August is going to be a working month away from the keyboard. I will be attending Killer Nashville, some travel, and editor revisions on Notice of Assignment when they land around the 14th. I'll be back in September with new Cal Brink Files content and updates on the October release. Thanks for being here.

Cal Brink – Fictional protagonist

Cal believes in the Golden Rule. Well, as best as any human can pull it off. He was raised in Kansas, went to church every Sunday and attended Boy Scouts. Married at twenty-one to Shawna, the two set off for Washington, DC seeking thrills and prestige but wound up working four jobs at the same time, between them.

A botched robbery and a witness stepping in from the shadows led him to being a private investigator and process server and to a life he never knew existed. Broken marriages. Financial fraud. Skip Tracing. Cal saw it all through a long lens.

After Davis, their only child, was born, he started looking for a more domestic life. A life that wasn’t predicated on watching other lives fall apart. Cal and Shawna packed up and returned to Kansas City.

A few employment misfires led to Cal getting his real estate license, where he excelled applying the same investigative techniques to finding houses, clients, and trouble.

Always some kind of trouble.

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Facts

Born: 1965
University of Kansas: 1983-1986
Married: 1986
PI in DC: 1986-1995
Davis born: 1992
Photographer: 1994-2003
Kansas & Missouri real estate agent: 2002-present
Current residence: Olathe, KS
Hobbies: KU Basketball, Sporting KC, and live music

Published Crime Fiction by The Cal Brink Files

Charlie Had a Dinosaur: A Cal Brink Files origin short story

$0.99 on Amazon | Free to download here

Cal Brink wasn’t looking to be a private investigator. For most, a robbery attempt is traumatic. For Cal, it was a job interview. A witness with a gun stepped out of the shadows and made Cal a job offer. For fifty bucks, Cal took the offer and walked into an apartment he hadn’t been invited to.

A little boy’s momma was happy with Cal’s decision. Shawna, his new bride, had other ideas.

Charlie Had a Dinosaur is a Twenty-Minute Thriller and the origin story of Cal Brink — a man who didn’t choose the life. The life chose him.

Coming Case Files

Notice of Assignment: A Cal Brink Real Estate Thriller

A Kansas City crime fiction novella currently in professional editing
Release date to be late-October 2026
Be notified. Get first four chapters here

In August 2010, Kansas City real estate agent Cal Brink buys a distressed property in Columbus Park for $29,000 and figures the hardest part will be the renovation. He figures wrong.

Behind a basement wall he finds a silver box containing a revolver, a photograph, and a cassette tape, evidence that connects him to a surveillance job he did in Washington, DC, twenty-two years earlier and to a murder he didn’t commit but may have caused.

Within forty-eight hours someone has torn apart his house looking for what he found. By Monday, he has his family hidden away, driven 1,080 miles, and is walking back into a world he thought he had left behind.

The document that started all of it was the last one he signed at closing. He didn’t read it.

“Everything is fine. Until it’s not.”
- Cal Brink

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Why does this matter?

Because now I write real estate thrillers and short stories where truth meets fiction.

Today’s story is true. A Process Server Chronicles edition. It is an example of my experiences that bleed into the pages of the Cal Brink Files.

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1994

“If you destroy that film, we are going to have a major problem,” I said as loudly as I could without yelling.

The unidentified government goon in his black suit and tie just stared at me and told me to get back in my car.

I refused.

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A Day’s Work on Film

By 1994, I could see myself walking away from the life of a process server and investigator. In fact, my work in the legal field was pretty much regulated to process service. Delivering legal papers was quicker with far less surveillance, reports and testifying.

I was almost thirty now, had a two-year-old, a real house, and wanted a life that wasn’t built on documenting crumbling lives.

During my time as an investigator, I had picked up quite a few useful skills that I would carry for the rest of my life: learning to actively listen to people, measuring what their body language was saying, documenting, seeing patterns and the actions that break those patterns, confrontation without escalation. And photography.

My photography, outside of my legal work, was making people happy. I’d photograph kids and families. Mostly I photographed athletes: soccer and lacrosse. My reputation was growing for my sports photography. This would turn somewhat lucrative for me as the years moved on.

But I digress.

In the fall of 1994, I had legal papers to serve, and I would supplement that with taking real estate photos for the local board of realtors. I was already driving all around Washington, DC. I knew the streets and how to avoid the traffic. And most of all, I was building my photography chops: learning to work with available light, composition, depth of field.

The day had been spent photographing nine house exteriors and serving two summonses, thus far. I pulled into the Kalorama Heights neighborhood of NW Washington, DC, with the intent of photographing a tenth house that was coming up for sale. The real estate agent wanted a good exterior shot as a promo. It was a quick-turnaround request, and that meant a quick payday.

Even though Kalorama Heights sits within a densely populated city, it has a set-aside feel to it. Rock Creek Park borders the neighborhood on roughly three sides. The community sits like a peninsula of development with access from the east, but protected by parkland everywhere else.

The neighborhood was also home to many embassies, mostly from less prosperous nations. And impressive homes line Kalorama Circle.

My photo assignment was for a house just off that circle, prominently so.

It was late in the afternoon of a sweltering, late summer day. As I drove through the city, I had the radio on listening to the news. Baseball in DC was being discussed, as it always was.

We are never getting a team, I thought.

The radio also let the city know that many of the G7 nations were in town and there was even talk of allowing Russia into the organization. Meetings would be ongoing, and this could be exciting news for the world.

Unless you drive the city. Masses of government dignitaries from any nation meant one thing to Washington, DC, drivers: more traffic. Processions would be escorted through as you waited, burning gas and time.

This was not unusual in the city.

After the delivery of the two summonses and photographing the nine other houses, I pulled my white Ford Taurus up quarter of a block from the house I was to photograph. I was partly looking at the light in the neighborhood so I could decide on the best place to get the exterior shot, and I was partly just wanting to see those enormous houses on the circular street. Houses I’d never own.

As usual, there really wasn’t any place to legally park, but the street was wide enough that I could double-park and not impede traffic. I found the right place, pulled over, flipped on my flashers, and stepped out of my car, Canon EOS Elan in hand.

When I glanced at the camera, I saw I had three shots left before the film would rewind.

Perfect, that’s all I’d need.

Walking eight or ten paces toward the house, I stopped, removed my hat, and used it to shield the sun from the lens with my left hand as I framed the house in my Canon with my right hand.

The vertical grip was worth the money, I reminded myself.

Moving another six or eight feet to my right and under the shade of an enormous tree, I reframed the photo in a landscape perspective.

No sooner than I had clicked the shutter button, I heard the roar of multiple vehicles from front and back. Screeches followed. Doors opened. A man from behind me (I don’t know where he came from) grabbed the camera out of my hand and yanked it away.

Suddenly, I found myself surrounded by four government agents who looked like they were cast in Hollywood.

Dark suits, sunglasses, and those things in their ears.

I looked around to assess. Sure, my car was standing illegally, but now nobody was getting through on Kalorama Circle.

Without a word, I was grabbed by my left arm (hat still in hand) and led to the front of one of the black Chevy Suburbans.

“What is going on?” I asked while being led.

No answer.

When we got to the front of the Suburban, the man who had grabbed my camera set it on the hood. “It’s clean.”

The leader, as recognized by the way everyone deferred to him, asked for my identification. I asked why. He didn’t really want conversation. So I reached back for my wallet, removed it and handed him my Maryland driver’s license and state-issued private investigator ID. He examined them briefly before handing them to another MIB who disappeared with them.

Then the leader picked up my camera, looked at me, and said, “What are you doing here?”

“Taking pictures. That should be obvious,” I responded.

The leader kept fooling around with the buttons and levers on my camera. “If you destroy that film, we are going to have a major problem.”

“We already do,” he said before putting the camera back on the hood and stepping even closer to me.

Was he provoking me? I wondered.

“What are you doing here?” he repeated.

“Obviously, taking a photo. A real estate agent hired me to take a photo of that house,” I said, pointing toward the house, “so I did. It’s one of the things I do for a living.”

He stared at me for a moment before pivoting and walking over to another agent at another Suburban. “Stay right here. Don’t even think about moving,” he said before walking away.

In my few minutes of peace, my mind was processing. These aren’t cops. Maybe secret service? No. More like DSS. With all the embassies around here... No. The G7. That has to be what it is. Somehow, I’ve stumbled onto a house a bigwig is staying in.

As I was thinking, I watched the MIB who was in charge of running my car walk over to the leader. They talked for a few minutes in concert with the man who had left with both pieces of my identification.

No doubt, by now, they had learned something that I knew would keep me here a while longer.

Finally, the leader and one of his men walked back over to me and asked me to go sit on the curb under the shade tree. They had to check a few more things before deciding what to do.

“It’s my car, right?” I asked.

The leader stared at me.

