Brian Haig - PrivateSector

The father and daughter fell onto the couch, arms wrapped around each other. I fell into the worn leather chair across from them. I said nothing-the questions would come.

“How?” Mr. Morrow eventually asked.

I replied, “Sir, I am instructed to state that the results and circumstances have yet to be finalized. You’ll be notified as soon as we’re sure.”

He tapped a finger on a knee. “How?”

“She was murdered. Her neck was broken. It was quick, and as painless as these things can be.”

I watched their faces crumple with shock. Death is death, regardless of the cause. Yet car accidents, plane crashes, strokes, and lightning strikes offer enough haphazardness to at least afford a sense that God or the fates simply plucked somebody you loved. Murder is different. So is its aftertaste. No random, supernatural force dealt the hand; some rotten mortal bastard robbed you of something infinitely precious.

“Have they caught the killer?”

“No. Not yet.” His eyes were boring into me, so I added, “Lisa had left the Pentagon and was getting into her car. Her purse was missing, so it may have been a robbery. But I don’t believe the police have yet discovered any evidence leading to a culprit.”

A stunned silence followed as he and his daughter tried to absorb the full ramifications. Mr. Morrow eventually informed his daughter, “I’m going to call Carol and Janet and ask them to come right over.”

He left me with a daughter who was perhaps twenty-three, dark-haired, thin, almost waifish, pretty, and, at the moment, severely distraught. I recalled that we hadn’t been introduced and said, “I’m Sean Drummond. I was a friend of Lisa’s. She spoke about all of you quite often.”

She suppressed a sniffle. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to speak right now.” She fled.

I went over to stare at book titles, the final resort in every unwieldy, distressing situation. Mr. Morrow was a fan of the classics, I noted, and the books on the shelves had their spines heavily creased. Every family has a room and this study had that feel.

The front door opened about twenty minutes later, then murmured voices, a wail of anguish, then crying. The door opened again five minutes later, and the ritual was repeated.

After a while, I heard footsteps, then they all filed through the door into the study. Mr. Morrow’s eyes moved distractedly around the room, and I suspected he was reliving what only an hour before would’ve been a happy memory and was now a painful one, perhaps of Lisa doing homework at his desk or thumbing through Dickens by the fireplace.

He said to me, “Major, I’m… I forgot your first name.”

I was starting to open my lips when one of the three daughters prompted, “Sean, Daddy… Sean Drummond.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Janet. Uh… Sean, these are Lisa’s sisters, Elizabeth, Carol, and Janet.”

I glanced at Janet, who had recalled my name, which was weird, because I was positive we’d never met.

All three sisters were identical in height and… and, actually, just height. Elizabeth, whom I’d been left with earlier, was, as I mentioned, black-haired and slender, whereas Carol was brunette, curly-headed, stockier, also pretty, but with that frumpy, sterilized look of the professional academic.

But back to Janet. She was quite attractive, in fact, stunningly attractive, raven-haired and blue-eyed, arched eyebrows, swept-up nose, carved cheekbones, and two dimples that warmed her beauty. She was dressed in a simple business suit that showed a body similar to Lisa’s-slender, curvy in the right places, athletic, alluring.

“Is there anything else?” Mr. Morrow suddenly asked me.

“There is.” I explained, “I’ve also been appointed as your survival assistance officer. This means I’ll handle estate matters.”

Janet immediately said, “No, you won’t. I’ll handle the estate.”

“That’s not advisable. Lisa has military life insurance, and military survivor packages, and… look, please consider it. You’ll find it beneficial to have a military attorney wade through those things.” I looked at her father and added, “Mr. Morrow, you’re listed in Lisa’s records as her beneficiary. About her funeral, I assume you’d like her to be interred in Arlington National.”

“I’m afraid… I never considered it.”

“Of course. Take your time.”

They all four stared down at the floor, the “funeral” word truly driving home the point that Lisa’s death was for keeps.

I sensed I had outworn my welcome and therefore said, “I’ll leave my phone number and address on the table by the door. If there’s anything… please let me know.”

Nobody suggested otherwise, so I showed myself out. In fact, I was at the bottom of the outdoor stoop when the door flew open and Janet stepped out onto the portico. She held out her business card, and I obediently walked back and took it.

She said, “Call me with questions or issues.”

“Right.”

“I don’t want my father bothered.”

“Of course.”

She turned around to go back inside, paused, then spun around and said, “You told my father there were no clues.”

“It was true last night. I don’t know what progress they’ve made since then.”

“Who’s handling the investigation?”

“The Army Criminal Investigation Division.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“It’s in good hands, Miss Morrow. Army CID is very competent.”

This, of course, was the kind of reassurance the Army expects you to offer in these difficult situations. But it’s also true. Army CID has a much higher case closure rate than most civilian police forces. Of course, the artificialities of military life account for much of that success, as CID deals with small, clannish communities, where nearly everybody eats apple pie for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Committing crimes in military communities is akin to farting in church-don’t expect sympathetic witnesses.

What I failed to mention was the unusual nature of this crime from a military perspective. Having occurred in a massive, open parking lot a few miles from one of the world’s most crime-infested cities suspects were not in short supply. Nor that the manner of Lisa’s murder-the absence of a knife, bullet, and so forth-made it a real mess. Possibly Lisa had left a note back in her apartment that said, “In the event of my murder, please arrest (fill in the blank),” but life, and death particularly, never work that way. Finding the perp was going to be a bitch.

Janet stared at me, then said, a bit curtly, “Don’t treat me like a novice, Drummond. This was my sister. Her murderer is going to be found.”

“Right. CID will catch the killer and bring him to justice.”

I had the impression she did not like this response when I heard the door slam.

I studied her business card. The top line read, “Janet Morrow,” and beneath that, “Assistant District Attorney, City of Boston, Mass.”

Oh shit.

I returned to the Greed Mill shortly after 4:00 P.M.,where a curt note from Sally ordered me to see her the moment I arrived. Beneath it was a second note to call Clapper.

I am ordinarily a stickler for that ladies-before-gentlemen thing. Exceptions are made when the lady is a bitch and the gentleman signs my paycheck.

Clapper inquired how it went, and I replied, bluntly, that it sucked and I wished I hadn’t flown up to Boston but was reluctantly glad I did. He said he understood perfectly. There actually are a few fleeting moments when Clapper and I are friendly and even see eye to eye. It feels really good to both of us, I think.

Anyway, I warned him to expect to hear from one of Lisa’s sisters. He said she had already called, and he had politely attempted to coax her to stay out of it. We agreed that she would probably ignore us both, and he then updated me on what CID had learned, which amounted to nothing-no fibers, no fingerprints, and enough tire tracks in what was, after all, a public parking lot, to make it impossible to pinpoint an escape vehicle. I told him I’d work on arranging the funeral. He said fine, make it a good one, and stay in touch.