The Killing League

51.

Truck Drivin’ Man

They called her The Nailer. Her real name was Deborah Nahler but as the prosecuting attorney on some of the biggest murder cases in San Francisco history, the Nailer seemed more appropriate.

She had left the district attorney’s office several years back for a lucrative position with one of San Francisco’s most respected law firms.

She quickly became an equity partner, and her name went on the letterhead.

Now, she walked out of her law firm’s office and took the elevator to the basement parking garage. The garage itself served other companies besides her law firm. Her SUV was parked in the first space across from the elevator. It was a symbol of her position and her power.

Although she had prosecuted some of the most notorious killers in California history, and had received more than her share of death threats, Deborah Nahler knew no fear.

Despite this, she had never been afraid inside or outside a courtroom.

Her office had state-of-the-art security monitoring systems. Her home, a restored Victorian on Beacon Hill, was its match, maybe even better. Her car, a Cadillac Escalade, had extra thick glass and reinforced body panels as well as run-flat tires.

She had chosen to surround herself with such tight personal security not out of fear. It was merely a product of her preparation strategy. Although she was not motivated by fear for her own safety, she knew that life was like a criminal case. You never knew where it might lead, so the best plan was to plan for every contingency and then play it as it came.

Now, her mind was on the case she was preparing to go to trial within a few weeks. It was the exhibits that were bothering her. She needed more, and she needed things that would make more of an impact with the jury. Yes, juries loved articulate, moving speeches from a good lawyer like herself. But they also loved the concrete evidence that would assuage their guilt over returning a verdict that would essentially end a person’s life—

She heard the soft scrape of a shoe on the concrete behind her and for a brief moment she realized that the sound of the shoe was way too close. And that there had been no one with her on the elevator, nor waiting—

A great pain shot down her spine and her body went limp. She had the thought to reach for her cell phone but she couldn’t feel her arms, or her hands, or anything.

She dropped to the concrete, landed on her side and rolled onto her back.

For the briefest moment she registered a short, squat, ugly looking man with a baseball bat, rearing back for another swing.

He looks like a truck driver, she thought.