I began, “Look, I’m guessing you are Diplomatic Security Services. And I’m guessing you learned that my car has temporary plates because I just bought it. And I’m guessing you learned who formerly owned the car.”

“What can you tell me?” he asked.

“Not much. You now know what I know. But with a name like Lengquist, I’m clearly not Russian,” I said with a crooked smile.

“Just go sit. We’ll be a few more minutes,” the leader commanded.

Something in the moment, or the way he gave his command, told me that this wasn’t going to escalate.

“Which house is your guy in?” I asked, poking the bear.

There was no answer. “Just go sit.”

Within fifteen minutes, I had my camera back and I was in my white Ford Taurus heading back to Rockville.

Writer’s Note

I’ve written before about the intersection where truth meets fiction. This was a true story. But I also wrote some fiction that is tied to this story: The Art of the Invisible Car. Fiction that was written from a real life experience.

The fact is that I did buy that white Ford Taurus from a Bethesda, Maryland Ford dealership. It is also true that white Ford Taurus had an ignominious previous owner.

So, I get why I was detained until the government men could figure out who I was and what I was doing. It just seemed like a time suck at the time.

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Q: Has there ever been a time you’ve been detained by authorities?

A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended

© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

But what happens when we feel threatened or something doesn’t go the way we think it should in our own backyards?

Welcome to another Cal Brink File.

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July 4, 2026

“Ava,” a thirty-something woman was calling. She was clearly looking for her child.

This scene had been repeating itself since Cal Brink had sat down about an hour ago in an Adirondack chair with an Ad Astra Ale in hand. The chair, and the porch on which it sat, belonged to Mike and Laura. This place had been their home since 2017 when Cal had been their real estate agent. It was a light-blue two story overlooking an eastern cove on Lake Missouri, just outside of Kansas City.

Their backyard kissed the water and a short gangway took them to their pontoon. It was the perfect place for empty-nesters to enjoy the life they had built. A great place to make memories with their grandchildren, who were running around here with the other pre-teens.

Mike, Laura and Shawna Brink were two houses away in line to get lunch: a pig cooked over an open fire since five this morning with all the side dishes the neighborhood could bring. A couple of hundred people talked and laughed and reached for another beer.

There was comfort between people here. Neighbors seldom moved in or out. Families passed houses down to their children, or their children bought the home of someone who passed away recently.

Norman Rockwell would have loved this community, thought Cal.

In front of Cal was quite the scene celebrating the birth of the United States two-hundred and fifty years ago. Patriotic symbolism was everywhere. American flags flew on the decks and boats while people wore red, white, and blue swimsuits, tops, and hats.

The occasional pop of a firecracker or boom of half stick added to the day. Adults and kids floated through the cove on pontoons and speedboats at well below wake-speed before reaching the end and returning to the main lake. The puffy clouds reflected off the water and the sound of laugher and excitement filled the air.

There was a line of people, from eight to eighty-years old, jumping off the second story of a floating dock just to feel the wind rush before the inevitable splash. All the while a local musician played cover songs through the amplifiers he had brought in and pointed to the cove, not fifty feet in front and to the side from where Cal sat.

Leaning into the microphone the musician was currently singing out his scaled down version of Feathered Indians by Tyler Childers while a few watched and most were engaged in other conversations.

Right on cue, an A-10 Thunderbolt II cruised the lake several times to announce Air Force presence on this day of celebration.

What would the founding fathers think of this? Cal considered as he stood to get another beer out of the cooler before returning to his front row seat to watch the interactions.

Louder than the music, someone called out for Ava again. This time it was a man’s voice, though Cal didn’t see him.

When Shawna returned with Mike and Laura, she announced, “I got enough to share.” She was smiling because she knew that Cal would eat something off her plate. She had also guessed that Cal was more likely to eat than he had let on. He had walked with the trio to the food line, saw how long it was and said, “I’m out.”

Right on brand, Shawna thought. They had been married forty-years. Of course, she knew.

The calls for Ava were becoming more frantic. Cal watched as the mom’s steps had quickened and became more unsure. The dad was now questioning others with a more aggressive posture. Nobody was really stopping, yet, to see if they could help.

The situation was escalating. Cal decided to keep a close eye on the next few minutes.

“You want some green beans?” Shawna inquired.

“Is that key lime pie?” Cal asked, ignoring everything else on the plate.

“You wouldn’t have to walk so much if you would eat right,” Shawna responded.

Cal answered quickly, “I’m sixty-one. I’ve had a good run. Not gonna die eating kale. Besides, I’ll go on another walk when I’m done with this beer. Keep the blood moving.”

“How many steps a day do you do?” Mike asked.

Cal turned his head. “An absolute minimum of twelve thousand. Your rolling hills here make it more fun.”

Ava was now being called for by three or four parents. Most of the people eating or drinking or jumping were still paying little attention.

Cal continued, “Who is Ava?”

“The cutest little girl,” Laura responded. “She likes to bring me flowers she picks along the road out front.”

Mike tilted his head. “Why do you ask?”

The musician had stopped playing long enough that Cal turned his attention back to the temporary stage, which was really the back deck of the neighbor’s house. A group of adults was huddling around the performer. Within moments, “Ava Franklin. Ava Franklin. Please report to your mother. It’s time to eat,” was being announced through the P.A. system the solo musician had lugged in earlier.

Cal pointed to the announcer as he said, “That’s why.”

“I wonder where she could be?” Laura said.

“She’ll turn up. She likes to explore,” Mike said to no one in particular.

Cal asked, “Can you describe her?”

Mike took the lead. “About this high,” he said while holding his hand up about four feet above the ground. “Ava has blonde hair and can’t weigh much.”

“And a blue swimsuit,” Laura added quickly.

“She was wearing an orange life preserver?” Cal asked.

Laura nodded. “Yes. That’s her.”

Cal said, “I saw her out on my walk. She was headed south. I assumed she was joining the other kids playing down by the end of the cove. That’s about the time I turned around to come back.”

“She lives north,” Mike said as he put down his plate on the firepit ledge in front of his chair and stood up before announcing, “I’ll go see what’s going on.” He walked over to huddle with the other parents as a buzz was beginning to spread throughout the festivities.

“Laura, Mike said she likes to explore. What did that mean?” Cal asked.

“Oh, she is the youngest of three. Her older sisters are ten and twelve years older. One still lives at home and drives that old red Corvette you commented on earlier. Hunk of junk, really,” Laura said with a bit of judgment dripping from her words.

“The other is living in Columbia over the summer taking a couple of classes and working. Ava will follow them just about anywhere and never feels the need to tell her mom where she is going.” Laura let that dangle before continuing. “That’s why this seems weird. Her parents are used to this, and everyone around here looks out for each other. We know who the strangers are.”

“There are a lot of strangers here today,” Cal pointed out. “And everyone is distracted. I could walk in, remove a TV and put it in my car and nobody would notice.”

Laura said, “I don’t recommend that.”

Cal observed Laura getting more anxious before she stood up and walked over to join her husband with the gathering mass of parents who appeared to be organizing.

Shawna looked at Cal, “Do you think she’s okay?”

Cal didn’t respond immediately. He was thinking through what he saw on his walk. The little blonde was walking towards the cove. There were other pre-teen kids down there doing whatever kids do. A couple were knee deep in the water.

Shortly after Cal turned to walk back to the house, he heard a vehicle from behind him coming around the bend and down to the cove before stopping, a door closing and then continuing, eventually passing Cal on the narrow road, not really offering much room for Cal’s comfort.

Was it a dark blue Honda? How many people were in the car?

Cal chastised himself for being more interested in the World Cup scores on his phone than paying attention to his surroundings.

“I hope so,” Cal said more to himself than Shawna.

Cal sat there and watched the group as they organized. Soon, some were walking down to the shoreline before splitting up, some going north along the shore, the others going south. Still others walked quickly by as they went up the driveway headed for the street. And quite a few split up and went opposite directions to walk the invisible paths between the houses.

Growing concern and purpose were bleeding through the earlier joy and libations.

When Mike and Laura returned, Mike announced, “I’m going with these guys to walk the yards. She’s gotta be here someplace. Cal, the parents are worried. Think you could help?”

Before Cal had an opportunity to answer he heard, “That’s him, in the blue hat.”

Mike glanced over at the man coming from behind Cal before Cal had a chance to turn his head around. When Cal did stand up and face the man, he saw he was still about fifteen feet away and closing fast, flanked by two Lake Missouri police officers.

Cal stood still. He could feel the eyes on him.

The man with the U.S.A. t-shirt, American flag swim trunks and yellow Gadsden flag hat said, “He was following her down the street toward the cove. I saw him when I ran back to refill the cooler. I didn’t think anything about it until Ava came up missing. But this can’t be a coincidence.”

