Brian Haig - PrivateSector

Her father and I had spoken several times about various matters since our first encounter, so I knew it was a good number. It rang fifteen or twenty times, and I recalled that on my previous calls, after about six rings, a message machine answered. I tried again. Okay, yes, it was late, and Mr. Morrow was old and possibly his ears weren’t what they used to be, but his youngest daughter, Elizabeth, lived with him, and geez… you’d think one of them would hear the damned phone.

Things were getting weirder. I mean, Janet is suddenly out of the loop and her father and little sister aren’t in bed when, or where, they are supposed to be.

Coincidental? Possibly.

Maybe not.

I called the Boston operator, gave her Mr. Morrow’s address, and told her I needed the number for the nearest police station. She connected me to a switchboard person.

The switchboard person said, “Officer Dianne Marino, how can I help you?”

“Major Sean Drummond, D. C. office of the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division.” Regarding this harmless little white lie, cops tend only to take other cops seriously, and I needed her to be responsive and helpful. I informed her, “We’re working on the L. A. Killer murders down here. Perhaps you’ve heard about it, Officer Marino?”

“Are you kidding? I watched the Nightline special on it the other night. Gosh, that guy’s some rotten bastard, isn’t he?”

“Ad infinitum. Thing is, we have an emergency and need your help.”

“Boston’s Finest is here to serve, Major.” You have to love that, right?

“A victim’s parent might be in possession of critical knowledge. Problem is, we can’t seem to reach him.”

“Well, it’s two-thirty in the morning. Other than us idiots on the night shift, that’s bedtime.”

“Officer Marino, the L. A. Killer knows no time.”

“Uh… yes, right. Sorry.”

“Let’s keep our heads in the game here, shall we?”

“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”

I might’ve been less officious and curt, but people have a certain impression about how military people have their lids screwed a little too tight and you have to validate that impression or they might think you’re a phony.

I gave her Mr. Morrow’s address and asked if she could have a patrol car run by the house, wake him up, and get him standing by the phone.

Can do, she replied, clearly on my wavelength now, and I told her I’d wait until she got confirmation from the patrol car. She put me on hold. Ten minutes passed, during which I tried to figure out all the buttons and controls in my fancy new Jag, even as I tried to mentally sort through the possible connections between Lisa and the other victims. It struck me that what I had not seen were e-mails to, from, or about the most famous victim, Carolyn Fiorio. Yet three of four murdered women knew one another, corresponded with some regularity, and Lisa signed off her e-mails, “Friends Always.” Empty sentiments weren’t Lisa’s style and it seemed fair to presume the relationships were more than passing.

“Major, we… well, we have a problem,” Officer Marino interrupted.

“Tell me about it.”

“An incident.”

“Go on.”

“Mr. Morrow’s house burned down yesterday evening.”

While I tried to comprehend this, not to mention her dazzling gift for understatement, she added, “Sorry I didn’t recognize it when you gave me the address. My shift didn’t start till midnight. The fire happened earlier.”

“How much earlier?”

“Just a sec… let me pull it up on my screen.” After a few moments, she said, “A neighbor reported the fire shortly after five. Two alarmer. Those old houses up on Beacon Hill, they’re ritzy, but firetraps. Wood-framed, none of the modern fire retardant materials. It’s a-”

“Was anybody hurt?”

“Hold on.” She read from the report, “One known vic, John Morrow, was severely burned. He was on the upper floor, and had to be pulled out by a fireman, and-”

“What about a young woman? Elizabeth Morrow?”

“Not listed.” She then informed me, “But the inspectors haven’t entered the premises to look for corpses inside. It has to cool down. Tomorrow, after-”

“Do you know the cause?”

“No… not yet. We’ll of course dispatch an arson specialist with the inspectors in the morning. Do you think it’s-”

“Thanks.” I hung up.

The fire started around five, and Janet checked out of her hotel around six. What was going on here?

I started the Jag and left the parking garage without any particular idea where I was going, just sure I should be going somewhere.

The cold fresh air must have cleared my mind a bit, because I suddenly found myself wondering about that firewall around Lisa’s file. I probably should’ve asked Cheryl if that was standard procedure for all departed attorneys. Law firms are more protective of privacy rights than most employers, and it would make sense to seal the files of departed attorneys. But say it wasn’t. Answer: Somebody in the firm knew there was evidence in the server that showed a connection between the three deceased women, evidence that was technically impossible to eradicate, so the next best solution was to hide it and slap a firewall around it. Ergo: Somebody in the firm had to be involved in the murders.

Which triggered another revelation. Lisa had referred to packages in her e-mails to both Julia and Anne, and one message to Janet also referred to a package. Janet was sure she had never met and had no acquaintance with Anne or Julia. But all three had gotten packages from Lisa. Was that the connection?

Boston-I needed to go to Beantown pronto. Drive? Too long. And Reagan National Airport didn’t spit out its first morning flight till six.

I was pondering my other options, and driving past the White House, when it hit me. I pulled over to the curb, dug through my briefcase, and withdrew a business card. I dialed the number and three rings later a groggy voice replied, “Spinelli.”

“It’s Drummond. Wake up.”

“I’m on the fuckin’ phone, ain’t I?”

I would say he was being grumpy, but Spinelli’s mood seemed inalterable. I said, “I’m offering you the chance to be a hero.”

“Ah shit.”

“So here’s the deal. What if I told you Lisa Morrow, Julia Cuthburt, and Anne Carrol knew one another?

“How do you know that?”

“I just do.” I added, “And Janet Morrow might know why.”

“No shit.”

“But she’s gone.”

“Yeah?”

“The other shoe-her father’s house burned down last night. He might be dead. She checked out an hour later, and we should assume she flew home.”

He pondered this a moment, then suggested, “Then call her on her cell phone.”

“Well, shit. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Not answering, huh?”

“And I don’t want to think of why. Capisce? Now you earn your brass balls.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Standby helicopters are always kept at Andrews Air Force Base and the Marine base at Quantico, fifteen minutes from the White House and Pentagon. Tell your bosses you need one- now.”

“Fly to Boston?”

“My thought was we’d walk and pull the helicopter behind us. But now that you mention it, this flying thing, that might be better.”

“Fuck you.”

“You want to lose your key witness?”

“What the fuck are-”

“We know this killer has shown himself to be very clever and resourceful, don’t we?” I allowed him a moment to think about that, and then said, “Hey, forget it. Sorry I bothered you. I’ll call Meany and let the FBI-”

“Don’t even think it.” He paused a moment, then said, “Here’s the deal. I handle this, I get credit for the collar.”