K Is for Killer

imagined blue.
    "I'll be happy to make an appointment for later if this is not convenient," I said.
    He looked at his watch. "I have the annual state health services inspection in about fifteen minutes, but you're welcome to come with me while I walk the plant. Shouldn't take long. I like to satisfy myself everything's in order before they come."
    "That'd be great."
    I followed him down a short corridor to the left, pausing while he stopped in his office and dropped the envelope on his desk. He wore a pale blue dress shirt, collar unbuttoned, tie askew, stone-washed blue jeans, and heavy work boots. With a hard hat and clipboard, you could place him at a construction site and mistake him for an engineer. He was a little under six feet tall, and he'd picked up the substantial look of a man in his mid-fifties. He wasn't fat by any means, but he was broad across the shoulders and heavy through the chest. My guess was that he controlled his weight now with constant exercise, probably tennis and golf, with an occasional fierce game of racquetball. He didn't have the lean muscle mass of a long-distance runner, and he somehow struck me as the sort who'd prefer competition while he kept himself in shape. I pictured him playing high school football, which in ten more years would inspire his joints to disintegrate.
    I followed on his heels as we started off again. "I appreciate your talking to me on such short notice."
    "It's no problem," he said. "Ever had a tour of the water treatment plant?"
    "I never even knew it was here."
    "We like to educate the public."
    "In case the rates go up again, I'll bet."
    He smiled good-naturedly as we pushed through a heavy door. "You want the spiel or not?"
    "Absolutely."
    "I was sure you would," he said. "Water from the reservoir across the road comes through the intake structure, passing under the floor of the reception area. You might have been aware of it if you'd known what to listen for. Fish screens and trash racks minimize the entry of foreign material. Water comes down through here. Big channel runs under this part of the building. We're about to shut down for a maintenance inspection in the next few days."
    In the area we passed, a series of gauges and meters tracked the progress of the water, which was pouring through the facility with a low-level hum. The floors were concrete, and the pipes, in a tangled grid across the wall, were painted pink, dark green, brown, and blue, with arrows pointing in four directions. A floor panel had been removed, and Bonney pointed downward without a word. I peered into the hole. Down about four feet, I could see black water moving blindly through the channel like a mole. The hair along my arms seemed to crawl in response. There was no way to tell just how deep it was or what might be undulating in its depths. I stepped away from the hole, picturing a long suckered tentacle whipping out to grab my foot and drag me in. I'm nothing if not suggestible. A door closed behind us with a hollow clank, and I was forced to suppress a shriek. Bonney didn't seem to notice.
    "When did you last talk to Lorna?" I asked.
    "Friday morning, April twentieth," he said. "I remember because I had a golf tournament that weekend, and I was hoping to leave work early and get out to the driving range. She was due in at one, but she phoned and said she was suffering a real bad allergy attack. She was trying to get out of town anyway, you know, to find some relief from the pollen count, so I told her to go ahead and take the day off. There wasn't any point having her come in if she was feeling punk. According to the police, she died the next day."
    "So she was supposed to be back at work May seventh?"
    "I'd have to check the date. It would have been two weeks from Monday, and they'd found her by then." He reverted back to tour guide mode, talking about construction costs as we entered the next section of the plant. The low hum of rushing water and the smell of chlorine created an altered awareness. The general air of the place was of backwash valves and pressurized tanks on the verge of exploding. It looked as though one good jolt from the San Andreas fault and the whole facility would collapse, spewing forth billions of gallons of water and debris, which would kill both of us in seconds. I edged up closer to him, feigning an interest I didn't quite feel.
    When I tuned in again, he was saying, "The water is prechlorinated to kill disease-causing organisms. Then we add