them. Could one of them have conceivably done this to Teddy? Mallory had unusually large shoulders for a woman. A former swimmer, she competed in the 2012 London Summer Olympics. Those arms, I thought, could have definitely held a drunk man underwater. Marcus, her husband, had a degree in biochemical engineering. That guy would know the exact concentration of alcohol and recreational substances necessary to induce a convenient cardiac arrest.
Mallory saw Teddy, screamed, then slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, what happened?” If there had been any cameras about, it would’ve look convincing.
It was a purely rhetorical question, so I didn’t even try to answer. Marcus said we should get Teddy out of the tub and try chest compressions. It wasn’t like there was any doubt about his deadness, but we went through the motions just the same. A drone could’ve been on the horizon for all we knew.
By that time, Catherine and Andrew were out back. Catherine was crying, and Andrew was holding her tight to his chest. Catherine and Teddy were once a couple, though the romance ended when Teddy had a son with another woman, a real dick move on Teddy’s part. I mean, women threw themselves at Teddy all the time–smitten by his boyish charm and disarming smile or, more likely, his Bugatti and trio of penthouses–but he was not, in general, a player. He just made one mistake one time, which was enough. Cat never forgave him. Her pride was wounded, though the cut didn’t run deep enough for her to leave the company and her seven-figure salary behind.
I studied Catherine and Andrew, thinking of the hat. What if Cat, Dascall Investments chief accountant, had drawn the “X?” With her skinny arms and slight frame, was it plausible that she could have held Teddy down while his lungs filled with water? We all knew that saying about hell and fury and women scorned.
Andrew, in charge of operations, was a big guy with a shaved head and tattoos up both arms. He was wealthy as God, but he looked like a killer. Not much imagination needed there. He was also in love with Cat, though he kept it on the down-low. Or at least he thought he did. Point being he would’ve done anything for her if push came to shove.
Marcus and I both hopped into the tub. Our shorts clung to our legs and our polos billowed up around our chests. At some point in the night, the generator warming the water cut out, so it was freezing. Teddy’s body was stiff and unyielding, and it was surprisingly difficult to lift him from the water. It was at that point that Marcus told us about dead bodies and decay and gas in the rotting tissues.
When we got Teddy over the lip of the tub, we laid him somewhat unceremoniously on the ground. Mallory pounded on his chest, and water squirted out his mouth and nose. Marcus touched his neck for a pulse and shook his head. Finally, Catherine closed Teddy’s eyes with gentle fingertips.
And this was how Mike found us – circling Teddy’s lifeless body – when he pulled up to the dock in his runabout. Ashen-faced, he hightailed it back to the mainland, and, in no time at all, the police arrived with a forensics team. Pictures were snapped, questions were asked, and the body was loaded onto a boat for the medical examiner. Everyone acted their part beautifully, crying into tissues while tossing around words of self-blame and loathing. (How could we have let him drink so much?) The police took in the detritus of liquor and pill bottles covering every observable surface and agreed it looked like a straightforward drowning accident in the context of reckless intoxication. Tragic and pointless. Suspicious? The bumpkin cops didn’t say so directly, but they let it slip that the state guys were on the way.
We were allowed to collect our essentials and were escorted by boat back to the mainland. A chaplain at the police station offered grief counseling which we all declined. The officers spoke with each of us individually. We were unable to compare notes, but we had studied for the test ahead of time. And we were all excellent students.
When evening came, the police asked us to stay local, and we said of course we would.
Of course.
I Ubered to the airport and caught a flight to Los Angeles, relieved to breeze through security with a few astronomically priced black market documents. I had time before my connecting flight to Maldives, so I stopped for an overpriced burger and ate slowly in the darkest corner of a nondescript lounge. I checked my phone, but there were no messages–which was good. We’d all agreed on a clean break. No further contact, ever. I was headed for a non-extradition country, and I wouldn’t be back. Not for the investigation, not for the company, not for the funeral. Sorry, Teddy, but we were past goodbye. We had a good run.
I checked my banking app and smiled when I saw the money from the sale of my stocks sitting pretty in an offshore account. Finally, I dumped my trash, along with a little piece of paper in my pocket bearing an “X,” and continued on to my gate.