Both police officers had walked into Cal’s orbit, less than three feet away before stopping. One stood in front of Cal showing off his superior height and weight. The other, about forty-five degrees to Cal’s right was slimmer and closer to Cal’s five-feet, eight inches.

“He’s right,” Cal said.

As the police officers sized him up a small group of people began to gather, including the man and woman who were originally calling for Ava: her mom and dad.

“Your identification,” demanded the taller officer who stood directly in front of Cal.

“Cal Brink, a friend of mine, Steve,” Mike announced.

The taller officer looked at Mike, nodded, and then returned his gaze to Cal. “Identification.”

“I can show you a driver’s license on my phone. But I don’t usually carry a wallet in my swimsuit,” Cal responded.

“Mike! Who is this man?” Ava’s mom cried, her voice on edge.

Cal raised his hand to signal Mike to not answer. He looked at Officer Steve and said, “I’m going to walk over to that table and pick up my mobile, find my driver’s license and then hand it to you. We good?”

The officer nodded.

As Cal began to walk, he stopped, pivoted and said to Ava’s father, “I need you to call your daughter. The one that drives a dark blue Honda or Toyota or Kia. Something like that.”

The other, shorter officer took a step toward Cal and stated, “Stop talking and get the phone.”

Cal turned back to the phone and reached to pick it up. “Call your daughter, sir.”

“She’s in Columbia at summer school,” Ava’s dad responded.

The shorter officer grabbed Cal’s arm, took his phone and demanded he sit. After realizing he couldn’t open the phone, the officer handed the phone back to Cal, commanded that he open it and not say another word.

“Brittany? Dad. You still at school?” Ava’s dad said as he turned to walk away from the gathering.

After taking a few moments extra to open his phone and find his license, Cal handed his phone back to the other officer. The shorter officer took the phone and stepped away to call it in and see what he could find out about the outsider in the Jayhawks hat who had admitted to following Ava.

“What?” came loud enough from Ava’s dad that most of the group of people turned to look at him, including Officer Steve.

Ava’s dad hung up the phone, looked up the driveway sheepishly and said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Ava. Please tell us when you are going somewhere.”

Coming down the driveway into clear view of everyone gathered was Ava and her older sister Brittany, who was supposed to be at school ninety minutes away. On Ava’s face was the slightest hint of chocolate ice cream.

“Sorry, daddy,” Ava started. “Britt picked me up and we went up to Sunshine for an ice cream.”

“Sorry, dad. I called but you didn’t answer,” Brittany added.

The other police officer was just coming back to the crowd without paying attention to the updates. “He’s clean as far as records go,” he stated before seeing Ava. Then he rolled his eyes as his head turned to the right.

Mike looked at Officer Steve. “I think you owe my guest an apology.”

Officer Steve bristled.

“Don’t worry about it. He’s doing what he is supposed to do.” Cal said it magnanimously. But inside he was circling.

His heart rate was racing; his brain still going full tilt. He could see it all now. He could also feel it all. He glanced at Ava’s mother who still looked at him with disdain. She had already filed him away as a threat to her family. That wasn’t going to change.

Cal knew apologies and facts don’t put these kinds of accusations back in the box. Now it was his turn to feel the burden he had given to so many over the years. Braum’s face flashed.

The ends justify the means; the rest is just collateral damage, he told himself.

Slowly, everyone began returning to their food, drinks and friends. Ava’s father doubled back to say, “Thank you and sorry,” to Cal.

Eventually Mike, Laura and Shawna were back in their Adirondack chairs and taking in the happenings. Cal excused himself to the bathroom. His time was spent washing his face, leaning against the sink and staring into the mirror.

After a few minutes alone, Cal exhaled slowly, opened the bathroom door and walked back to the others, taking his seat next to Shawna.

“How’d you figure it out?” Mike asked.

Shawna responded first. “He won’t know.”

“I do know,” Cal shot back, his adrenaline still normalizing. “Well, sort of. I can’t tell you why I knew the car was involved. But I can tell you if you are abducting someone you don’t drive away smoothly. Too much of an energy rush. That car drove away slowly. Purposefully. Like normal.

And she was close enough to the other kids that I think they would’ve known if anyone had stopped to ask them. Kids are more observant than we give them credit for.”

After a moment of silence, Mike asked, “But how did you know it was her sister? She’s not supposed to be here.”

Cal gave it a beat before answering. “That was an educated guess. Ava is the youngest of three, so it stands to reason that she has different rules than the older kids had. Number three gets more freedom which usually means they become more aware at a younger age. Besides, who else would be able to stop a car and convince a nine-year old to get in the car so quickly? And if it was her other sister that picked her up, well, I would have noticed the red Corvette. It had to be Brittany.”

Shawna interrupted Cal’s moment. “Here’s your key lime pie. You earned it.”

“I didn’t earn anything,” said Cal. “She was always coming home after the ice cream.”

Author’s Inquiry

Q: "Have you ever been in a situation where you were completely innocent but felt the weight of suspicion anyway? What did that feel like?"

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Lastly

If you are looking for more crime fiction fun, especially on the noir side of town, I encourage you to visit Forge City for depression era crime fiction.

A Chris Writes, LLC publication
© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

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What’s in the Current File

When I launched the Process Server Chronicles, I knew it was a finite project. There are only so many interesting true stories. At best, I knew I had about seven or eight months of material that would matter. That material is winding down.

A funny thing happened along the way. I was reminded of how much I like to write. For those of you that know my real estate career you may know that I credit much of any of the success I’ve had to the fact that I wrote and wrote and wrote about real estate investing in the Kansas City area, attracting clients from (literally) across the globe.

The thing is, though, that my writing for real estate was always grounded in truth and reason and math. I had forgotten the joy I get in writing fiction. While staying happily married and raising kids and building a business, well, ‘fun’ writing all but disappeared.

New Assignment

The Cal Brink Files. Cal lives at the intersection where truth meets fiction. A former private investigator who walked away but the life won’t leave him alone. He has seen too much.

You may notice the homepage url has changed from ProcessServerChronicles.com to CalBrinkFiles.com. You may notice that Process Server Chronicles is now a section on this site and not the main course.

It’s all still here. And from time to time, as memory allows, I will add to it. But to keep its original intent of true stories turned true(ish) by changing names, dates and identifying features, well, there are only so many of those stories I have.

Cal Brink can go anywhere at any time. The behavioral tells will still be there. The clues are still embedded. The tension, the realism, the plausibility… they are all there.

Schedule

So beginning today, I’m going back to a one-time a week delivery. Sunday mornings at 6:07 am. Cal Brink short stories and Behind the Writing notes leading up to the delivery of Notice of Assignment, which is being released in book form late this coming October.

Yes, there will still be true(ish) stories and behavioral tells released from time to time or in “extra” newsletter form.

If you want to follow along with my reels and videos discussing my Cal Brink projects, you can find me on YouTube or Facebook.

I will continue to release the audio form of anything I do over on the Behavioral Detective Podcast, now releasing on Sundays. There will be occasional Wednesday drops when I have interesting people to interview. For instance, I’m attending Killer Nashville this year and will actively be seeking authors you’ve read or heard of to interview.

That should be fun.

When you witness something, speak up. Crimes don’t get solved, bad guys don’t go to jail until someone makes a stand. If you see something, say something.

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In Case You Missed It

Chris’ Real Life Origin Story - Case File #001 - From Deep Fryers to Process Serving

Cal Brink’s Origin Story - Charlie Had a Dinosaur

Most Read Release - Take Your Kid to Work Day

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A Husband and Wife Discussion About a Book He Wrote

Chris Lengquist sits down with his wife, Marie, to talk about his debut novella, Notice of Assignment: The Cal Brink Files, Book One.

Find First Four Chapters Here

Chris Lengquist: My name is Chris Lengquist, and today we’re going to do something a little bit fun. My wife is going to be on here — say hi, Marie.

Marie Lengquist: Hello,

Chris Lengquist: and she’s going to ask me some questions about this novella, Notice of Assignment, coming in October, and I’m going to answer as truthfully as I can. And by the way, you’re going to get to see a little bit more of her here, because, well, she’s my better half, she’s my real-life compass. And in Notice of Assignment, you’ll meet Shawna, who is Cal Brink’s compass — or you can meet both of them in the short stories that you can find at CalBrinkFiles.com. It’s up to you. (You’re already here.)

Marie: So you’re clearly having fun, but why did you write a book, and why now?

Chris: Well, I wrote this book because I started with The Process Server Chronicles back in January. Somewhere in late January, I had this idea — I’ve been telling these stories for years and years and years, these true-ish stories. I mean, I’ve been known to embellish a little bit, and I’ve been known to hide the names.

