Brian Haig - PrivateSector

“Out of here?” Janet asked.

“Right. Away from this guy.”

Janet exchanged looks with her sisters, then looked at me and Spinelli. She said, “Would you two step out of the kitchen? We need a moment to discuss this thing.”

I glanced at Spinelli, and said to her, “There’s nothing to discuss. Call the Boston PD.”

She pointed a finger. “I think you’d be comfortable in the living room.”

Well, what could we do? It was their house, so Spinelli and I shifted into the living room, where we began studying Aunt Ethel’s very extensive collection of porcelain and crystal figurines, which, if you’re into those things, was pretty interesting. There were several hand-painted ballerinas, and lots of tiny, delicate horses, and some unusual unicorns, and… who gives a shit.

“ We should’ve called the Boston PD,” I informed Spinelli.

“Maybe.”

No maybes about it, pal. The four women in that kitchen were grieving over the murder of their sister and the attempted murder of their father. The shock of those events was not likely to lead to clear thinking or logical conclusions. I felt uneasy, realizing I had misplayed this, hoping they weren’t convincing one another to do what I was sure they were trying to convince one another to do. After a time, Janet finally called us back into the kitchen. The four women were seated around the table, and I didn’t like the pissed-off, determined set of their faces.

“Have a seat,” said Janet.

Well, there were only four chairs, all of which were taken, so Spinelli and I brushed aside some clutter and hoisted ourselves up onto the linoleum counters, which earned us a really nasty glower from Aunt Ethel.

“We have a plan,” said Janet.

I replied, “There’s only one plan. Call the cops. Now. ”

Carol, who was next oldest behind Janet, said, “First, let’s talk about our plan.”

And Elizabeth, the youngest, said, “This man murdered our sister and put our father in the hospital. We’ve paid for the right to decide what to do next.”

I said, “That’s not-”

“Also,” Janet said, “he’s murdered three other women and a driver. And there’s every indication he intends to kill more. If you’re right

… if he’s here, we have a chance to take him off the streets.”

“So,” Elizabeth agreed, “he thinks he has Janet in a trap. That gives us a chance to turn the tables and put him in a trap.”

What they were thinking wasn’t news. But Spinelli was nodding. And all three sisters and Aunt Ethel were nodding.

I drew a deep breath and said, “Thank you. That’s a very noble gesture. It’s also clearly a stupid idea. The odds are completely in his favor.” I stared at Janet and added, “Don’t even think of using yourself as bait. This guy will swallow you whole.”

In retrospect, things might have gone better had I chosen a less provocative manner to state my objections.

Janet’s nostrils sort of flared. Sounding somewhat pissy, she said to me, “I… Damn it, don’t underestimate me. I can take care of myself. And don’t you dare call me stupid again.” She added, “Of course I plan to use the Boston PD.”

Spinelli immediately said, “Good idea-slap up a cordon, and we got this guy by the balls. But be sure to tell ’em only plain-clothes, and no closer than three blocks from here. This guy, he’s good, and he’ll ID ’em.”

If I had had a gun, I would’ve drilled Spinelli on the spot. It suddenly occurred to me that his motive for rushing up here differed from mine. I mean, of course Spinelli wanted to apprehend the killer and become the Man of the Hour, but “Protect and Serve” means protect first. Also, you don’t slap together bait operations on the fly. You take time to consider all the possible twists and eventualities, you handpick your best people, you plan, and then you replan, and then you rehearse, and even then, sometimes your bait ends up inside a chalk outline.

I tried again to explain my very reasonable objections, but it was clear I was the odd man out.

In any regard, Janet finally grew impatient and informed me, “Look, don’t think we don’t appreciate your figuring this out and rushing up here to warn us. But let me remind you, I’m a city prosecutor, and the local police are going to follow my lead.” She pointed her finger at me and said, “You can be part of the solution, or you can keep your mouth shut.”

Actually this was one of those cases where being part of the solution was being part of the problem. So I kept my mouth shut as they tried to hatch a plot. Eventually, Janet stepped into the living room and made the call to the Boston PD. Actually, this was the moment I had been waiting for. No doubt the cops would thank her for volunteering, and then tell her she wasn’t equipped for the job and that would be it.

And when she finally stepped back into the kitchen, she said, “I just spoke with Harry O’Malley, the commissioner.”

Spinelli said, “Yeah, and…”

“Harry loved the idea. He said to give him thirty minutes to arrange a cordon, and suggested we should use that time to refine a plan.”

Shit. In thirty minutes we would have both the killer and his prey bottled up inside a tight cordon. The first problem with that was, we had no idea what he looked like. The second problem was he was very expert at this killing game. The old parable about the two scorpions in the same box popped into my mind, and I recalled with a shudder how it ended-the scorpions stung each other to death.

So they all sat at the table and batted ideas back and forth, while I sulked on the counter, and outside, our killer paced around, surely growing impatient and antsy. Eventually, he could get tired of this waiting game and either depart or throw a murderous tantrum at this house. If he departed, this whole crazy scheme would fall apart. Call that the best outcome. If he attacked, he’d have to kill four women instead of one, not to mention the visiting clergymen. We might get him, and that would be good. He’d probably get some of us also, and that would be bad.

Elizabeth and Carol kept proposing options, all of which entailed the three sisters leaving Aunt Ethel’s house together and sharing the risks and perils.

It was such a bad idea that even Janet knew it was a bad idea, and she eventually advised her sisters, “He’s here for me. We will not put anybody else at risk.”

Elizabeth and Carol shook their heads and began vigorously arguing otherwise.

So I broke my vow of silence and interrupted. “Janet’s right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Janet replied. “He’s waiting for me to separate. He’d prefer to avoid the complications and take me alone.”

Spinelli remarked, “That would appear to be his modus operandi.”

I said, “Really? With Fiorio he whacked the driver to take the limo. He’s not squeamish about eliminating bystanders to get what he wants.”

Actually, three sisters collectively exposing themselves lumped stupidity on top of idiocy. Three targets are naturally harder to protect than one. Protection is a game of risks and odds, and the more targets you add to the mix, the more those odds shift in the wrong direction.

So, while they argued back and forth, I sat and calculated those odds. On the plus side, like many Army CID agents, Spinelli was trained in bodyguard techniques. Among their many other functions, CID personnel are the ones who guard high-level Defense officials, and they are quite proud of the fact they have never lost an official. Very reassuring, right? Indeed, until you realized nobody had ever made an attempt. Still, CID received top-flight training, and from my days in black operations I had received similar training. My skills had atrophied, and I obviously wasn’t the rip-snorting stud I was in my mid-twenties, but I hadn’t forgotten everything I learned. For example, I recalled Lesson One-against a skilled assassin you have almost no chance of protecting The Package.