Brian Haig - PrivateSector

“Great view. Incidentally, if I have to ask why you’re here again, we’ll do it with my foot up your ass.”

He continued to stare out the window. “The body of Miss Julia Cuthburt was found in her apartment this mornin’ by the Alexandria Police. Sexually molested, robbed, and dead.”

“I didn’t do it. I’ve got witnesses.”

He faced me. “The victim was twenty-eight, single, a CPA with Johnson and Smathers, some big accounting outfit in the city. She had a long, ugly hour before her neck was broke.”

“Her- What direction was her head twisted?”

“Same as Morrow’s.”

I asked, “And you’re here to ask me if there was a connection between her and Lisa?”

“Was there?”

“I have no idea.”

He thought about this a moment, then said, “Two women, roughly the same age, single professionals, attractive. Similar victim profiles. .. same manner of death…”

“But what about the sexual molestation?”

“Yeah. I thought about that. Try this scenario. He’s waitin’ for Morrow in the parkin’ lot, he tries to drag her into a car, she tries to fight him off, threatens to expose him, and he decides she’s too much trouble.”

I nodded, but said nothing. Spinelli was playing games, and he annoyed me. CID people are all sneaky little bastards anyway. For some, that’s part of the job, a suit they have to wear to work, and if you put enough beers in them, they’ll even admit they find it distasteful. Spinelli was the other type. Also, this news came as a bit of a surprise, and a shock, and emotionally I needed a moment to absorb it, and intellectually, to fit Lisa’s death into this fresh context and perspective. I had imagined any number of scenarios and likely motives-vengeance, theft, and jealousy leading the list, none of which involved a complete stranger. I had not considered that she was a number pulled out of a hat by a maniac.

The manner and style of her death, however, comported with the little I understood about serial killers who actually prey on complete strangers, and the whole concept of murder as something ritualized, personalized, and even illogical. Also Lisa had the kind of fetching looks that stand out from the crowd, and the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. She was a poster child for serial killers and their odd hungers-attractive single women who travel alone, live alone, shop alone, all of which left them available to be raped and die alone.

“All right, I see it,” I informed him. “But it needs refinement.”

“How’s that?”

“You didn’t know the victim. I did. Lisa was a champion runner. Also, she was very smart and alert, not the type to let down her guard. How did he get close enough? How did he keep her from bolting?”

He suggested, “She trusted him.”

We both considered this a moment. I suggested, “Maybe he wore a uniform.”

“Maybe.”

Well, I suppose neither of us wanted to stipulate the next ugly stride in that progression. The military uniform, particularly an officer’s uniform, inspires trust and respect. Fellow officers, like Lisa, regard it as an emblem of comradeship and brotherhood. Even civilians, like Julia Cuthburt, consider it a mark of virtue, integrity, and professionalism. But what is true for military uniforms holds water in varying degrees for other uniforms, including cops, FedEx employees, and garbagemen. A uniform signifies membership in an organization, which implies selectivity and screening, all of which confers trust, or, at least, familiarity and acceptance.

“Have you talked to her sister yet?” I asked him.

“I intend to,” he replied. “I was wonderin’ if you knew how to find her.”

I checked my watch. “I’m supposed to meet her in thirty minutes. Come along, if you wish.”

I offered only to be polite. But the rotten bastard took me up on it. We drove in silence because the only question I could think to ask was how he became such an asshole. If I asked, he might answer.

Janet was waiting in front of the hotel, a convenience I appreciated greatly as it saved me a six-dollar parking fee. And while I was working in a rich firm, driving rich, and even dressing rich, I was all wrapping without the flavor.

Surmise from this that I had decided to remain with the cut-throats of Culper, Hutch, and Westin a while longer. I wanted to pursue Lisa’s killer, and if I was ejected for misbehavior, Clapper would banish me to a job that sucked, in a place that sucked, two commodities the Army has no shortage of. Regarding the firm, handling a few protests couldn’t be that time-consuming, and anyway, Barry and Sally would shove shivs in each other’s backs to solve Jason’s crisis, and battle for credit, partnership, and a cut of the annual take. Sly little Sean would coast on their coattails right to the finish line.

Also, I was getting a lot of compliments on my new wardrobe.

Anyway, Janet peeked in the car, saw Spinelli, and climbed into the backseat. As though they were lifelong pals, she said, “Hi, Danny. How are you?”

He grinned. “Busy as shit. We got a new development on your sister.”

He then proceeded to detail the particulars and question her on the newest deceased-Janet replied that she had never heard of Miss Julia Cuthburt, but yes, the connection to her sister’s death appeared both plausible and taunting.

Then Spinelli turned his eyes back to me and asked, “Remember that asshole Martin you met in the parking lot?”

“An asshole in the parking lot?” I looked at him. “Oh… yeah. I’m sure his name wasn’t Martin, though.”

He mumbled something under his breath that wasn’t very clear. He then said, “He wants words with you. You know the way to the Alexandria station?”

I did. And the drive over was fairly pleasant, as Janet kept Spinelli occupied, chatting about his life as a CID agent, him boasting about how many bad guys he’d busted and bagged, her filling his ears with admiring things that fed the little prick’s ego.

Incidentally, I lied about the drive being pleasant.

However, it was both illuminating and edifying to watch a pro at work-her, I mean. It is not uncommon for runts, or, these days, altitudinally challenged males, to develop ego complexes, from insecurity to Napoleonic. Clearly Spinelli’s I-love-me wall intimated a man who landed somewhere along that spectrum. I had the sense that Miss Morrow had given him some thought after our first testy session, and settled on a strategy to win his heart and mind. I love scheming, manipulative women, incidentally. And, again, she had great legs.

Anyway, we finally arrived, and Spinelli seemed to know his way around the police station. We ended up inside a big room that looked just like a detective office, with about twenty wooden desks, half of which were manned by guys, some of whom were interviewing people, some of whom were talking on the phone, and some of whom were eating bag dinners.

I pointed out to Spinelli that there were no donuts anywhere in sight, and perhaps we’d come to the wrong place. He didn’t think that was funny. Perhaps it wasn’t.

We entered a glass-enclosed office in the rear of the room, and Lieutenant Martin shooed out two detectives. Spinelli and he eyed each other apprehensively a moment, as Martin pointedly said to me, “Major

… good to see you again. And you must be Miss Morrow?”

“Janet, please.” She handed him her card, which he quickly read and then stuffed into a pocket.

He then asked if we knew why we were there. We indicated we did, so he said, “Okay, good. Please, everybody be seated.” He lifted a photograph off his desk and handed it to Spinelli, who handed it to me, who, after a quick peek, handed it to Janet. She handed it to nobody, but studied it intently for nearly half a minute. Her eyes narrowed, but to the best I could tell, she was emotionally detached. I hadn’t expected her to vomit or anything, but a slight groan or twitch of disgust would’ve been in order.