I’ve said the names out loud to you, I’ve said the names out loud to some close friends, but on The Process Server Chronicles, I’m not going to say those names. These are household names of people we’ve investigated. Now, that said, I wanted to put the stories on paper, maybe as a memoir, maybe as entertainment, maybe all sorts of things, but these are fun stories, and people have said for years, “Write them down.”

So, I wrote them down. I love telling the stories. I love having the memories of the funny stories. I just like writing the stories.

Marie: So you’re talking about the life you lived, creating fictional experiences to tell a story that you imagined could have been. Why did you decide to write it so personally?

Chris: I think there are stories in every person. I mean, how long have we known each other?

Marie: Forty-two years.

Chris: Forty-two years, something like that. I like stories, I like telling stories, I like imagining things that could be, or alternative versions. And so I just — Cal Brink, you know, as well as I do, our first son, I was thinking about naming him Calvin, you know, and you came in with some ideas, and we ended up with a different name for our son, which is great, but I thought, well, now I can use the name — Cal — which you know I wanted to do. I would also just simply say that I think people are more complex than we make them out to be. We say this guy is this, or this woman is that, but the truth is we all are multiple, multi-layered, and we all have stories that we tell out loud. We all have versions of ourselves that we show to others, but we all have deep, dark places. We also have places where we want to go, who we want to be. And I think when I look at people, I say, okay, what are their stories? What are the complexities of this person, because those complexities are what make people people. And in this case, that’s a story — a novella.

Marie: Where do people go to find the book?

Chris: Well, I haven’t decided yet. I do know this: if you go to CalBrink.com right now, you can get the first four chapters. You can download them, and it doesn’t cost you anything. In fact, if you download them and read it, and you love it or hate it, or have some ideas about it, send me some comments — leave a comment, send me an email, whatever it takes. Because here’s the truth: I wrote the novella, it’s thirty-two chapters, and those thirty-two chapters are sitting with an editor that I’m kind of surprised took me on. She works with people who sell some books, and I’m real nervous about what she’s going to say, but she’s going to change things. She’s going to say, “Hey, you need to think about this, you need to think about that, you didn’t do a very good job here.” So get the third version already of the first four chapters, and we’ll see where they go after the editor’s done with me.

Marie: I remember those days you told me very little about your work, and I could see the emotional toll it was taking on you. You didn’t start telling these stories till much later. Do these emotions bleed into the page?

Chris: Yes, absolutely. Choosing what to write and what not to write — well, first of all, it’s a work of fiction, so it’s all fiction, really. But the fiction is an amalgamation of all of my experiences, all the things that I saw, all the things that I did, all the things that I witnessed, testified to.

Cal Brink lives at the intersection of where truth meets fiction.

I just think that’s the best way to put it. I’m not going to tell any true stories in the fiction work I do, but just the way I live and the way I think and the way I write, the truth bleeds into fiction. And by truth, I mean the emotion, I mean the toll, I mean the considerations. You read the whole thing — how would you describe it?

Marie: It was a really entertaining read. I liked that I was able to read it on a short road trip, and even knowing some of the characters and some of the story, I thought you did an amazing job of describing without over-describing. You’re a man of few words, and that’s how you write — you were very succinct. And I liked that there were some twists and turns that were very interesting, and you nailed my character pretty good. It was awesome, and it was an enjoyable read. The ending wasn’t all tied up neatly in a bow, like Hollywood likes to do, and like a lot of the books I like to read, but it was fun because there was always the ‘what next.’

Chris: What do you mean, short road trip? We drove from Kansas City to the Grand Canyon.

Marie: Well, I finished it quickly — it was, what, Dodge City to—

Chris: Dodge City to Albuquerque? I think — no, Dodge City to Santa Fe.

Marie: Yeah. How would you describe Notice of Assignment?

Chris: One person who’s read it has described it as a hard-boiled novel with a noir ending and a Christian reckoning. Now, that’s a mouthful, but my faith bleeds into this. We’ve known each other a long, long time. I believe in living the way you believe.

I believe in doing the right thing. Matthew 7:12 bleeds into every moment of my life. I fail at it often, but it’s what I try to do. And this is not a Christian novel — there are places in here that some of my more conservative church-going friends will go, “What are you doing?” But the point is that my faith bleeds into who I am. And in this book, these are questions that I’ve asked. It’s not a big deal, and it’s really only one chapter, but Cal Brink is standing on a precipice, and he’s trying to decide who he wants to be.

Marie: This has been a lot of work. Will you write more?

Chris: Yes, absolutely.

I’ve got the next novella, and the next, already written in my head — I already know exactly where they’re going to go. But I think that brings up a good point: I’m writing novellas, I’m writing short fiction.

I’ve even been writing micro fiction. Cal Brink Files is where you read the micro fiction, you read the behind-the-scenes of writing — that’s a fun series I’m doing right now. It’s also where I’m writing little short stories that can go anywhere.

So, did I answer your question about the novella? Yes, I’m going to write more. I already have several of them figured out in my head as to where they’re going to go, but I don’t see myself ever writing a three-hundred-fifty-page thriller that Hollywood picks up. What I’m writing are short stories that you can read on an airplane, or a Saturday afternoon, or a little bit Saturday night, a little bit Sunday night, and be done with it.

It’s my personality bleeding through — I’m not a long-term guy, I’m a short-term guy. So, in short, what I’m saying is that Cal Brink is fictional me. Cal Brink has different experiences — he’s a real estate agent now, but he was an investigator in the past, and to be a really good real estate agent, to some degree, you have to be a good investigator. I think real estate agents can learn a lot about how they do their jobs by reading this book. I know that sounds crazy, but you’ll learn the behaviors, you’ll learn the tells, you’ll learn how to investigate and how to think.

It’s going to be fun.

What do you think? What questions do you have?

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© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

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Hyattsville Maryland
1988

“Your hands are shaking,” the Prince George’s County police officer observed. A Black woman, young twenties, in a cleanly pressed uniform and assigned to be with me, but not to question me. Someone else had already questioned me and I knew he’d be back for more.

She followed her statement with, “Were you scared?”

I looked at her incredulously. As I was about to say something, a white man, forty or so, in his Maryland State Trooper uniform and hat, grabbed me by the arm and walked me about fifteen feet away before stopping. “I’ll just save you from saying something you will regret.”

About twenty minutes earlier, I had a gunshot in my general direction. I’m not going to say he meant to hit me. But close enough.

Earlier that day, I had checked into the Rockville, Maryland firm I work for and was given an assignment to pick up four different legal docs from three different law offices. This wasn’t unusual. So far so good.

The best news? All the law offices were within the blocks around the Montgomery County Courthouse, so I didn’t have to go to DC today and fight tourist traffic. Two of the serves were for two resident agents who were attorneys, so those would be easy. One serve was to a business, again it looked standard, though I didn’t read it. And the last one would be a serve I’d have to make this evening because it looked like a home address up off Georgia Ave in the Aspen Hill area.

This seemed like a fairly routine day, and the three daylight serves were always my favorite. They were normally simple, one-attempt serves, and I could be home to have dinner with my wife before going back out to get the Aspen Hill doc served somewhere around eight or nine, when most people are home on a Wednesday night.

The first two serves to the Resident Agents went like clockwork. In, out, log in my notebook. Next.

If you are not familiar with Resident Agents, just know that every company out there has one. It’s the person who is designated to receive correspondence, legal or otherwise, for the business for which they are the R.A.

The third serve I would do after a late lunch because when I made a pretense call to see if the subject was in, I was told he was at lunch and would be back in about forty-five minutes. Since Hyattsville was right down Route 1 from College Park, I figured I’d find a place to park around the University of Maryland and walk a bit and find a place to eat. Then I could make the serve, and turn right around and go back up Route 1 to Laurel, where my apartment was.

At this point of my life, I wasn’t that much older than the kids walking the campus, earning their degrees and trying to figure out what they were going to do with the rest of their lives. Most of them would get jobs in fields where they would probably never meet a process server like me. If they even knew what a process server was.

Because, in college, I certainly didn’t.

I found a local place and ordered a hamburger and fries and found a discarded copy of that day’s Washington Post. Between the news and commentaries, I liked to keep up with what was going on. And, the WP always had the best sports section. Kornheiser. Wilbon. Boswell. Povich. Jenkins. I could go on.

The powerful days of newspapers have been swept away like a cigarette butt by a street sweeper.

After arriving at the location for the third serve, I found a place to park and looked the place over as I casually walked to the front door. This was an industrial type office building that served a purpose beyond who had the most expensive necktie. In fact, I doubted I’d even see a necktie once I opened the door.

After entering and while approaching the receptionist, I observed a partially open door to her left. On the wall to the side of that door was the name of the subject I was there to serve. Inside the office of the partially opened door was a man on the phone, sitting behind a desk that had a name plate sitting where I could see it. Again, the name matched the name of the man on the subpoena.

