She was killed?

A 🫏 Hack Mule Mystery

Americans talk nonstop in public. On planes. In elevators. At Starbucks. In front of masterpieces in museums. In the bespoke cheese aisle at Whole Foods. There’s a constant stream of dialogue flowing around us.

Listen closely, and you’ll hear profound, ridiculous, intriguing, and utterly baffling things all the time.

I always listen. And I take notes. Sometimes it pays off.

Bethesda. Last Thursday.

Years ago, I was on the Metro one afternoon when I heard some hotshot businessman bragging to his buddy about the low-ball deal he was negotiating to buy a building nearby. He said that his company had been willing to go $1.5 million higher, but “this little trade association that owns it has no idea how high we’ll go.” He added, “We really need this building, so we’ll basically pay top dollar, but I’ve fooled them.”

I realized he was talking about one of my clients. So, I wrote down every detail and followed him for two blocks to see where he worked.

Then I hustled back to my office and called my client. They were fascinated.

Three weeks later, the association handed me a surprise check for $1,000 as “commission” — they’d squeezed another $1.5 million out of the buyer.

So I keep listening.

Sometimes I hear things that really make me wonder.

Last week, I was waiting for an elevator in an office building when I noticed a man, probably in his 70s, sitting on a bench talking on his phone.

Just as I was getting on the elevator, he said, “I remember that, but I don’t remember that she was killed…so they’re not available for dinner?”

Then the elevator doors shut.

What?

What did he just say?

“Killed?”

Who?

Where?

What happened?

Who doesn’t remember “she was killed?” There’s no story where that’s not the interesting part.

And dinner? Yes, “killed” beats “available for dinner” every time. Do you really have to ask?

As I waited for my appointment, I started filling in the obvious blanks.

First I tried to think of what could possibly make “she was killed” the forgettable part of the story.

“She hang-glided over Everest, but then a high wind came up…”

“She completed a mission to Mars, but on re-entering Earth’s atmosphere…”

“She found a Birkin bag on clearance at Saks and would not let go despite the huge woman already holding the other strap…”

Nah. I’d have read about that somewhere. My algorithms are calibrated to deliver news about extraordinary things that happen to middle-aged women in Bethesda. I might miss a slap-down over a half-priced slow-cooker at Target, but a Birkin-related fight-to-the-death at Saks would definitely show up in my feed.

I moved on.

Maybe it was an illicit affair. A crime of passion. Her husband caught her with the pool boy when he came home early one afternoon and shot them both.

No, that’s a double murder. No one would forget that detail. Besides, Bethesda doesn’t have double murders — the legal costs are astronomical.

But, wait — what if the guy on the phone killed her? Maybe he’s pretending not to remember so he looks innocent.

“She was killed? I hadn’t heard! Why, that’s unforgettable!”

Maybe I should call the police and report a suspicious suburban man pretending to forget a killing.

No, no. They’ll just say the same thing as last time: “If we need your help on a murder case, we’ll call you. And please don’t make any more citizen’s arrests.”

Sure, got it. They tell me that every time.

I was still puzzling through all this when the nurse called me in to see the doctor.

As the doctor came into the exam room, he said, “You look very serious today.”

I told him about the comment I’d heard in the lobby.

He looked at my chart, shrugged, and said, “Someone’s cat was probably hit by a car. You know cat people. Can’t eat for days.”

A cat?

This whole thing was about a cat?

Damn it.

I hate medical science. Orthopedic surgeons should stick to sore knees, not solving murder mysteries.

Any better theories?