Brian Haig - PrivateSector

Back to me, however. I returned to the city to attend George-town University undergrad, courtesy of Uncle Sam’s ROTC scholarship program, and, five years later, was hauled, comatose, to the Walter Reed Army Medical Center after I learned the Army lied; I wasn’t really faster than a speeding bullet. I was an infantry officer, the branch that handles the Army’s dirtiest jobs, like killing bad guys in wartime, and painting rocks in peacetime.

A bullet had damaged an organ-a spleen, if you care to know-that needs to function effectively if you walk long distances with great weights on your back, a quality jackasses and infantry officers have in common, among others. I was already a captain, and the Army’s personnel branch checked for shortages in my rank and years of service. The Army, you have to understand, views itself as a big machine, and when a nut can no longer be a nut, it can maybe become a washer, but not a screw or a bolt. Personal talents and desires are obviously secondary. In fact, I recall telling the personnel officer handling my case that as a wounded war hero, the service owed me a debt and should repay it by letting me choose. He thought that was hilarious.

So I was eventually informed I could become a chaplain, a supply guy, a lawyer, or a civilian. Wrong, wrong, maybe, wrong. As I mentioned previously, I’m Catholic, and while I’m drawn to fancy uniforms and elaborate ceremonies, that vow of chastity goes a bridge too far. A supply guy?… Get real. I wasn’t ready for civilian life, and therefore defaulted into law and returned to my alma mater for a degree.

Which meant I’d lived in Washington nearly fifteen years, off and on. I love this city. I love the inspiring monuments to great deeds and great men, the monumental cathedrals of power, the everyday reminders that this city truly is the Shining Light on the Hill. It’s the people I can take or leave. The town has more than its share of oily scoundrels and the pompously high-minded, and it can be impossible to differentiate between the two, or which inflicts the most damage. Anyway, I passed through the portal into 1789 at 6:30 and the maitre d’ steered me to the table where Miss Morrow was coolly sipping a cocktail. I asked him to have a waiter bring me a beer and sat down.

So we studied each other a moment. She was smartly dressed in a red pantsuit, no makeup, no jewelry-to include, I idly noticed, no wedding or engagement bands. I could detect no physical resemblance between her and Lisa, excluding their sizes, and the not inconsequential fact that both were stunners, with all the requisite plumbing, bumps, and protuberances associated with their chromosome. It was salt and pepper, however-one blond and fair, the other raven-haired and darkly gorgeous. Plus, Lisa, as I mentioned, had the most sympathetic eyes I ever saw. Janet’s were more… intolerant.

She awarded me what might be labeled a wan smile and said, “Thanks for joining me. I was brusque this morning, and I apologize. I was.. . upset.”

“Perfectly understandable.”

“It was very kind of you to fly up and tell us personally. Did you ask to do that?”

“I asked.”

Her eyes strayed around the restaurant, and then back to me. “How long did you know Lisa?”

“A few years. We did an investigation together in Kosovo. Afterward, we tilted in court a number of times.”

“That must have been interesting.”

“It was. I got my ass kicked. Each time… every time.”

She chuckled. “What was she like in court?”

“Devious, brilliant, and ruthless. She had a knack for coming up with the most wildassed defenses and making them stick.”

“She was good, then?”

“No. She was the best.”

She stared into her drink and seemed to contemplate, I don’t know

… something. For some reason she reminded me of Lisa. I had to think about it before I put my finger on it-it was that same throaty, edgy voice I previously mentioned. Similarities between the living and the dead can be eerie. Also, they can cause you to transfer a false sense of familiarity and affection. This can be misleading and, in the wrong circumstances, dangerous.

Eventually she said, “We’re not certain about Arlington National Cemetery. Her family and friends are in Boston.”

“I understand. Military honors come either way, but consider Arlington. The Army’s Old Guard puts on a great show, it’s a lovely setting, and she’ll be in the best of company.”

She replied politely, “You make a good argument. We’ll think about it.”

We then lapsed into a moment of friendly silence. We had gotten past the morning’s rudeness, established that Lisa’s death was emotionally affecting for us both, and some kind of unspoken bond had been forged. Miss Morrow was very deft at moving things along, I noted.

So we slowly drank our drinks and chatted amiably for a few more minutes. Nothing deep or really relevant; more in the nature of two strangers thrown together by a common grief and searching for some common ground. I learned she was twenty-nine years old, had attended Harvard Law, that she liked boating, was a big runner, preferred red wine, liked to read in her spare time… and so forth. She wasn’t outwardly defensive, evasive, or anything. In fact, she remained impressively well-mannered, ladylike, expressive, great posture, and, if you’re interested, had really great legs. Yet, she was not particularly talkative or open. Clearly, she had an agenda and did not intend to expose more of herself than necessary.

What she learned about me I wasn’t sure. I did note that her questions were both more disarming and more penetrating than mine, and it struck me that she was probably quite adept at drawing out witnesses in a courtroom, or ascertaining if her blind date is a phony shit.

Also, her eyes were a sort of striking sea blue tone, which makes for a lovely contrast with black hair, and they had this almost foxlike quality to them, like she could see and detect things you might not want seen or detected.

In summary, she was getting up to speed on me, and I was learning about her hobbies. So I said, “Your business card mentioned you’re an assistant DA.”

“That’s right. Five years now.”

“Like it?”

“I like putting assholes behind bars.”

“The Lord’s work.”

“Amen.” She smiled and added, “Of course, the politics and bureaucracy I could do without.”

I smiled back. I’d given her an opening.

Without pausing, she asked, “If you don’t mind my asking, Sean, what’s your take on why Lisa was murdered?” This was asked with disarming casualness, like, Could you please pass the salt? Very cool.

“And what makes you think it wasn’t a simple robbery?”

“I’ve helped prosecute nearly thirty killings. I think I have a feel for the patterns.”

“I’m listening.”

“Start with the victim. Lisa was too street-smart. She would’ve handed over her purse.”

“Perhaps she saw the robber’s face and he wanted no witnesses. Or maybe he has a thing against women, or he was hopped up on something, or has a screw loose.”

“Those are all possibilities. But consider the method. I had the taxi drive me by the Pentagon parking lot this afternoon. Lots of overhead lighting, cars coming and going… no thief with a brain in his head would pick such an exposed spot.”

“Good point. Maybe he was an idiot.”

She nodded, but said, “Also, her neck was broken from behind, hardly the direction a robber approaches his victim.” We looked at each other awhile before she said, “It doesn’t look like a robbery. It looks like something else.”

“And what would that be?”

“Premeditated murder.”

I pondered this, then said, “Motive, Counselor. Lisa wasn’t involved in anything dangerous. She’d just finished a year working in a civilian firm where her work was both nonprovocative and mundane.”