As I started to greet the receptionist I noticed he was just hanging up the phone.

Experience over a hundred completed serves taught me not to ask the receptionist for permission to meet with the subject. That ask just added a layer of friction. It could also be embarrassing for the subject if anyone in the reception area heard my request and reason for seeing a subject. My style was to be low-key in a service so that the four people in the reception area would not know who I was or why I was there.

Lastly, receptionists often acted like gatekeepers and they would do their best to keep me from completing my assignment.

In mid-step I pivoted toward the open door.

“Sir, can I help you?” the receptionist called from behind me.

I didn’t answer.

Rather, I simultaneously knocked on the wall of the office with the open door, and walked through it.

“Mr. [Name Redacted], I have a subpoena for you.” I said quietly as I laid the legal document on his desk. My voice was direct, mild and quiet enough that I knew no one outside his office would have been able to hear a word I said.

The courtesy I thought I was extending was not received as a courtesy at all.

The moment turned immediately hostile. He stood up, showing me his height and weight, which were considerably greater than mine. There was no question who would win a fistfight.

As I was turning to exit his office and the front door, I caught a glimpse of him reaching into his desk. An alarm went off in my head. But in retrospect, I don’t think I reacted quickly enough.

Ten or twelve steps outside the front door, I heard a very loud gunshot from behind me.

I stopped. Turned. Stared at him. He was pointing a gun at me as another man came running in from behind him, calling out his name.

The two argued for a moment and then the running man, now stopped, slowly took the gun away and walked the subject back into the office.

Adrenaline had filled my body. All at once. I was on hyper-alert. And more than a little confused. After all, this was the first time a gun had gone off where I thought I was the intended target. I stood there for a moment, then turned to go to my car. I was able to hear everything around me. I knew no one was following.

Did he actually shoot at me? Or was he firing an anger shot into the air?

In the moment, I simply didn’t know.

As I got into my car, almost immediately, I began to hear police sirens. While I kept one eye on the front door of the building, I reached for my notebook to add notes, as was my routine. My hands were not steady. They were so unsteady I found it hard to write even the date and time, the two items I start every note in my logbook with.

When the police arrived moments later, I was careful to sit in my car, windows down with both hands on the top of the steering wheel. Two Prince George’s County police officers came straight to me. The woman I wrote about at the top of this page had her gun drawn. The other was an older white man, who had his hand on his holster.

The experience difference was obvious. He was calm and purposeful in walk and instructions. She was clearly on edge, her voice much higher and filled with tension.

Which, of course, makes sense.

Fight or flight is real. So is the value of experience.

What followed was being questioned by the senior of the two officers, then being questioned again by a detective and, finally, being questioned by a Maryland State Trooper who stopped in support. The interviews all happened on site. The interviews all took place over about seventy-five minutes.

Between the first and second interview is when the young PG County police officer said to me, “Your hands are shaking. Were you scared?”

Was I scared? Yes.

Or, I’m not sure. To be honest, I didn’t know he’d shoot at me. I can tell you that when I turned back to him, I had a choice that, happily, I didn’t have to make. His coworker or friend or whatever was on the scene lickity-split and defused the entire situation. It wasn’t one of the men I had seen in the lobby.

The officer designated to stand with me was correct. My hands were shaking. Almost a steady vibration. My body had flooded with adrenaline and now it had to burn it off, somehow, some way.

But her tone when she asked set me off. Was I scared? Probably. But her question came when I was definitely still in “fight” mode.

I’m glad the state trooper put his hand on my arm and quickly walked me away. It was almost like he’d seen this before.

I don’t begrudge the officer her inexperience. Thirty-eight years later, I realize she probably saw worse as her career developed. Experienced worse. But it was also obvious those experiences were still in her future.

I honor her willingness to serve. But it is also important to note the wisdom and restraint the state trooper showed in that moment.

Because, yes, I was scared. More afterward than in the moment. I really cannot explain that.

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The Behavioral Detective. What did you notice?

I’ve reflected on this many times in the subsequent thirty-eight years.

Q1: What were my actions that contributed to this man losing his sanity, even if only temporarily?

Q2: What should I have noticed during the serve that would have told me he’d behave this way?

Q3: What actions would I take in the future to make sure this didn’t happen again?

Before I answer these three questions — and there are more — let me be as transparent as I can from my perspective. Being in a shooting is not casual. Such an event changes how I look at everything. Thirty-eight years later I still notice important details about how a person is reacting.

If you read an earlier entry, Case File #036 Crash! Pow! Rattle, then you can figure out two things. One is that even if you are aware and even if you know that people can react erratically, you cannot always predict when.

Q1: What were my actions that contributed to this man losing his sanity, even if only temporarily?

In retrospect, I could have checked in with the receptionist, and I could have waited. The problem: sometimes when I did those “proper” things I then created a lot more expense for the people that hired me. Yes, even Resident Agents would make themselves very, very difficult to serve, if they were of a mind to.

Usually, I was making a judgment call in the moment. And, usually, I got it right. But sometimes…

Q2: What should I have noticed during the serve that would have told me he’d behave this way?

When he stood up immediately to intimidate me, I dismissed his behavior. That was a critical mistake that could have cost me dearly. I should have stood there and looked to de-escalate the situation.

I could have pointed out that this is routine and said “Give this to your attorney.” I could have noted that no one knew who I was and that no one could possibly have heard me.

I could have immediately raised my voice enough to create a spectacle that would put the subject on notice that there were a lot of people that would see and hear everything from this point forward.

There are a lot of things I could have done.

But, please, also remember. This was the 1980s in Maryland. Most people didn’t carry a gun or have one at the ready. Or maybe I was too young and too inexperienced myself to realize how violently people could react to their financial security being threatened.

Q3: What actions would I take in the future to make sure this didn’t happen again?

This is the one that really got my mind working. I’m sure more than a few readers are like many of the others that I’ve told this story to would say, “Well, I carry a gun so…”

Or they advise, “You should carry a gun…”

Well, what if I had been carrying a gun that day?

In general, I didn’t and still don’t carry a gun. You can say they are for self-preservation and I’ll listen to the argument. But that day, if I had one, would one of us be dead or badly wounded within seconds?

If you know me, you know this isn’t the only shooting I’ve written about or will write about. One was long after I was a private investigator. In each occasion, it was my brain that got me out of the situation. Alive.

Or luck. Or Godly intervention. You decide.

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A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended

© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

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Utilizing a Ruse

As a younger, inexperienced process server, I was still learning my tradecraft when I was given a service that I was told would be difficult. The subject worked in a secured office building that was three stories tall and had a front desk guard that would not be welcoming to a man with legal documents.

The subject, six foot two inches, two-hundred thirty-five pounds, white, forty-four years old with thick, dark hair parted on the left side, had also stated to anyone who would listen that he would not willingly accept service.

I was also told the subject was an early riser and dressed casually.

From a business perspective, I had learned at this point of my career that refusing service and making it difficult really didn’t do anything but increase the costs of your legal bills because service would still happen. I’m not sure what the rules of Maryland were at the time on how many attempts needed to be made or what would happen if I couldn’t affect service because, well, I’m not a lawyer.

But I did know that the attorney really wanted this guy served, personally.

And, for whatever reason, he wanted the service to take place at the man’s place of employment.

When I arrived at seven in the morning, the subject’s car was already in the parking lot.

He is an early riser, I thought.

I pulled around to the back of the building where there was a second, secure entrance. It looked like a place where most of the employees would enter, rather than them going through the front door. Without much time to think, I noticed three cars coming into the parking lot, one right after the other.

Two were driven by women, one by a man.

I decided to grab the papers that were sitting on my passenger seat and then get out, open up the hatch of my black Ford Escort and grab a couple small boxes that were back there. One contained printer paper that I had picked up at an office supply store yesterday for the office, at the office manager’s request, but forgot to drop off. It even said printer paper on the side and, of course, had some heft to it.

The other was a smaller box that was empty but would make a good prop anyway. I quickly stacked the two boxes and carried them as clumsily as I could toward the back entrance, matching my steps to arrive at the door at the same time as the two women who were approaching from different directions. The man had just let himself in with little regard to anyone behind him.

As I approached the door, I stumbled. Or at least made it look that way.

One woman said, “Those are supposed to be delivered to the front,” as she was almost to the door.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said with a grimace while shaking my ankle.

“Oh, let him in,” the other woman said. “Go straight down the hallway and make a left at the end and check in.”

The first woman keyed the back door and even held the door open for me. I entered first while saying, “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

I sat the two boxes down, with the papers between them, about fifteen feet into the building, and paused to rub my left ankle.

“Don’t forget to check in,” the second woman said as she passed by.

The other just kept walking, turned right and disappeared. The kind woman was right behind her.

About five feet behind me was a door that said “STAIRS.” I grabbed the legal documents and left the two boxes in the hallway, as I disappeared behind the door and up the stairs to the third floor.

