Fight or Flight

Fight or Flight

“Ms. Hartman,” Sadie Nelson said, “I’m 48 years old… twice your age. Nobody has ever ripped me off and gotten away with it, and they won’t start now. Someone is siphoning off inventory right under our corporate noses, and I’m sick of paying big bucks to lawyers and CPAs in suits, who seem incapable of solving this problem. So, I’ve decided to bypass them and hire someone myself… someone like myself… educated in law and finance, tough, smart, fearless, and armed… but younger,” she continued, opening her left lapel to reveal a holstered pistol hugging her side.

“Not that I’m too old to do it myself,” she continued, “but our inventory is moving constantly, 24/7, and my instinct tells me that the wee small hours of the morning are most likely connected with the missing merch. And frankly, I just can’t run a company all day long while staying up all night chasing crooks. It may be a publicly traded company, but I still own controlling interest, and I refuse to run myself ragged trying to do what you might do better, given your age and training.”

“You’re going to find this crook, Sarah”, and we’re going cook its goose. I’ve interviewed others… all older than you, all more experienced, all men. I have chosen you because of the fierceness I see in your eyes, and because of the hardware under your arm that you aren’t trying very hard to hide.  I’m as confident in you as I am in me… and more importantly, as you are in you.”

“Now,” handing an envelope across her desk, “here’s a $10,000 retainer check, my cell number, and the address of our principal warehouse, not far from here. Call or text me as you need. I will alert my team that you are to have access on request, to any and every person, facility, or document in this company, and that you will start at midnight tonight at the warehouse.”

Minutes after leaving her new client’s office, at 1:15pm, Sarah Hartman stopped by her bank, deposited the check, and tough or not, literally danced down the 14^th Street sidewalk and through the revolving door of the Market, into the welcome rush of warm air that washed over her and instantly zapped into oblivion the frigid December wind that had presumed to follow her in. She laughed out loud for joy as the heat consumed her body while assassinating her vanquished icy predator, and she celebrated with a leaping full pirouette, followed by a stunning upward thrust of both arms as she landed flawlessly on her extended right foot.

Two startled shoppers… middle-aged ladies who had been heading for the exit, stumbled backwards momentarily, grasping each other to keep their balance, just feet from Sarah’s flourish, before one of the two recovered and started applauding, shouting, “Bravo, bravo… well done!”

Sarah bowed importantly to the two ladies, her right arm sweeping grandly outward, and strode stoically past them, chin up, into the din of the Market, smiling inwardly while ravenously inhaling the aromas of the roasting meats, spices and aromatics of dozens of vendors serving-up every culinary delight imaginable. Sarah loved the Market all year long, but especially in the winter, and on this particular day, even more so than usual. She had just landed what might turn out to be her breakthrough client, with a whopping $10,000 retainer… that would cover rent for most of a year!

Salivating like a bulldog, she impatiently waited for the scored and caramelized, juicy-hot kielbasa, smothered with kraut and onions and dipped into spicy Polish mustard, that would slide over her tongue and down her parched throat on a stream of cold Polish lager. She had only one beer, as she would need to be on top of her game for what promised to be a long hard night ahead.

Beginning her biggest gig in the middle of the night, at a massive canned-food distribution warehouse, was exciting, as was Sadie Nelson, the no-nonsense, armed female CEO of a publicly traded company. Add-in the money… ten thousand bucks was ten thousand bucks… and no wonder the adrenalin was pumping. She laughed as the image of herself popped across the big screen of her mind’s eye … the sleuth in a trench coat, collar turned up against the wind, hands in pockets, entering a huge warehouse in the middle of the night. Sarah Hartman was ready, and then some.

Fourteen months into her entrepreneurial leap, she had been surviving by piecing-together rent and grocery money from a hodgepodge of short, low-paying gigs guarding, escorting, couriering, jealous-spouse surveilling, runaway-delinquent finding… and just the day before, lost-dog rescuing. Only hours earlier that morning, she had admitted the latter to her mom during her obligatory weekly phone call. Now, she winced slightly at the recollection of Mom’s teasing retort, “Nice going, Ace!” “Well,” Sarah mused, eyes twinkling, “wait ‘til next Wednesday, Mom, when you hear about the ten large and how I caught this crook. Forget the ‘Ace’ crack… I’ll be expecting a ‘Nice going, Sherlock’”, and nothing less. 

Her parents had applauded her decision to pursue law and order in her collegiate studies, but when Sarah abruptly ditched the notion of a law degree in favor of the more romantic and adventurous private detective career, Mom was absolutely nonplussed. Dad, by contrast, was more philosophical. He had always doted on her, and argued to Mom that Sarah was different than most young people… she was her own person. She didn’t want to plug into the corporate world like so many others, just another machine part on the assembly line of shareholder profits. She was an entrepreneur at heart, in the rich tradition of America’s heritage, and he loved her all the more for it. And besides, no more tuition payments.

