Brian Haig - PrivateSector

Eventually, Elizabeth and Carol backed off, and Janet and Spinelli settled upon the outline of a plan. Janet then called the commissioner’s office again, and was switched to the office of the police captain who’d been designated as el jefe of this affair. They sounded like they were old pals, a few warm and friendly pleasantries were exchanged, and then Janet handed off the phone to Spinelli, who spent twenty minutes refining the plan with the Boston PD, settling upon a route, security arrangements, and so forth. I listened in, and considering what they wanted to accomplish, it was probably as good as it was going to get. But for the record, “as good as it was going to get” and “good enough” don’t always match. So while Spinelli was hobnobbing on the phone, I drew Janet into the living room.

I got her alone and said, “I know you think you know what you’re doing, but this is a very high-risk deal.”

She nodded. “I’m aware of that. It’s also the right thing to do. You know that.”

Whether it was or wasn’t the right thing was past being relevant. I replied, “But if you’re going to go through with it, a few pointers.”

“As long as they’re constructive.”

I pointed at her feet. “You and Carol appear to be close in shoe size. Trade your heels for her sneakers.”

“That’s a good idea. I will.”

“He likes to kill with his hands. Don’t let anybody get close.”

“Right… nobody gets close.”

“Your first choice is to run.”

“Run… yes. I intend to.”

“If you can’t, tuck your chin into your chest and fall to the ground. That’ll buy us time to reach you.”

She nodded.

I said, “Get a knife from Aunt Ethel’s kitchen.”

“All right.”

“Keep it in your coat pocket.”

She nodded again, and I advised, “No more than a five-inch blade. Shorter blades are harder to block.”

“A five-inch blade… right… good idea.”

“Keep it in your grip at all times. Practice pulling it out a few times. If you use it, swing up and aim for his gut, not down. Amateurs swing down and end up dead.”

She nodded again and then informed me, “I’m ready for this.”

“No… you’re not. You’re an optimistic amateur going up against a ruthless killer.”

“Stop trying to scare me. You’ll make me so paranoid I’ll blow it.”

Well, I wanted her paranoid. Fear was her only hope of surviving this ordeal. I wanted her so skittish that the slightest threat would cause her to scream her lungs out and flee.

I mentioned, “One other thing for you to consider.”

“What’s that?”

“This guy, these killings, it’s all, somehow, connected to the law firm.”

Since she had suspected this in the first place, she did not appear surprised, but she still needed a moment to ponder this news. “How? Why?”

“I don’t know yet. It might have to do with that company I mentioned to you. But it might not. Still, I think somebody in the firm is involved.”

“Do you know who?”

“If I did, you wouldn’t be doing this.”

Then a fresh thought hit me. I said, “There were e-mails from Lisa to you, Anne Carrol, and Julia Cuthburt that referred to packages. Did you get a package?”

“When was this?”

“About…” I couldn’t recall the exact date, but I remembered the general date, and said, “maybe three weeks ago.”

“Yes, I did.”

“And…?”

“It was a birthday gift for my father. Lisa wanted me to include it with my gift.” She glanced at her watch and said, “Look, I need to keep my mind on one problem at a time. Let’s discuss it later.”

“If there is a later.” I added, “Remember, run; if you can’t, fall down.”

She nodded and returned to the kitchen.

Monsignors Spinelli and Drummond walked out aunt Ethel’s front door, climbed into their beat-up Honda Civic, and departed. We drove four blocks, parked by an intersection, then backtracked two blocks.

Spinelli then led me to two unmarked cars and three Boston detectives who were loitering outside a barbershop, blending into their surroundings, though I thought they looked like sore thumbs.

We approached on foot and one of the detectives, a freckly, red-haired kid, beamed at us and said, “Good morning, Fathers.”

Spinelli smiled back. “Up yours, dickhead.”

I believe I mentioned that Spinelli has sociability issues. Anyway, he then flashed his tin, and explained, “If I were the killer, you’d be dead as shit. Where’s yer fuckin’ radio?”

The young detective led Spinelli to his car, and they climbed in together. Spinelli spent a few moments communicating to the captain in charge of this operation, tying down details and loose ends and whatever.

I leaned against a lamp post. Having already scared the Morrow girls out of their shorts, I was now in the process of jerking the Boston PD through a major knothole. If I was wrong about the killer and his intentions, or he smelled a trap and disappeared, a bad day was going to become an incredibly shitty day. But, enough with happy thoughts; I switched to ruminations about the plan. In battle, you learn to think like the other guy, then use that to get one step ahead of him, even as he’s trying to think like you. The Army euphemistically calls this getting inside an enemy’s decision cycle. The one who gets a few synapses connections ahead of the other chokes on confetti at the victory parades; the other guy ships home in a body bag.

Our edge lay in the fact that we were trying to think like him. Because he wasn’t aware we knew he was out there, he wasn’t trying to think like us.

Anyway, while Spinelli wrapped up his explanation on the radio, I realized I was unarmed. So I attempted to sweet-talk the friendly, freckle-faced detective into loaning me a pistol. He informed me, somewhat frostily, that departmental policy strictly for-bade the issuance of police ordnance to private citizens. I might’ve felt more secure having a weapon, but the truth is, I’ve never been able to hit shit with a pistol. In fact, Janet’s chances of survival just went up a peg.

A few minutes later, an unmarked van pulled to the curb and another priest stepped out. Actually, the new priest was named Detective Sergeant Jack Pilcher, and he was the officer assigned by the Boston PD to escort Chief Warrant Spinelli, who lacked both jurisdiction and authority in this city.

In fact, his opening words to Spinelli were, “Listen up, soldier boy, this is my fucking city. You’re along for the ride. Don’t even think of using your weapon or trying to apprehend this butthole. We clear on this point?”

Despite his own sociability issues, Spinelli apparently knew to leave well enough alone. He replied, “You’re the boss.”

Then Pilcher noticed me, my priest’s garb, my eager poise, and said, “Is this a fucking convention? Who the fuck are you?”

“Drummond.”

“You CID, too?”

I overlooked that insult and said, “I’m a JAG officer.”

“Great. What are you doing here?”

“I’m part of this show.”

“The hell you are.”

I glanced at Spinelli, who, I suddenly noticed, had stepped back a few paces, and with a perfectly innocuous expression was staring at something across the street. Had my partner somehow failed to inform the Boston PD that I was an inseparable member of the team here? If so, surely it was just a simple oversight, or a memory lapse.

I informed Sergeant Pilcher, “Actually, Miss Morrow specified that she wouldn’t take a step out her front door unless I’m watching her ass.” I added, more loudly, “Mr. Spinelli heard her demand. Right?”

Spinelli apparently had his mind on other matters and failed to reply. To help him focus on this issue I grabbed his arm and repeated, “Right, Spinelli?”