Pausing before opening the door, I took a deep breath and then opened the door. I found myself in another hallway, but wider and more formal. My guess told me that I needed to go left, past the elevator and toward the fancy door at the end of the hallway that overlooked the front entrance parking lot.

Without knocking, I opened that door and found myself in a fifteen by twelve room (or so) that had two chairs and a secretarial desk that was unoccupied. There was another fancy door that sat open and I could hear someone inside.

As I approached that open doorway, I saw the subject. He fit the description nicely. And this well-appointed office confirmed he would be the man in charge.

He looked up at me with a stern look.

I simply said, “Mr. [Subject’s name], I have a court-issued subpoena for you.” I took three steps toward him and set the document on the desk.

He removed his hand from the phone that was sitting on his right. He had reached for it when he initially saw me but had never picked up the phone.

He stood, staring right at me.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t threaten me, but he did let his size, as compared to me, do the talking. Then I heard someone behind me.

When I turned to see who it was, I saw a very large man in a very tight black t-shirt. He was bald, Black and about six-four and I’d guess two-hundred fifty pounds. If his body fat was more than ten percent, I’d have been amazed. His muscles rippled through his shirt.

“I’m here to remove you from the building,” he said with a slight smile.

His voice was deep, though his tone was not menacing. But it was direct and not to be argued with.

I did not look back at the subject. I only said to my new escort, “And I believe you could do that.”

Then I started walking out the door.

As I exited the office and headed to the stairs, my escort never said a word. He was right behind me, so close I could feel his breath. We went down the three flights of stairs. To say my mind ran wild with defensive possibilities would be an understatement. My only chance would be to use whatever speed advantage I figured I’d have. But everything else…

When I pushed open the door that I had originally entered it wasn’t until I was about fifteen feet from my car that my escort stopped and, without a word, returned to the building. Normally, when I re-entered my car, I would take a moment to grab my log book and make notes of the service: details, time, place. Those kinds of things.

In this case, I immediately started the car and was about a mile away before I stopped. I had been checking my rearview mirror the entire way.

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The Behavioral Detective. What did you Notice?

This story is packed with behavioral tells. Here are two that reveal what people can’t resist:

The Helpful Lady:
“Those are supposed to be delivered to the front,” the first lady said. She had me pegged. She knew the rule. But the second, helpful lady, stepped in. “Oh, let him in,” she said. She saw me struggling. She saw me stumble and hurt my ankles, supposedly. People are wired to help. When someone is struggling. Empathy override kicks in faster than the rule. The helpful lady couldn’t ignore it. She didn’t want to. Humans help. It’s what we do.

The Escort’s Smile:
When the large man said, “I’m here to remove you from the building,” he smiled slightly. Not a threat smile. A professional one. That smile tells you everything about his experience. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t aggressive. He was just doing his job. The smile was almost apologetic. It was like he’d done this a hundred times and knew how it would end. Experienced people don’t need to perform anger.

One tell showed human compassion. One showed human competence.

What behavioral tells did YOU notice?

Share. I’d love to hear your take. Join the conversation.

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Notice how these tells play out in other Process Server Chronicles, the true stories. And they are woven in through the Cal Brink Files, as well. They’re always there. They show up in dialogue, in pauses, in what people choose to remember (or forget).

Notice of Assignment, a Cal Brink File Thriller, drops this October.

Think “real estate crime fiction.”

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A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended

© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

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Washington, DC
1991

Working as a process server and private investigator in Washington, DC was a unique experience. What becomes the norm for people who live in the DMV is that our local news is the national news in the rest of the country.

Running into Ted Koppel or Linda Carter wasn’t all that surprising when it happened. Neither was walking into the Hart Senate Building with legal documents, checking in at the front desk and then walking the halls to find Senator Such-and-Such who I had just seen the night before while watching the evening news.

I would imagine that, thirty-five to forty years later, checking into either the Hart Senate Building or the Rayburn House Office Building is considerably more complex than it was back in my day. But then? There was no metal detector. Sometimes, not always, I’d just show my ID and they’d waive me through.

The law, power and money are the businesses that run Washington. To the best of my knowledge, I can’t think of anything tangible that is made there. But every dollar in the United States, because of taxes, eventually passes through the city. Therefore, the city attracts A-type personalities and people who believe they can make a difference.

Or, at least, that used to be the hope.

I knew a guy, we will call him George, who was a former Navy Seal and well connected in the personal security field. From time to time, he’d ask me to assist on his bigger jobs. One day he called and asked if I could supplement his team who were providing supplemental security at an event being held at the Swedish ambassador’s residence.

Make no mistake, we were there as little more than service help. The protection of diplomats fell under the purview of the Secret Service or Diplomatic Security Service. There were probably even SAPO there, the Swedish equivalent of our Secret Service. I don’t remember.

But no matter who the credentialed security teams were, two things were true: they barely interacted with me because they didn’t consider us real security. And since I was supplemental help to the supplemental help, nobody in any real authority to the service had much to do with me.

Such as it is with status in Washington, DC. If the power brokers didn’t think you could help them, you would be invisible.

My job was simple: picking up a high ranking guest at his address, drive him to the embassy and wait until he was ready to leave and then drive him home.

That was my job whenever George called.

George used me as a private driver who had a firearm in the glovebox and knew his way around every street and alley of the DMV. The fact that he considered me very situationally aware was another bonus. In short, if something came up, I could get my vehicle, and the people in it, out of the area in a hurry.

As the evening at the Swedish ambassador’s residence was winding up, I was hanging around the back of the house when a woman of stature, followed by a man in a suit that was all business, came by. For whatever reason I was introduced to her and told to help if she needed anything at any time.

She was the Swedish ambassador’s wife.

“Lengquist is your last name?” she asked enthusiastically.

I was taken aback because I was wholly unprepared for an ambassador’s wife to take an interest in me. In my work, I had encountered many individuals of class and power, including the gentleman I had driven to this event. Each and every one had flat-out ignored me. Well, unless it was to issue some menial command.

But here was this elegant woman, smiling at me and taking a personal interest. Not the usual perfunctory “Hello” while looking around for someone more interesting.

Frankly, I didn’t know how to handle the situation.

I was young. My music was The Clash and The Jam. I believed in questioning authority. In my mind and my world, people like this didn’t even recognize people like me.

Her interest in me confused me.

“Well,” she continued while shaking my hand, “That’s a Swedish last name. Where are your people from?”

Truthfully, I had no idea. It had never occurred to me to do any research. “Kansas,” was my response.

“Yes, yes. But from what part of Sweden did your lineage come from?” she pressed.

She was trying to be friendly. To connect. She was all smiles and, I believe, genuinely happy to meet someone with a familiar last name in a house she lived in so far from her home. Was she lonely? Or was she genuinely interested?

My mind raced for something to say that would be appropriate. But all I stammered was, “Ma’am, I don’t have any idea. I’m from Kansas. So were my dad and his dad. I really don’t know.” It was a little embarrassing.

Honestly, it had never occurred to me to really care about my lineage. I had been too busy trying to separate myself from it. To be my own man.

The Swedish ambassador’s wife, whose name I did not commit to memory but have since googled and yes, the picture result was her, stepped forward, grabbed me gently by the arm and started walking me through the house, up the stairs and to her private library. Her assigned security followed us the entire way, of course.

I do not recall the details of our conversation through those hallways, but I do remember her talking almost the entire way about how beautiful Sweden is and that I really must find out where my people were from.

When we arrived at her library, she released my arm as I stood about four feet inside the door. She briskly walked to a set of shelves, pulled down several pamphlets of her homeland and transformed from ambassador’s wife to travel agent.

For years, Marie and I kept those pamphlets she gave to me. There was even a way to contact her. I vividly remember her speaking of how beautiful the summers were and how the Baltic Sea was so full of salt that you could just float on the water. She mused about the summers, not really highlighting the winters.

Her entire demeanor was warm and welcoming to a man half her age who had been hired to serve at her husband’s request. She wore the personality of an equal, not of power. She didn’t see me as the help. She saw me as a person she was thrilled to share her homeland with.

We stood and she spoke about Sweden and how important it was to know who you came from for several more minutes. Finally, after a cordial and encouraging thank you, she told me to enjoy the evening and returned to her duties as hostess of a very large Washington, DC soiree.

At the end of the evening, we nodded at each other as her guests were standing in line to say what a wonderful time they had. My driving charge for the evening said goodbye to her and then told me that we were leaving. I drove him three miles to his home.

He exited the car. No “Thank you” was offered.

His exit was the norm in my dealings with men and women with that level of income or access to power.

But the ambassador’s wife cracked my perception of who those people could be.

At the time, I missed the signs. I missed them all.

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The Behavioral Detective: What Did You Notice?