Mom loved her too, of course, and although not pleased with Sarah’s decision… frankly, bewildered by it… still, she was encouraged that Sarah was frugal by nature, and had saved enough money to insist on independent living, renting a small studio apartment across town. She was close enough to the ‘rents to get home quickly if they needed her… or vice-versa… yet far enough to obviate the practicality of too-frequent in-person visits. Sarah was quite content dining with them monthly at a fancy restaurant, on their dime, and they were equally pleased with that arrangement. However, Mom left no doubt that the Wednesday morning phone calls were a moral imperative. In truth, Sarah looked forward to them, too.

Sarah relished the last bite of Polish sausage, finished her beer and set off for her pad, alternately walking and skipping the 25-minute distance, still high from the day’s events and now heedless of the wintery cold. Her studio apartment was a third-floor walk-up, which she covered with the ease of a young puma, thanks to her rigid routine of early-morning runs through the city’s still-sleepy streets. 

Whether it be during those morning runs or otherwise throughout the day, she took comfort from the concealed pistol that hung in a vertical holster beneath her left shoulder, tethered to her gun belt… not unlike Ms. Nelson’s own rig. At 5’7”, 125 #, and well-conditioned with extensive self-defense training, Sarah figured to hold her own, unarmed… even against a larger, stronger male assailant. Still, having firepower at the ready had become a consideration in today’s world for almost anyone in any field of work… a necessity, she figured, for a female in Sarah’s profession. And 14 months of continuous training at the shooting range had transformed her into someone no bad guy would easily overcome.

Even before legal concealed carry, Sarah had become self-defense conscious, due to several encounters through her late teens and early twenties, that had schooled her… not only in the realities of today’s society, but also in understanding herself. One important thing she learned about herself, during her very first such encounter, was that in her defining, pivotal moment of high danger, her instinct was toward fight, not flight. Before that day, she had been confident that would be the case. But she knew that only a real-life test would seal the deal… and it did. Her lightning-fast right fist to his larynx had rendered a would-be assailant the helpless, breathless victim of his own intended misdeed. Taking no chances, she then lowered her right shoulder and bowled him over onto his back and followed with a crushing stomp between his splayed legs. He wouldn’t be attacking any woman anytime soon.

Had she instinctively run rather than attack, she would likely have been the victim, and most certainly would not have chosen, those few years later, to trade-in her law books for a detective shingle. When she finally did make that career decision, she broke the news to her parents with a laughing “Sorry, Mom and Dad, but blame the tree… I’m just the apple.” Her mom was aghast, while her dad beamed with pride.

Entering her apartment, Sarah went straight to her “office” … a 4’ by 5’ space defined by a throw rug centered on 550 square feet of hardwood floor, 3’ from her bed, 4’ from her highboy kitchen table, and only 1’ from her window-facing elliptical. In preparation for her interview, Sarah had completed a deep-dive into her new client’s business… 10k, 10Q, Annual Shareholder Report, market-analyst reviews. Her second major in college had been Accounting, and it was that concentration of both Law and Accounting that helped set her apart from her competition… and in this case, was a significant factor in winning her the new gig.  Now she reviewed her notes, looking for anything that might be helpful in advance of her warehouse visit; finished some loose ends related to a couple of ongoing small assignments; and put in an hour of heavy work on the elliptical, before catching a couple hours’ nap. She would be going hard for the next 24 hours and would need the rest.

Sarah woke at 9:15pm, grabbed a bite and showered, and arrived by foot at the warehouse guard house sharp at midnight.  The uniformed guard pushed a button and said through the glass window, “May I help you?”

“I am on assignment by Ms. Nelson to visit tonight; my name is Sarah Hartman,” she said, showing her detective credentials and photo ID through the window.

“Yes,” the guard responded, rising. “We’re expecting you. Please come in.” Sarah entered a side door held open by the guard, and the guard escorted her toward a small office, past another seated guard doing paperwork, to a woman standing an adjacent office doorway, watching them approach.

“Hello, Ms. Hartman,” said the woman, “You’re right on time… come in”, and she closed the door behind them. “I’m Joanne Morgan, the nightshift warehouse manager. I’m here until 7:30am and will be available to you as needed throughout your visit. I’ve been briefed on your assignment; I and many others, both internal and external, have spent days trying to solve the inventory shrinkage mystery, to no avail.  So, we welcome your fresh set of eyes and expertise to the task. We could start with a tour, if you like, or you may choose any member of our team to guide you, or go it alone, if you wish. The guard has prepared this badge for you, and all team members have seen your picture and know of our shared mission.”

“Excellent, Joanne. Please call me Sarah, and I will take you up on your tour offer. As I have questions, it will be most efficient to be asking the boss. Let’s start right here at the guard station, with your summary of all possible warehouse ingress and egress routes and processes.”

