“We are looking for a murderer. We will keep you fully advised, and please let us know if you hear anything. Anything.”

Paul and I share a look between us that comes from someplace deep and dark, like we’re both thinking the same unspeakable thing.

He takes a deep breath, thanks the officers, and turns back to the crowd.

“Okay, guys,” Paul announces to the agency multitude, waving both hands above his head. “Let’s regroup.” He holds the door open, and people begin to file back in with no idea what they might find after an actual murder has taken place right here in our building.

The officers out in the street keep a close eye on our people as they pass by on the way in. The one at the door is asking the women to open their purses. And anybody with a shoulder bag. Even me, and mine. Not taking any chances.

I’m opposite Paul, on the other side of the door where I can connect with my fellow employees as they walk between us, gripped by a shared silence. Nothing to be said, aside from probing eye contact. A lot of them look to me as if they’re searching for answers, but there aren’t any I can offer. I do my best to assume a posture of confidence and reassurance.

Mo passes through with the same two agency girls, still arm in arm for mutual support. She looks at me, teary-eyed, and starts to say something—but can only exhale what must be a long-held breath, laden with sorrow. And fear.

Bonnie Jo Hopkins, one of the long-time Marterelli creatives I work closest with, lingers just a bit longer, making familiar eye contact so that I feel her concern.

Two cop cars pull away with four officers inside. No lights flashing. No longer necessary for them, either. I follow Paul back in after the others.

Quinn is following us in. “We need to talk to your people,” he says. “Might as well start right now.” And Garrison falls in behind him.

I assume there are still more cops up on the roof, and that police will probably be in and out of here for days.

We’re met with nothing resembling order—nobody’s going back to any kind of actual work. How could they? For all they know, it could be one of their coworkers who’s been murdered, and everyone is trying to figure out who’s missing.

There’s an elevator, but few take it, opting for the stairs in the back. Many linger in the main reception area on the third floor, still trying to fathom what the hell just happened.

I make it up to my office, or, more accurately, my expanded cubicle, in the windowed corner of the fifth floor. People are gathering around my space, peering in over the half walls, and I suddenly feel like the eye in the middle of a storm gathering around me.

Madness. And not the typical ad agency madness, either. This is the bad kind.