Free The Night Crew by Brian Haig Page A

out of bed earlier than her. She got up about seven, woke the kids for school, went outside to get the paper, and saw his car still parked in the driveway. She went over to check, saw the blood splashed all over the windshield . . . drew closer . . . and, well . . . there he was.” He felt the need to add, “Pretty awful, if you think about it.”
    If you think about it . I accepted his invitation, and I did think about it. The Major and his family lived in the kind of modest, quiet, peaceful, suburban townhouse community that are as mundane and commonplace around Washington as low-salaried government workers, who ordinarily are the inhabitants. I pictured twenty or thirty narrow, neat, brick-fronted, two-storied buildings, connected together and cloistered around a small courtyard or garden.
    Major Weinstein, earnest officer, never imagined he was a target as he walked out the front door. At a few minutes before six on a cold February morning it was pitch dark, and probably the community had little or no public lighting.
    Assuming one killer, his executioner was hunched on the floor of Weinstein’s car, beneath and behind the front seats, waiting, possibly cloaked underneath a dark cloth or blanket. I never even think to check the rear of my car before I get in: Who would? Obviously not the good Major.
    He was attired in gym gear for physical training, and probably carried an overnight or gym bag packed with toiletries and the daily uniform he would change into after his morning run and exercise. He opened the door, placed the bag on the passenger seat, got into the driver’s seat, was inserting the key into the ignition, then auggh —a hand grabbed his forehead, and his throat was cut from ear to ear.
    And here, I thought, was where it became interesting. The total absence of struggle indicated there had been no exchange of words or efforts at negotiation between killer and victim. By extrapolation, this was an execution, a cold dispatching which could indicate either a strong emotional motive, such as hatred or betrayal, or the calculated elimination of a problem. Those two aren’t mutually exclusive.
    Apparently Katherine had also thought about it, because she remarked, “Yes, I’m sure it was awful.” She then asked him, “So it sounds like you have no idea who killed him?”
    “Not a clue.” He bent forward, and quickly amended that statement to, “About the killer’s identity, that is. A few clues were at the scene. A big one, in fact—a note, presumably left by the killer.”
    I said, “Please tell us about that note.”
    “More a message or an announcement than a note, really. It was cut from an article—by the paper type, most likely scissored from a magazine—then pasted on a three-by-five card. The killer positioned it right on the dashboard, after he was done . . . so you couldn’t miss it. It said, ‘God is great.’
    Katherine and I left that one alone for a moment. I was seeing a disturbing pattern here, and noted, “So now you have two dead defense lawyers associated with the Al Basari case.”
    He nodded.
    “Coincidence?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “Maybe.”
    “Probably not, though.”
    “No . . .” he agreed, “probably not.”
    “And probably Captain Bradley Howser’s death was not the innocent accident everybody assumed it was.”
    “Well . . . that case has been reopened and now is under review.”
    Which was bureaucrat-speak for, Yes, we fucked up and thanks for mentioning it. I wish I could have a do-over every time I screwed up; so do my clients.
    But he was looking at me, and I realized it was my turn to say something. When I finally did speak, it was to query of Katherine, “What have I ever done to you?”
    She decided not to address this, and instead said to O’Reilly, “You mentioned clues. Plural.”
    “A few hairs were vacuumed from the backseat of the car.” His facial expression did not look optimistic. “Maybe the killer’s, or maybe