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Executive Times |
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2007 Book Reviews |
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Man in
the Middle by Brian Haig |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Retaliation Brian Haig
reprises protagonist Sean Drummond for another mystery thriller titled, Man in
the Middle. This is a story of revenge and retaliation, with a full quota
of plot twists, not all of which are obvious. Haig entertains, and clearly
has fun in expanding Drummond. While Haig can be a little preachy at times,
most readers are likely to appreciate his wit. Here’s an excerpt, all of
Chapter Two, pp. 16-20: The moment Bian Tran stepped out of the bedroom, I shifted
position, closer to the bed and directly behind the forensics specialist,
who remained bent over the body, manipulating tweezers and picking debris
off the sheets. I cleared my throat and asked, “What are we seeing here?” “It’ll all be in my
report,” he replied. “Okay, but—” “Aren’t you listening? I said it’ll be in my
report.” I allowed a moment to
pass. Then I withdrew a pen and a small green notepad from my pocket. “What’s
your name?” “What?” “Your name—spell it.” He straightened up.
“What are you talking about?” “For my report.” “What the—” “Back at the Bureau
they throw monumental fits over silly things like misplaced modifiers and
split infinitives. Misspellings really make them pissy.” I added, “I think
it’s because we hire too many lawyers and accountants. You know? Totally
anal.” “I still don’t know
what—” “It’s fairly simple. I
can spell ‘impeding a federal investigation.’ I just need to be sure I get
your name right, Mr ….?” “Reynolds.. . Timothy
Reynolds.” He turned around and faced me, and in a nasal, whiny voice, said,
“I’m just trying to do my job.” “Aren’t we all, Tim?”
I flashed my phony FBI creds in his face. “Now what are we seeing here?” Timothy looked around
for a moment, obviously torn between doing his job and mollifying the
impatient prick with the federal badge. He insisted, “Well, nothing
conclusive. On the surface, it appears the victim committed suicide.” I let a moment pass
and asked, “What about below the surface?” “You must understand
that I can’t answer questions with any accuracy until everything’s run
through lab analysis.” “Of course.” “Also I haven’t yet
taken prints from the gun.” “Check.” “Obviously, this is
very important, and—” “Noted.” “A complete toxicology
and serology will need to be worked up. If the victim was on drugs or under
the influence of alcohol, that can—” Holy
shit. “Shut
up, Tim.” I took a deep breath and tried to recall my question. “Is there any
physical matter we should be concerned about at this stage of the
investigation?” You can lead a horse
to water, but you can’t make him drink. Tim glanced over his shoulder at the
body and replied, “Well, it’s interesting. What I think is—” “Tim . . . did
I ask what you think? Facts.” “Oh. . .all
right. For starters, the sheets on this bed are changed and washed weekly.
The maid informed us. This is relevant and important information. It
establishes time frame. The particles and residue on this sheet were
deposited within the last seven days.” I flipped open my
notebook, scribbled, and said, “Time frame . . . yes, yes, always
important. . .“ Actually, I began sketching Tim, standing
perfectly erect, tottering on a chair, noose around his neck, arms straight,
extended and. . . “There are a lot of
the victim’s hairs on the pillow,” Tim continued, “and sweat residue. But
you expect that. Everybody sheds and sudates when they sleep. But there are
other hair particles and strands as well.” I erased the chair,
Tim’s legs were kicking furiously, and—I looked up—”Not his hair?” “Well. . . you
can see that his hair was gray, coarse, and cropped very short. There are
some red hairs, and also some very fine blonde hairs. Both are quite long,
which suggests they could be from females . . .” He turned tentative
again, and added, “That’s a hypothesis on my part. A chromosonal analysis is
needed before a firm conclusion can be reached.” “More than
one woman?” “Well . . , I
would say at this point—” “Yes or no.” “Uh. . .yes.” Goodness. Despite
Tim’s pathological aversion to phrases, this suddenly took an interesting
turn. I asked you finished the bathroom yet?” “I did that first.
