Brian Haig - PrivateSector

Along moment passed where Janet and I avoided verbal and eye contact. It was somewhat of a jolt to discover my name on this ass-hole’s to-do list. It was unexpected, for one thing. Also, I’d seen this guy in action, and while I’d like to say I handled this news with my normal aplomb, in fact I felt a rumble of fear in my chest.

But shock aside, all kinds of pieces suddenly began tumbling into place. We both needed a moment to think about this.

She rifled through two more pictures, graciously allowing me a moment to think about updating my life insurance. I was wearing the same gray pinstriped suit, so presumably all the photos were taken on the same day. There was a mere half sheet of personal data: address, phone number, car type, license number, place of employment, and so on. The information on me was notably skimpier than her sheets-nothing about family, personal habits, or favorite haunts.

“I wore that suit only two days ago,” I mentioned after I got my emotional sea legs back.

“You’re a starter project. He’s building his profile on you.”

“I see that, but why am I on his list?”

“Before we get to that, I’ll tell you what this confirms-he’s not the L. A. Killer. Nor a sex maniac. At least, not just a sex maniac.”

“Agreed. But why me?”

She correctly understood that my question wasn’t rhetorical, that we had stumbled onto something very important, if we only knew what. She leaned back against the seat and hypothesized, “Sean, I make my living convicting murderers. They come in all stripes, and are driven by countless motivations. Sometimes they don’t know why they’re killing. A voice inside their head tells them to, it’s a rite of passage into a gang, or the Mafia. Sometimes it’s a response to boredom or rage.”

“None of the above apply. You specialize in murder-now, what kind of killer compiles lists, creates files, methodically organizes his assaults, and makes sure someone else gets the credit for his handiwork?”

“I’ve noticed his… uniqueness.” Actually, I was sure she had noticed considerably more, and probably knew exactly what I was getting at. But like a good prosecutor she wanted to hear it from my lips. In fact, she asked, “Do you think you know his motivation?”

“I think I do.”

But Janet was putting the materials back into the briefcase, and she asked, referring to the contents, “What should we do about this?”

“Good question.” As lawyers, we were both aware that we had created a sticky problem here. All right, I had created the problem, but Janet charitably did not mention that. I hate I-told-you-so women, incidentally. She was really nice. We smiled at each other.

But evidence illegally obtained-for instance, by breaking into an automobile without a warrant-is impermissible in court. Ironic as it might sound, Janet and I could be charged with breaking and entering, and destruction of property, even as a key piece of evidence was ruled as too contaminated for use. Well, we couldn’t allow that to happen.

I said, “Slide it under the front seat. We’ll report the car as damaged, let the cops tow it to the impound, and at least our killer won’t be able to recover it. If we ever get this guy into a court, we’ll figure out some slick way to have it discovered and introduced as evidence.” That is, if we live through this, I failed to add.

She nodded. “I’ll call the Boston PD on my cell phone.” She added, “I won’t give them my name-just that I saw somebody break a car window, and I’ll tell them where to find it.”

“Good idea.”

She made the call and we then began walking back to Aunt Ethel’s. Back to the other matter, I said to Janet, “Look, this guy… Down by the river, I formed a few impressions.”

“I’m listening.”

“Before I became a JAG, I made my living in special operations. You develop an eye for the talent and the type.”

“What’s his type?”

I wasn’t ready to get into that yet, so I said, “Review what happened this morning. He selected a partner to jog with, a very attractive young lady who would draw the attention and make him less noticeable.”

“I already figured that one out.”

“Remember how he and the young lady first ran by you?”

“Yes… so?”

“Reconnaissance. He was sizing up his target, looking for surveillance, plotting where to take you, and where and how to make his escape. A mental rehearsal.”

“Okay.”

“He chose his approach to keep you between us and him. He’d seen us and he used your body as a screen, so we’d be lousy witnesses.”

She thought about this a moment, then asked, “You think he was that calculating?”

“There’s more.” I then asked her, “What was he doing when you fired at him?”

She thought back, then said, “I… yes, it was some kind of strange weaving motion.”

“He stepped closer to you?”

“Yes. He did. Then he started weaving.”

“Because you communicated that you had a gun. It was the look in your eye, maybe, but I’d bet you jammed the barrel against your coat, and he detected it. Certain self-defense courses teach that in close-quarters situations, you move right up to the shooter, then start a quick shifting of the feet and midsection, intended to throw off a shooter’s aim.”

“You think I missed him?”

“I do.” She appeared disappointed as I added, “Now, think about the way he aborted the mission, then rushed you and knocked you over. Or afterward how he dodged around like a broken Ping-Pong ball, moving unpredictably from side to side. That’s another technique taught in certain specialty courses.”

She thought about all that, then asked, “So you think he’s former military?”

“Maybe. They’re not street skills. And it was reflexive-no confusion, no hesitation, he just responded, fluidly and automatically. You understand what I’m saying? Eye-to-synapse-to-muscle coordination like his is extraordinarily rare. He’s a natural. Also, he trains constantly to have that edge.”

Janet considered all this, then said, “Sean, he’s not a machine. He’s human, and therefore fallible. He fell for our trap.”

“That won’t happen again.”

She considered this, then asked, “He is coming again, though?”

“Guys only get that good if they invest a lot of ego into their work. They don’t regard failures as failures, just notices to do better next time.”

She cracked a faint smile, confirming my earlier suspicion. She definitely wanted to go another round with this guy. Also it confirmed she was a selective listener-we should have both been on the next flight to Mongolia.

But I knew she wasn’t going to be talked out of it, and I said, “So, what do you conclude?”

“He’s hired help. But was he hired by somebody in your firm?”

“Somebody in the firm is connected.”

“Somebody Lisa worked with obviously.”

“Yes. And now we know it has to be somebody I work with also.”

I then spent a few minutes updating Janet on everything I had learned about Morris Networks and Grand Vistas. I was careful to couch it just right; these are the things I know, these are the things I only suspect, and these are the harebrained meanderings of a paranoid mind. Unfortunately, the latter outweighed the former, but in our business circumstantial cases are often the best you can get.

When I finished, she said, “It makes sense. Money and scandal-those are the motives.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you have another idea?”

“Well, I’ll share a random theory. Morris Networks has a clutch of Defense contracts, and it’s about to win a contract with DARPA, the organization that handles most of our most secretive projects.”