This story is layered with behavioral tells. Some are obvious, some are hidden. Let me point out a few and see if you caught them.

Her move: When she grabbed my arm and walked me to her library, that was a status-drop. Diplomats’ wives don’t typically do that with hired help. But she did. Why? Because she meant it. She saw a person, not a role. Her entire demeanor shifted as demonstrated when she transformed from “ambassador’s wife” to “travel agent.” That was authenticity breaking through formality.

My move: I stammered. I was embarrassed. I wouldn’t commit her name to memory. These are all defensive tells. They were signs of someone too young to recognize genuine interest. I labeled her by her role (”ambassador’s wife”) instead of seeing her as a human trying to connect. That’s what invisibility did to me in DC. It taught me to see people as their status, not their humanity.

The missed signal: She gave me a way to contact her. That wasn’t casual. That was an open door.

Notice how these tells play out in other Process Server Chronicles, the true stories. And they are woven in through the Cal Brink Files, as well. They’re always there. They show up in dialogue, in pauses, in what people choose to remember (or forget).

What behavioral tells did YOU notice?

Share. I’d love to hear your take. Join the conversation.

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Notice of Assignment, a Cal Brink File Thriller, drops this October.

Think “real estate crime fiction.”

Learn More

A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended

© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

Notice of Assignment

Play the video by clicking the photo above.

Listen on Spotify or Apple or Amazon

Great Accomplishments of My Life

• My relationship with Marie, my wife of forty years.

• Each and every one of my kids.

• Learning how to fly an airplane.

• Writing a complete book.

In January, I set off to start The Process Server Chronicles. And that has been fun. But then in February, I realized I had a book inside me, combining all of my life’s experiences in a fun, crime fiction sort of way.

So, I set off to write the book. As the video above says, I sent the finished book off to my editor on Saturday evening. Nervously.

It’s a weird feeling to put yourself out there.

What if she hates it? What if she says I should really just concentrate on real estate? This is an editor who has worked with Marti Green, Chad Zunker, Avery Duff, Jenny Milchman, and Karen McQuestion. She knows her stuff.

Oh, sure, there will be re-writes to do when she’s through with me. But, I did it.

Thank you for allowing me the brag.

Next Week

I will feature a micro-story taken directly from the book and then go into depth on the behind-the-scenes of what caused me to include it in the book.

I hope you’ll join me as we march toward October, when the book will be released.

Thank you,

Chris Lengquist

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Visit CalBrink.com to get the first four chapters of Notice of Assignment. More goodies will follow.

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Multiple Dates/Multiple Cases
Washington, DC

Following a vehicle within the District of Columbia could be tricky. There are the usual considerations: keeping the subject vehicle in sight at all times without being “made”, keeping up at intersections with the yellow and red lights, getting snarled in heavy traffic. And those are just a few of the uncontrollable variables of mobile surveillance.

Another variable was parking. Especially downtown, Georgetown, or anywhere near the Capitol, to name a couple examples. Parking was always at a premium, even for the persons you were following.

The bad news was the subject could sometimes circle a block multiple times, slowly. They’d be starting and stopping and looking to fit their fourteen foot long cars into fifteen foot long spaces.

The good news was they were almost always so engrossed in finding a spot that they wouldn’t even notice me right behind them, just another car in the inevitable traffic jam.

Then, the magic would happen for the subject’s car. A space would appear; they’d work their way in and I’d be left dangling.

I didn’t want to be identified. I also didn’t want to lose them.

Now what?

In one particular case, I simply drove up another six or eight cars and stopped in the lane, put on my flashers and exited the car. I caught a glimpse of the subject and the unidentified brunette as they entered a prestigious hotel just off Connecticut Ave, NW.

To know where they were going inside the hotel my choice was to end the surveillance or leave my car alone, flashers flashing in the middle of a DC street, and enter the hotel.

I chose the latter. I was able to ride the elevator with the subjects, and follow them to their room, offering friendly greetings along the way. When I saw the door they were entering I just kept walking, went down the emergency stairs and back down to my car.

Approaching my car I greeted the parking enforcement officer, waited for her to finish writing the ticket and then accepted it. After pulling my car around the block I got on my company issued radio and called the other investigator assigned to this high profile follow.

I gave him the room number.

Then, because I was now known to the subjects, I returned to the office while the other investigator stayed on the surveillance. My job was finished on this case.

Except for the paperwork.

Days Later

“I don’t know where my front license plate is,” I said.

The woman behind the counter at the Maryland Motor Vehicle Administration in Gaithersburg, Maryland gave me a look. I’m pretty sure she had heard this before. Maybe even from me. “You’ll need to sign this affidavit,” she said as she handed me the paper and a pen.

The truth was that I didn’t currently know the location of that license plate. I had discarded it the day before in a public trash can. So, it really could be anywhere by now.

I didn’t even bother to review the document because I had signed something similar a couple times before. Moments later, after paying $15.00 for a set of new license plates, I walked out the front door to continue with my day.

The Mundane Fieldcraft

Let’s be clear. As a private investigator I didn’t have a badge. No police powers were implied.

A badge would open doors I couldn’t. But a badge also had rules I didn’t have to follow. It could work both ways.

A perfect example of this was parking in the city. No Parking or Permit Only signs permeated the city. Despite the ready availability of mass transit, cars were ubiquitous.

Therefore, the District had an entire army of parking enforcement officers that scoured the city every day. Most wrote tickets. The days would have plenty of possibilities.

Then there were the parking enforcement trucks that carried wheel boots. They reminded me of submarines that prowled the ocean’s depths on constant watch for the dangers to our national interests.

Yes, parking in Washington, DC was equal in importance to the national interests of our country. Or so it seemed based on the amount of resources committed to enforcement.

In a No Parking zone it was not unusual to see a car with diplomatic plates. Or a police car from one of the many jurisdictions that patrol DC. Or undercover police cars, of which everyone knew how to identify. They parked in No Parking zones without fear of reprisal.

Me? Nobody cared about what I was doing.

Private investigators serving subpoenas or waiting on a surveillance or picking up legal documents didn’t warrant any special treatment by the parking cops. Just as I would not be given any leeway by the real police if I rolled through a stop sign or eased through a red light, carefully, to keep up with a subject.

The loophole?

Keep in mind I worked the streets of DC in the 1980s and early 1990s. Computers were still working their way into our everyday, useful lives. If you got a parking ticket, you went into a database until it was paid. That database must have been updated and distributed daily.

It was an open secret amongst messenger couriers and private eyes that you could accumulate up to three tickets before being placed on the “boot” list.

Once the prowler submarines trucks had you on their list, a parking boot was an unwelcome possibility. These boots would wrap around one of the wheels of your car, immobilizing the vehicle. You weren’t going anywhere until you paid the ticket down at traffic and then hoofed it up to the impound lot where your car would be waiting.

This happened to me once, but that’s another story.

Here’s the thing: Maryland and Washington, DC didn’t have parking reciprocity. If you were a Maryland resident, once you had three parking tickets on your current license plate, at a fine of $35 each, you could simply work the time into your schedule to visit the Maryland MVA.

Unless you’ve lived or work in cities like Washington, DC or New York, this may seem rude or unimaginable. Live, work and drive in those cities and you realize it’s just a part of the day.

Want to discuss the ethics of this or get insider views of the life of a process server and private investigator? Join me over at Behavioral Detective HQ.

Author’s Update

I’m pretty proud and I’d like to share that I finished writing my first book. It’s a novella titled Notice of Assignment. It’s now been sent off to my editor and will be released this fall.

Someone who has read it said this.

“If anyone asks, tell them it's a hardboiled novel with a noir ending and a Christian epilogue.”

That seems like a mouthful. But oddly enough, I think it is spot-on. It involves real estate, Washington, DC and Kansas City with Cal Brink as the protagonist.

To learn more, or to be added to First Alert emails about Notice of Assignment’s timelines and release, visit CalBrink.com.

Thank you.

A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended

© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

Listen on Spotify or Apple or Amazon

1994

I had test-driven the car, sat through the credit application and negotiated the price. This wasn’t the car of my dreams, but it was a step up. The car? A used 1992 white Ford Taurus. Yes, I’m partial to Fords.

Since 1987 I had been driving a black Ford Escort, two-door. At 234,000 miles it was still a solid car but it leaked like a sieve. Every single morning before driving I had to add transmission fluid, brake fluid and radiator fluid. If it was liquid, it was mostly gone from the day before.

Besides, in September of 1992, Davis was born. Having more room in my car, and four doors, had finally become important since I was hauling Davis around as much as Shawna was.

The beauty of the Ford Taurus? Like the Escort, it was a best seller in its day. The streets and highways of the DMV (DC, Maryland and Virginia) were full of them. If you saw a black Escort or a white Taurus, you didn’t even bat an eye. Even if it seemed like it had been following you.