Bathrooms are always gold mines.” “And what did we find
there?” “More hair. Both black
and red, as well as some of the victim’s hair in the sink, probably from
shaving. And the usual pubic traces on the toilet seat.” “Further confirming
the presence of more than one female?” “It appears. . . yes,
perhaps as many as three.” He knew what my next line of questioning would be
and added, “I ran an infrared light over the sheets. There are interesting
traces . . . probably semen. I don’t know whether these
traces are new or old.” Like that, Cliff
Daniels went from the ubiquitous man in a gray flannel suit to something far
more complicated and mysterious. This raised a number of evocative questions,
not to mention a few dark and dubious possibilities. Anybody who beds two
different women inside one week likes to live on the edge. This guy didn’t have
to whack himself—just arrange for the two or more women to show up together
and they’d take care of things for him. Indeed, that, or some variation thereof, might
be what happened here. I looked at the corpse on the bed and asked myself the
obvious question: What was Clifford doing in the hour before the trigger was
pulled? Did he die alone? Or with company? To Tim I asked, “Is
there any indication he was having
sex at the time of, or shortly prior to, his death?” “It does seem an
obvious conclusion, doesn’t it? I intend to take epidural traces from his
penis for the lab. However, from what I’ve seen.. . or
didn’t see—specifically, no visible traces of sperm, or crust of vaginal
fluid on his penis—it’s possible the victim was stimulating himself.” Tim looked at me
expectantly as I weighed whether to ask him another question or just kill
myself. When I remained silent, he said, “Can I return to my work?” “What’s stopping you?” “Well. . .you are.” “Nonsense.” “Oh. . . that’s
a joke.” He emitted a sort of high-pitched laugh. I looked at him and
said, “If anything interesting pops up, call me immediately. I’ll be in the
living room.” I turned and started to walk away when I was struck by an
afterthought, and turned back around. “Uh...?” He stared at me. “How many suicides
have you investigated?” “I don’t know. A good
many. This is a high-stress area code. Within the county, we experience more
suicides than homicides.” “How many of those
suicides involved guns?” “A few. Perhaps three
this past year. Overdoses and slashed wrists are the norm. A majority of our
suicide victims are teenagers who can’t afford—” “I understand. . .thank
you.” I asked Tim, “Did you observe any blood splatter on the gun?” “Yes, some. It was
fired from very close range, and there was a volume of blowback. Also, even
visually, I can detect powder residue on the victim’s left temple. That
means—” “I know what it
means.” I asked, “Have we confirmed if the pistol belonged to the victim?” “Not yet. The serial
number is unobservable until we turn it over. We don’t rearrange the evidence
until after I’ve finished my site inspection.” I pointed at the
silencer on the end of the pistol. “Have you ever seen a suicide where the
victim used one of those?” “Uh. . .” I remembered to
specify, “Yes or no?” “No.” “Does the silencer
strike you as odd?” “I leave the conclusions to the detectives.” “As you
should. Except I’m asking your opinion.” “Yes. It is unusual.”
In fact, I was sure Tim regarded it as more than unusual—even
suspicious—though, sucked inexorably back into his orbit of qualifiers and
modifiers, he suggested, “You could postulate, I suppose, that the victim
didn’t want to disturb his neighbors. A final act of courtesy, so to speak.
Or he didn’t want to be discovered. I’ve seen suicides where the victim went
to great lengths to avoid attention.” “I see.”
Sometimes it’s the little things. Essentially, in almost every way this looked like a suicide; that is, every
way but two. To begin with, that petrified expression on Daniels’s face—eyes
wide open, mouth contorted, a mixture of frozen shock and amazement. It’s my
impression that most people, in the millisecond before they blow a bullet
through their own flesh, reflexively shut their eyes, purse their lips, and
contract their facial muscles—this is going to hurt, a lot, and the mind and
the body respond instinctively, even reflexively, toward the anticipation of
pain. Ergo,
shock and surprise seemed wrong. After all, the act of suicide was his idea. Relief, anger, sadness,
pain—these, or some combination of these, are the expressions one would
expect on his death mask. Plus, the
silencer was weird. If I assumed
the pistol was Clifford’s weapon, silencers are hard to come by, expensive,
and, even for radical gun lovers, an unusual accessory. I mean, gun nuts
live for the big booms. No, silencers are an instrument of assassins. Neither of
these incongruities was entirely dissuasive of suicide, and neither alone
implied murder. Taken together, however, they raised doubts, and doubts are
like termites; ignore them at your own peril. I was
about to ask Tim another question when I heard footsteps. I turned around in
time to see Major Bian Tran, accompanied by a tall, lanky black gentleman in
a tweed blazer, walk through the doorway into the bedroom. The gentleman
looked amazingly like that actor who played Alex Cross in Along Came a Spider, down to the pockmarked
face, high cheekbones, salt-and-pepper hair, and thoughtful brown eyes.
Weird. The
gentleman was staring at me with a pissed-off expression. Major Tran, also
with an eye on me, had an amused squint. If you’ve
guessed that the relationship between Major Tran and Sean Drummond will
develop in complicated ways on these pages, you’re right. Man in
the Middle has Drummond working for the CIA, and tied up in beltway
politics and bureaucracy. Steve Hopkins,
February 23, 2007 |
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·
2007 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the March 2007
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Man
in the Middle.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • 723 North Kenilworth Avenue • Oak Park,
IL 60302 E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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