Free Private Sector by Brian Haig Page B

on the Morrow doorstep at 8:45.
    I drew a sharp breath and tried to compose myself. The notification officer ordinarily has no acquaintance with the deceased, and it’s no great ordeal to remain calm and stoic. But I gathered my nerves and rang the bell, and half a minute passed before the door was opened by a gentleman in a dark business suit. On the far side of his sixties, I’d guess, trim and fit, with wispy silver hair and silver eyebrows perched atop two very green eyes. The face was leathery and lined, a face that had spent a lot of time outdoors, a warm face, etched with character and intelligence, that also looked like it could get tough if the situation warranted.
    We stared at each other for a few seconds, and before I could get a word out of my lips, he sagged against the doorjamb and emitted a long, terrible sigh. Those with loved ones in the military know an unhappy moment is in the making when an anonymous officer in dress greens materializes on your doorstep.
    I struggled unsuccessfully to contain my emotions. “Mr. Morrow, I’m Major Sean Drummond. Lisa and I were, uh, good friends.” That “were” popped the cork prematurely, so I raced to say, “I’m sorry. Lisa died last night.”
    When I said “died” he nearly collapsed, and I reached out to steady him. Neither of us spoke. His eyes closed and tears began spilling down his cheeks. I tightened my grip.
    A woman’s voice inside said, “Daddy, who is it?”
    A choking sound erupted in his throat. A young woman appeared, saw me, saw her father crumpled with grief, and yelled, “Oh God . . . not Lisa?”
    Mr. Morrow pulled away from me and he and the younger woman collapsed into each other’s arms. This lasted a minute or so, them moaning, me standing miserably, clueless about what to do, or say, or
not
do, or
not
say next.
    I finally managed to say, “I am terribly sorry. Lisa and I worked together. We became close friends. She was a gifted lawyer and she was a, well, a great person.”
    Appropriate words. But to the ears of a father who had burped her, changed her diapers, shared in a lifetime of great triumphs and few failures, they inevitably sounded wooden, empty, and condensed.
    He apparently sensed my discomfort and said, “Come in, won’t you?”
    He took his daughter’s arm, and I followed them down a hall-way to a study at the rear of the house. The house itself—spacious, high-ceilinged, furnished tastefully with heavy wooden pieces, leather chairs, and oriental carpets—was a masculine home muddied by occasional frilly touches, evidence of four daughters. Pictures were everywhere of four young girls, from infancy through adulthood—graduation shots, a wedding picture, four girls on a boat with Mr. Morrow, hair blown back, all laughing. Above the mantel in the study hung a portrait of a woman beautiful enough to make you gasp; Lisa’s mother, I guessed, blond-haired, green-eyed, looking curiously at the painter through two large orbs that exuded sympathy, a resemblance eerie enough to give me a shock.
    The father and daughter fell onto the couch, arms wrapped around each other. I fell into the worn leather chair across from them. I said nothing—the questions would come.
    “How?” Mr. Morrow eventually asked.
    I replied, “Sir, I am instructed to state that the results and circumstances have yet to be finalized. You’ll be notified as soon as we’re sure.”
    He tapped a finger on a knee. “How?”
    “She was murdered. Her neck was broken. It was quick, and as painless as these things can be.”
    I watched their faces crumple with shock. Death is death, regardless of the cause. Yet car accidents, plane crashes, strokes, and lightning strikes offer enough haphazardness to at least afford a sense that God or the fates simply plucked somebody you loved. Murder is different. So is its aftertaste. No random, supernatural force dealt the hand; some rotten mortal bastard robbed you of something infinitely precious.
    “Have