In Hayley Jane Smith's defense, it should be noted that it was a record-breaking week during the hottest summer in ten years of San Francisco meteorological history.

And there's Hayley crammed into a tiny cubicle next to a bunch of other young New Economy professionals in one of those South of Market lofts. There's no air-conditioning, and the smell of leftover pizza and Chinese takeout is so pervasive, it's almost unnoticeable.

The point is that after a person's been there five minutes in the heat and the stink, she becomes one with the heat and the stink. Which is why it really pissed Hayley off when the investigating detective asked how it was possible to not smell Fred Leary's day-old decomposing body in the cubicle next to hers.

The tone the detective used suggested that while he could sympathize with her, he would have recognized Fred's predicament much earlier. Hayley didn't think that coming upon Fred on Thursday would have been any better than it was finding him on Friday.

All this is to say that finding Fred dead was an unusual incident in Hayley's relatively uncomplicated world.

***

Hayley pinged Fred with an instant message three times that morning, since that was his preferred mode of communication. When he didn't respond, she called his name over the cubicle wall. Still no answer.

With a huff she got up and went into his cube, only to find him slumped over his desk, obviously exhausted. Poor Fred. He probably hadn't even gone home last night. Hayley pushed the old pizza boxes off the guest chair and, holding one hand to her nose as casually as possible to ward off the surprisingly pungent stench of his cube without offending him, she tapped him on the shoulder. Nothing. No response.

She shook him slightly, and just like in the movies, Fred Leary's body fell backward in his chair and then just slid off the seat to the floor as the chair rolled to the other end of the cube. He posed there awkwardly, his legs straight out in front and the rest of his body doubled over at the waist.

Clearly in some sort of denial, Hayley called his name again and pushed at his shoulder, which caused his upper torso and head to slam backward to the floor with a sickening thud. And there was Fred's corpse, in a state of late-stage rigor mortis, staring up at her.

Hayley couldn't exactly remember the order of events after that. There was possibly some screaming. Most likely it was her screaming.

In any case, all hell broke loose, and twenty minutes later when the police detective caught up with her, she was in the employee kitchen, spread-eagled against the soda refrigerator with her palms and face pressed against the glass.

To put it another way, she wasn't at her best.

"Miss...Hayley Jane Smith?" a male voice asked.

"That's me," Hayley mumbled. She peeled herself off the glass and turned around.