That was the point. As a private investigator I was expected to follow people. As a process server, I’d sit on streets and alleys for hours at a time hoping to not be noticed. These cars? Nobody cared. Well, generally.

So there I was, sitting at the F&I guy’s desk (Finance and Insurance) ready to discover the payment and sign the papers so that I could get out of there. I knew I wouldn’t be getting prime interest.

“Mr. Brink, since Calvin is your legal name, that is how we will submit the title to Maryland. Would you prefer I call you Cal for today?” asked the gentleman on the other side of the desk. He was in his late fifties, had a smoker’s voice, stained fingertips and a body built by sitting all day, every day. He had told me his name like we were friends, but I knew that we were friends only for the next three to four minutes, before I declined the undercoating, extended warranty and weatherproofing, whatever that would be.

He would ask, I would decline. Since I’d heard my, admittedly deserved, interest rate I wasn’t really in the mood to spend any more money.

“Cal, before we’re done and you sign the contracts and the back of the title, I would like to point out one thing,” the shark grinned. “You have a very unique car. Something to tell your friends.”

He leaned forward, placed the title face up showing the vehicle’s full information, including current ownership: The Russian Federation with an address of 2650 Wisconsin Ave., NW.

I laughed out loud. Not thirty days ago I had walked through those gates, checked in with security and waited in the most plain, boring waiting area I had ever experienced for a low-level lackey to come accept a legal document I had been hired to deliver. The document was in a sealed envelope.

Immediately my mind ran with the possibilities of entertaining my wife and friends with tales of what this particular white Ford Taurus had experienced. But when I told Shawna, she was unimpressed.

Still, me and that Taurus had a few more stories to experience.

Author’s Note

The Cal Brink Files live at the intersection of truth and fiction. This micro-story is a perfect example. The truth is most of this story is true. The fiction, in this case, is Cal Brink, Shawna and Davis. But the Russian Federation, the Ford Taurus and the dealership? That’s all true.

And the stories still yet to be experienced? Those are upcoming here on the Cal Brink Files. Or, The Process Server Chronicles. Depends on which versions I write.

As always, The Process Server Chronicles are true(ish) stories with names, dates and places altered to protect privacy and help with liability. The Cal Brink Files are fiction, though my life experiences as an investigator, process server, photographer and real estate agent all bleed in.

© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved

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Want more behavioral and observational analysis? Join me over at Behavioral Detective HQ.

Make sure you let me know you want in. It’s a private group. Leave a message: “Cal sent me.”

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“Вы говорите по-русски?”

I looked up, startled that someone had asked if I spoke Russian.

White, early 50s, expensive suit. He had the look of DC power. Controlled. Stoic.

He had leaned in to examine my reaction.

“Da.” Then uncomfortable silence as we examined each other.

Finally, I succumbed to his presence. I was about to be .

“Well, not really. Just trying to keep up with it.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

He said something else in Russian. I was pretty sure he was asking me why, again.

To my side were several summonses to be delivered in NW. In my ink smudged hands was a recent copy of Pravda (Truth), that was anything but.

Our train slowed to a stop at the last sunlight station on the Red Line of the Washington, DC Metro. People came and went, unaware of our conversation.

I asked questions for a living: insurance fraud, missing money, cheaters. His questions, his demeanor, set my senses on alert. I felt the same hyper-awareness rise in me as when I would be cutting through an alley and see three twenty-year-olds walking toward me.

I was being evaluated in real time. He was seeking answers and watching my every reaction.

Turning the legal docs upside down, it was my turn to ask, “Why does it matter?” as we disappeared into the underground at thirty miles per hour.

He leaned forward and reached out for my Pravda. I handed it over.

He scanned the headlines then went deep into one of the stories. Then he gave a knowing smile. Sitting on the orangish, hard plastic of the Metro train, he folded the paper in half and then leaned toward me to hand it back.

He stood as the train slowed again. Four steps toward the door. When the train stopped, he looked back one more time to make eye contact. Then he stepped into the station.

I sat there for a minute before going back to my Pravda. A card fell out.

CIA logo and a Langley, VA address.

At Farragut North I finally tucked the card in my left pants pocket, picked up my summonses, and went to serve a few lawyers before they left for their lunches at Duke Zeibert’s. I left the Pravda on the train.

Author’s Note

I can already hear people screaming “This didn’t happen.”

Frankly, I’m not sure I’d believe it either. But it did.

The Process Server Chronicles are the True(ish) stories of my nine years as a DC, Maryland and Virginia process server and private investigator. Why True(ish)? Because I knowingly change many names, dates and sometimes locations to retain confidentiality and reduce liability. Even all these decades later.

Plus, there is the fog of memory.

My Cal Brink Files? That is fiction. Sure, it’s fiction based on my experiences. But pure fiction, nonetheless. Consider it to be like when your brain is running wild and you just can’t seem to shut it down. Yes, like that. Only, I scribble a few things down and then write it out and then revise and revise again.

Mrs. Sanders, my real-life 8th grade English teacher, would cringe if she saw my sentence fragments, punctuation choices and run-on sentences. The truth about my fiction is, those are deliberate choices.

Well, most of the time.

© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved

Turns out I have had quite a few encounters with Soviet or Russian influences in my life. I shared some over at my Behavioral Detective HQ. Visit over there and ask to be let in, I’ll approve you.

You’ll especially like the bit about the Russian Embassy.

Real estate fraud affects us all. No harm you say? Appraisals like this story contributed to the real estate collapse of 2008 and The Great Recession. Millions lost their homes. The architects of that fraud largely walked away clean.

Listen on Spotify or Apple or Amazon

1992

The banks think he’s a criminal. Financial fraud, they call it. His ‘special’ clients, the real estate investors? They think of him as a facilitator.

Me, I’m Cal Brink. And I’m about to get my first taste of real estate.

I was hired to get evidence that an appraiser was cooking the books on his appraisals. I discovered a pattern when they sent over the files.

So, I took a class, read a book and got my real estate license and joined the local board of real estate agents. That way I could do my own comparison of houses sold. Comps the agents called them.

Most of the people I talked to in that classroom were seeking their fame and fortunes. I was there to secure the data. Little did I know where it would lead me later in life.

I asked one of the biggest agents in Maryland and DC if she would teach me how to comp a house if I promised not to be her competition. Everyone knew her because of the big Easter-style hats she would wear anytime she was selling houses. “It’s my trademark.”

She was fascinated with my job as a private investigator.

“Young’un, you call me if you have any trouble.” She was happy to rid her industry of the malcontents.

It didn’t take me long to see that the appraiser in question, let’s call him George, was a pretty good appraiser. I brought a few of his appraisals to the lady with the hats and she felt he was right on the nose.

Except when the buyer or refinancer was a real estate investor. The investors would often hide their identities behind LLC’s and straw buyers. But, real estate investors they were. The crooked kind.

I followed George through three of his routine days. He’d be at his POE (place of employment) early. About 10:00 or so, he’d venture out to knock out a house visit or two before a late lunch and another appraisal right after. Then back to the office.

Without fail, he’d leave for home at 4:30.

On that Thursday, I followed him as he pulled up to an appraisal in a part of DC begging for gentrification. The listed buyer was an LLC.

George pulled up to the northeast DC townhouse, got out of his car and took a picture of the front of the house. That was how he started all appraisals.

Then he got back in his car and appeared to just sit there and wait. This was a deviation of George’s routine.

At precisely 2:15 pm, a blacked-out Chevy Suburban pulled in right behind George.

I picked up my camera from the passenger seat and readied it in my lap.

George sat up and took notice while looking in his rearview mirror. A stocky man with a baseball cap, standing about six feet and holding a white, thick envelope in his right hand walked up to George’s car as George rolled his window down.

The stocky man leaned down, and a few words were exchanged before the envelope changed hands and George secured it in his glove compartment.

A couple of minutes later, they both went on their way.

From my black Ford Escort I photographed the highlights and documented the rest. Including the Suburban’s license plate number and the fact that George never stepped foot in the house.

When I returned to my office, I made a phone call and asked for a favor. The license plate came back to a man that was a registered agent of the LLC securing the mortgage.

When the bank sent me over a copy of the appraisal that George had submitted, it came in about thirty-percent high. My lady-in-the-hat confirmed it.

From there, I let the lawyers handle the matter.

What I’ve Learned

Homebuyers think appraisals on their home purchases are there to protect them. Or set the home’s value. Nothing is further from the truth.

Appraisals are there to protect the banks. If your credit score is pristine and you’re putting twenty-five percent towards the purchase price, almost anything will be appraised within the parameters of the contract.

If you are scraping by, maybe had a missed payment a couple years back and your credit score shows a lot of credit usage, you are inviting a full financial colonoscopy. