The fluorescent lights in the lobby of the old Louisiana hotel had always buzzed like dying insects, but on this October morning in 1995, the sound seemed louder, angrier, as though the building itself knew what was coming.
For two years the maintenance man—let’s call him Leon—had treated the night shift like his personal kingdom.
After completing a work order that might consist of tightening a loose toilet flange or unclogging a sink on the second or third floor.
He would always make his way to the lobby in his faded navy work shirt, pockets jingling with keys and loose change, and would lean on the front desk and chat with whatever guest that was either arriving or checking in or out.
Leon was the just passing through type guy at best: tired salesmen with loosened ties, couples pretending.
to be married.
Leon never asked for names. Names didn’t matter.
What mattered was the way their eyes flicked toward him when he laughed too loud, or the way they hurried their signatures when he stood just a little too close.
Then Melissa arrived.
She was twenty-six, sharp-eyed, with the kind of clipped Midwestern accent that made every sentence sound like a reprimand.
The owner had promoted her to night auditor and overnight manager in September.
Within a week she had posted new memos about “professional boundaries” and “front-desk protocol.”
Within two weeks she had started correcting Leon the moment his steel toe boots hit the lobby carpet.
Melissa: “You don’t need to be down here every night. Guests are trying to rest. You’re maintenance, not concierge.”
Leon had smiled the way men smile when they’re deciding how much disrespect they’re willing to put up with.
Leon: “I been here two years, sweetheart. This is how it works.”
She didn’t take offense to the “sweetheart” jester. She simply pointed toward the service stairs.
Mellisa: “Well, theirs a new sheriff in town and you can start by going and finishing your rounds.”
Their exchanges grew shorter. Sharper. She stopped saying please. He stopped pretending to listen.
By late October the air between them crumbled like dry leaves in the December.
At 1:47 a.m. on October 23rd.
Leon was in the basement utility room replacing a few burned-out bulb when the hotel intercom came on.
“Leon. Lobby. Now.”
He didn’t answer. He finished the job, wiped his hands on his jeans, and walked up the stairs slowly step by step.
When he pushed through the swinging door into the dim lobby, Melissa was behind the counter, arms folded, staring at him with a mean look on her face.
Melissa: “I told you no more hanging around down here. Go do your job or go home.”
Leon stood very still. The only sound was the hum of the television and tick of the wall clock. He looked at her for a long moment and something in his face shifted.
Leon: “I’m gonna get a soda.
Melissa sighed.
Melissa: “I don’t want a soda. I want you to leave the lobby.”
He smiled again, more like a smirk this time.
Leon: “I don’t know what gave you idea I was buying you one, but you sure? One won’t hurt.”
She hesitated, then shrugged.
Melissa: “Whatever. Fine. One soda.”
He walked past her without another word, and made his way down the short hallway that led to the kitchen. The door swung shut behind him.
Inside, the kitchen smelled of bleach and yesterday’s fryer grease. The knife block stood on the stainless-steel counter.
He looked around to see if anyone was around and pulled the longest steak knife free—the one with the serrated edge.
He tested the knife point and blade to see how sharp it was by taking the point of the knife and poked his thumb until a small spot blood welled up.
He didn’t flinch.
When he returned to the lobby he held the knife low, pressed against the outside of his thigh. In his other hand was a can of Coke, sweating in the cool air.
Leon: Here.
Melissa stepped around the counter.
Melissa: “Thanks.”
She reached for the can. He stepped backwards.
Leon: “Come on, let’s step out in the hall. The lighting’s better.”
She gave him frowned but followed him through the doorway into the narrow service corridor that ran behind the front desk.
The overhead bulb was burned out; only the red exit sign bled light across the linoleum.
Stay tuned for part two of this story…