by Brian Haig
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.
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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
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?”
He replied, reluctantly, “Uh . . .” Well, I squeezed a bit harder, until he said, “Yeah. She said that.”
“You see?” I informed Pilcher. “Hey, I’m not even armed.”
Well, Detective Sergeant Pilcher still did not like this, and even frisked me to be sure I was both weaponless and harmless. He then spent two minutes briefing me on my role, which could be neatly summarized as stay the fuck out of his way.
We then waited five minutes, too keyed up to speak, staring off into the distance. Pilcher had a miniature mobile radio unit under his cassock, with a mike pinned to his chest and a tiny receiver in his ear. He used the wait to test his commo with his ops center. It either worked or he enjoyed talking into his own chest and nodding his head. But Spinelli’s cell phone finally rang and he answered, “Yeah . . . Uh-huh . . . okay, good . . .” Then, “All right, we’re moving.”
Spinelli was conversing with Janet, and he didn’t punch off, because from this moment on, he and Janet would stay connected through their cell phones. Jerry-rigged operations make me nervous, and I briefly wondered what would happen if somebody’s battery died, or we ended up passing through one of those dead-space zones. Anyway, we began moving, Spinelli and Pilcher keeping their right hands tucked inside their cassocks, no doubt gripping their pistols. Pilcher moved down one side of the street. Spinelli and I cruised down the other, until we all ducked into doorways within sight of Aunt Ethel’s house.
Pilcher must’ve informed the ops center we were in position, while Spinelli informed Janet that it was time to start the gig, because Aunt Martha’s front door flew open and Janet stepped out. She hugged Aunt Ethel, kissed her sisters, and they all somehow managed to swallow their anxieties and make it appear like a natural parting scene.
Then Janet walked in our direction, her cell phone held to her ear with one hand, the other stuffed in her coat pocket, hopefully gripping a knife. I actually caught my breath. The day was cold and breezy, her hair was blowing b
ehind her, framing her face, and she looked extraordinarily beautiful. Was I in lust, or what?
She passed Pilcher without a sideways glance and kept going. I looked around for anybody following her. Aunt Ethel’s house was three blocks off Harvard Square, and Janet moved in that direction, then took a right and headed toward the Charles River that divides the obscenely wealthy College of Harvard from the obnoxiously wealthy Business School.
We trailed a block behind her until the streets suddenly became thick with Harvard students and pedestrians and window-shoppers. We lost sight of Janet for a few scary seconds, so we sped up and closed the gap to half a block.
This was the riskiest leg of her journey. The killer could blend in with the pedestrians and slip a knife into her ribs as they passed.
We had discussed this possibility at length but finally theorized that he wouldn’t strike here because the street was too crowded. There’d been no witnesses in any of the other killings, making it fair to assume he took great care to avoid exposure. But the problem with assumptions and theories is they’re only right until they’re wrong.
Janet walked briskly past a large red-brick building. The sign by the road declared this to be the John F. Kennedy School of Government, which is where they train eggheads to screw up the government, but to sound really smart as they do it. She then hung a left onto the walking path that borders the Charles River.
We quickly reached the path and ended up walking side by side, a trio of thoughtful clerics contemplating the serene beauty of the heavenly river God created, or something like that. To our left was the Harvard Law School. I recalled that both Janet and Lisa had graduated from that school, and now we were hunting her murderer in the shadow of its walls.
I don’t believe in fate, kismet, or cosmic coincidences, but I did pick up my pace and sharpen my senses a bit. In fact, I had this weird premonition that this guy possessed a sense of irony, or poetic symmetry, and wanted to whack Janet right here. The basic idea—the Massachusetts Institute of Technology is located some two miles downriver from Harvard in the direction Janet was walking. A bridge over the Charles River connects MIT’s campus with Boston proper, and on the Boston side of that bridge is a subway stop. Janet had flown into Boston and been picked up by Carol, who had rushed her to the hospital. It seemed perfectly natural for Janet to leave her sisters with her aunt and catch a train to return to her apartment. If she survived the trip to her apartment, a more foolproof trap was being laid there by the Boston PD. It is a rule of thumb that protecting a stationary target is easier than protecting a moving one. We were sort of hoping to make it to that point without incident.
