Brian Haig - PrivateSector

“I don’t care who gets credit.”

“I do. I gotta promotion board comin’ up.”

“If she dies, I’ll put that in your records.”

“Thirty minutes, the Pentagon landing pad. And don’t be fuckin’ with me, or I’ll-”

“What’s this in my hand? Wow… George Meany’s business card.”

“Thirty minutes.”

I tried Janet again and left another message to call me pronto. This was when it struck me that there were other possible explanations for what was going on here. Maybe J. stood for Jeanie, and A. for Alice. And maybe poor old Mr. Morrow came home from work, tossed a frozen pizza in the oven, forgot to remove the cardboard, and presto, a two-alarm blaze. We all know how forgetful some old people get.

But, as the French like to say, “L’audace, l’audace,” which translates roughly to, “Attack, forget the risks, gamble, and win.” Forget that the French haven’t won a war in a couple of centuries.

We landed at 6:20 on the roof of the Harvard University Medical Center, where Mr. Morrow had been rushed by ambulance after the fire.

Spinelli had remained busy the whole flight chattering into his headset, calling Boston to arrange police escorts, tracking down the whereabouts and condition of Mr. John Morrow- severe burns on 50 percent of his body, condition critical, in the ICU of Harvard Medical-and struggling to explain to his dubious bosses why all this was necessary.

I huddled on a seat in the back of the Blackhawk, stared out the window at the lights below, and tried again to piece the fragments together. What did Janet, Anne Carrol, and Julia Cuthburt have in common? After giving it great thought, I came up with nothing.

Anyway, a bored patrolman was awaiting us by the rooftop landing pad, and ushered us through an entrance and down a few floors to the ICU. We were led to a room with no doors. Inside, a body was laid out on a bed, covered with some form of burn sheeting, respirator on his face, IVs pumping liquids into both arms, two nurses and a young doctor huddled together and discussing something.

The doctor noticed us and came over. “Can I help you?”

I offered brief introductions and inquired, “How’s our patient?”

“Touch and go.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “The burns were quite severe. His legs and lower torso particularly.”

Spinelli asked the doctor, “What are his chances?”

“Burns… they’re tough.” He frowned and pointed a finger at the patient. “He’s stable for the time being. But he’s old. And as I said, burns are tough.”

In other words, John Morrow’s chances were pretty good. Were I to paraphrase the young doctor exactly, he said, My malpractice insurance is killing me, and didn’t one of you gentlemen mention you were a lawyer?

I explained to him, “We’re here looking for his daughter Janet Morrow. Dark-haired, slender, very attractive.”

He nodded. “She was here earlier. Two other sisters also. They were here all night, in fact. They left about”-he glanced at his watch-“about an hour ago, after we got him stabilized.” For good measure, he added, “Of course, you never know with burns. They’re tough.”

I went to the nursing station and used the phone to inform Janet’s cell phone answering service that I was in Boston, and I left her Spinelli’s cell phone number.

I huddled with Spinelli. I said, “Okay, she’s in the city. But where?”

He replied that he had already arranged for the Boston PD to dispatch a car to Janet’s townhouse in downtown Boston, and another to her sister Carol’s apartment located somewhere in Belmont. Had the sisters shown up at either location Spinelli would’ve gotten a call.

So that told us where they weren’t. Not where they were. Janet made her living dealing with murderers, and maybe, after hearing that her father’s house had caught fire, suspected something was amiss. But she didn’t know yet about the connection between her sister and the other two victims, so maybe not. In fact, maybe she was at that very moment having her neck snapped.

All those maybes were giving me a headache.

I suggested to Spinelli that we should persuade the Boston police to issue an all-points on all three sisters. He suggested that was a dumb and unworkable idea, that APBs require legal authorization we were unlikely to get on such thin logic, that the sisters had been up all night and had to return to their apartments and town-houses to shower, change, eat, and so on. I responded that he had a good point, but if Janet did suspect something, she probably would be clever enough to avoid her own lair, as that was obviously the most likely place the killer would stake out. He noted that I had a good point also, except the Boston PD had a squad car parked in front of her townhouse. Well, yes, I replied, but maybe Janet and her sisters didn’t know that.

Stalemate. We were both tired and our tempers were fraying. We were also hungry and thirsty, so we went down a few floors and found the cafeteria. We got a couple of bran muffins and cups of coffee and sat at a table.

Considering that we had become sort of partners, I decided I should get to know Spinelli better, and so I asked him, “So Danny, what brought you into the Army?”

“Poverty. You?”

“Nothing better to do.”

He chuckled. I think he was starting to like me. I wasn’t sure whether I was starting to like him.

I asked him, “You started out as an MP?”

He nodded. “Made it to staff sergeant, then went to the CID course.”

“Like it?”

“There are days.”

Okay, enough with these deep, probing questions. We now knew each other intimately, what made the other guy tick, and so forth. I asked, “You’re the expert here. What do you think’s going on?”

“Ain’t got a friggin’ clue.”

“The other day you suggested this guy was a copycat.”

“Yeah.”

“Still think that?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Curiosity.” I added, “Incidentally, I saw no sign that Lisa knew Carolyn Fiorio.”

“Maybe she didn’t. Maybe there’s some other connection or motive with Fiorio.”

I thought about that. It made sense-possibly the killer knocked off Lisa, Cuthburt, and Carrol for one reason, and Fiorio for a different reason altogether. Then I gave a little more thought to that copycat idea.

Spinelli, I was coming to appreciate, was my kind of cop. The other law enforcement officials involved in this case so overintellectualized the problem, made it so fucking complicated, devised so many intricate theories and complex hypotheses that they ended up chasing their own asses. Spinelli was the meat-and-potatoes type.

I was sipping from my coffee and contemplating meat and potatoes, don’t overthink, the answer is usually right under your nose, when it hit me. I slammed the cup down and said, “Follow me.”

I raced back up the stairs, Spinelli sprinting behind me all the way back into the ICU and over to the nurses’ station.

A heavyset black nurse was staring intently at some monitors, but glanced up when I said, “Excuse me. Were you here when Mr. Morrow’s daughters left?”

“Yes.”

“Did they leave a number for you to contact them?”

“They did.” I explained that this was a police matter, Spinelli flashed his shield, and she gave us the number.

I smiled at her and asked, “Mind if I use your phone?”

“Go ahead. Just don’t be long.”

I dialed and a woman’s voice answered, “Hello.”

“This is Sean Drummond. May I ask whom I’m speaking with?”

“Ethel Morrow.”

“I’m trying to contact Janet Morrow. Would you know where I can find her?”

“I’m her aunt. Of course I know where to find her.”