The warehouse manager explained that the only way in or out was the main gate, which was attended at all times by at least two armed guards, and that each exiting person or vehicle was checked for ID and cargo. All exiting cargo was itemized against manifests in the form of either sales invoices or warehouse-to-warehouse requisition orders. The guardhouse had a restroom, fridge and microwave, so there were always two guards on duty at all times, and no vehicle was permitted to exit while one of the two guards was indisposed in the restroom.

“Sounds tight,” Sarah said. “What’s your estimate of the inbound and outbound traffic volume?”

“It’s a bit slower on my shift, but still generally one or two inbound shipments and half-a-dozen outbound per hour,” Joanne replied. “We’ve got it easy… during the daytime shifts, there are twice or three times those volumes.”

“Ok, I’ll wait for the next outbound truck and observe the process,” Sarah said. Within a few minutes, a truck pulling a flatbed rolled out of the warehouse to the gate, carrying a single 48’ container. Sarah observed as the driver jumped out of the cab and handed a manifest to the guard. They climbed the movable stairway that the guard had rolled up, and the driver used a key to unlock the door, sliding it open for the guard to enter. 

The driver and guard entered, the manifest in the guard’s left hand, a flashlight and pen in the other. Sarah and Joanne had joined them as they entered the container, and Sarah observed the guard checking shrink-wrapped-pallet tag quantities against the manifest. She took photos of the manifest and the tags, noting that this particular container carried customer orders, destined for multiple locations. Within a few minutes, all items were checked, and the driver took back the manifest and was on his way, as the guard recorded in a logbook the truck ID, manifest number and date/time of exit.

That exercise repeated twice more, the last shipment being a warehouse-to-warehouse transfer, and Sarah documented and photographed the same processes. “Ok,” she said, “let’s move into the warehouse and have a look.”

Joanne escorted her past armed guards stationed at the huge warehouse door. “The guards check for signed manifests before allowing trucks to exit, and here near the door is the dispatcher/expeditors’ office, where they sign-off on every outgoing manifest. The expeditors are in communication with each warehouse bay, assuring that bundles are moving to the loading dock to fill orders, while the dispatchers are booking shipments with the transit companies. Meanwhile, at the warehouse bays, the bay manages are signing off on completed fulfillments. So, exiting trucks’ manifests are checked by the warehouse guards before they can pass through the door, and the guardhouse is alerted to approaching trucks.”

Joanne led Sarah into the dispatcher/expeditor office, where Sarah observed two dispatchers and three expeditors busily at work. She photographed several exit-logbook pages, and said, “Ok, Joanne, that’ll be it for tonight. If you’ll show me out, I’ll be on my way, and thanks for the tour… it’s been helpful.”

“Oh!” Joanne replied, startled.  “I had the impression you’d be here for hours.  But this will free me up to get some stuff done. Just call if you have any follow-up questions.”

Sarah went straight home, slept until 5:30am, completed her morning run, and was at the client’s corporate office at 7:30am, in the billing department matching computer reports of outgoing freight manifests against those she had photographed at the warehouse. She photographed selected report pages and was off to the human resources department, where she asked for 8 personnel files of employees whose names she took from the copied computer reports. The files were delivered to her in a nearby cubical, where she sifted through the pile and opened that of an Archibald Downs. His was the only one she actually wanted, but she had asked for the others, so as to not draw particular notice to Downs.

She saw that he had been hired as an expeditor 3 years earlier, on the basis of a recommendation from employee Sherry Gardner. Sarah then requested a personnel roster and noted that Gardner was a clerk in the billing department, who had been hired 11 months before recommending Downs. Gardner was 33 years old, Downs 34. They were both single, apparently residing at separate addresses.

At 9:44am, Sarah departed the personnel office and phoned Sadie Nelson’s cell number. “Hello,” Sadie answered, “are you still at the warehouse?”

“No,” Sarah responded, “I’m just leaving the personnel office in your building. Can I see you?”

“Of course,” Sadie replied, “Come right up.”

In Sadie’s office, Sarah gave her the documents, saying, “The perp is expeditor Archibald Downs, and his probable accomplice is billing clerk Sherry Gardner.”  

Nelson suppressed a smile and reviewed the documents, saying nothing. She then picked up the phone, dialed and said, “Gabby, please set up a recurring consulting payment of $10,000 to Sarah Hartman, with monthly payments to begin next Wednesday, and to repeat indefinitely on the 3^rd Wednesday of each month.”

She hung up, saying, “Nice job, Sarah. I’ll have at least one of the two… probably both… in jail before day’s end.  And you…  I’ll have you by my side next Wednesday and every Wednesday, helping me make sure this kind of problem doesn’t happen again, and moreover, helping me run this company… if that’s agreeable to you.”

Sadie’s right fist extended over her desk to meet Sarah’s in a soft bump, as Sarah answered, “Deal.”

Famished, Sarah waited impatiently for her kielbasa. She couldn’t recall whether she had walked or sailed to the Market, but she knew that her feet hadn’t touched the ground. She took out her phone, dialed and said, “Hey, Mom, I know we just talked yesterday, but would it be ok if we shifted our weekly calls to Thursdays, starting today?”