How I Killed a Guy: A True Story
The whole mess started on a regular workday—computer, phone, cubicle, all that. I had a new employee, “Tiff,” who I had to start training that morning. “Whoopee!” I thought sarcastically, leaning back my chair. Then she walked in.
About six-feet tall, great body, ok grill-piece–but her curves smoothed over any visible flaws. Like every girl in NYC who’s six-feet tall, she was an “aspiring model.”
Less than 15 minutes after I started training her, she pops a flash drive into my computer, with over 100 pictures of her in sexy lingerie, some spread shots. All amateur, but not bad to look at–and NFSW, any way you put it.
Two weeks went by, and we began to realize that this girl totally oversold herself on her resume, and fooled us on the interview. How she got away with it I don’t F’ing know–her common sense and intelligence just weren’t there.
One day, she gets caught on YouTube, so the boss snatches her Internet privileges. An hour later, she hands me a letter saying the “Big” boss was sexually harassing her, going into explicit detail of his lewd comments and her “inappropriately touched” upper thigh.
Not believing her bullsh*t, I took the letter to HR, who’s people immediately started an internal investigation.
Two days later, Tiff is in the cafeteria, yapping with other staff members about how she “staged the entire thing” with a guy that worked on the 69th floor of our office building, and that “this was the fifth firm we will have taken down” on bogus sexual harassment charges.
I missed the whole thing. But after my close friend, Harry, who was there for her idiotic bragging, explained the story to me, I got his witness account in writing, and handed it in to HR.
Being a prestigious financial firm in the Empire State Building, we hired private investigators to find some dirt on this girl, Tiff. If she was telling the truth, we would deal with it accordingly. If she was lying, she would be dealt with, too.
Not long into their investigation, the P.I.s spotted her exiting the building with a 30-something guy. They followed the two as they climbed in his black BMW, and drove away.
First, the lawyer took Tiff home. Then the P.I.s followed him back to his place. Once they had his address, they realized that he was an attorney, from a firm in our building, on the 69th floor.
After a little more digging, they revealed that this attorney was already under investigation for various car insurance rear-end scams–and filed three suits for sexual harassment, with Tiff as his client, and two cases that settled out of court.
As the HR people wrapped up their investigation, model-genius Tiff, who lied on her resume but told the truth about committing a felony, is called in for questioning.
With the pile of evidence against her on the table, she cracked—confessed everything, talked frantically of pressing charges against us for extortion, burst into tears and ran out of the office.
Next day, the giant clock in front of my desk read exactly 2:05 P.M., in bright red digital numbers; it was Friday the 13th.
Just then, someone from Tiff’s attorney’s firm came to our office, quietly handed us an envelope, and left—inside was a letter demanding our firm cough-up $10,000 so their firm wouldn’t “move forward with a sexual harassment lawsuit.”
Now, you have to understand that this is not how a lawyer would handle a legitimate sexual harassment case. Ordinarily, they’d just serve you a summons and see your ass in court. This was extortion, plain and simple.
I gave my bosses the letter, and by the time the clock read 2:13 P.M., our company’s P.I. had called the law firm that served us the letter, telling them of all the dirt they’d dug up on their firm’s employee. He urged them to file a suit against Tiff’s attorney, warning that the extortion charges that my company was about to file would crumble their already struggling law firm.
At 2:25 P.M., I happened to be down on the street, smoking a cigarette with a co-worker. Out of the blue, I hear “Splat,” followed by piercing, vivid screams of fear and nauseous anxiety.
Suddenly, I saw two girls running down the side of the street with blood and muscle tissue covering their faces. And I just walked around, asking myself what the hell was going on.
Tourists were screaming, and I saw a few women in tears. The police were holding back the crowd.
Needing to get back to work, I left them all to gawk at the gore, and walked back inside.
“Friday the 13th, all right,” I thought when the shock wore off, as I headed back to my desk, and then home for the weekend, a few hours later.
Monday morning, I Googled “Dude jumps off Empire State Building,” and found the article I was looking for, right off the bat. I clicked on the link. Immediately, a frigid chill ran up my spine: The Leg had belonged to Tiff’s Attorney.
According to the newspaper article, after the P.I. called with talk of extortion and disbarment, the guy just got up in the middle of a meeting, and jumped out the f*cking window.
“Sources say the attorney received a phone call in middle of a meeting Friday, hung up, opened an office window and jumped to his death, from the 69th floor,” read the article.
“Only the severed leg reached street level, with the rest of the body left splattered on the building platform on the 30th floor”
I sat at my desk, breathing heavy, not knowing what to do. All I could think was, “Wow, I killed that guy. If I hadn’t turned in that dumb b*tch’s letter, he might still be alive.” Needless to say, that was the last time I handed over anything to HR.
*Names have been changed or omitted to protect the innocent and respect the dead.
Editor’s Update: Ok, the cat’s out of the bag on this one, so I’ve updated some of the details to match the news articles posted, since having them not match now is just confusing. Good investigative work, by the way…Enjoy.
From coedmagazine.com
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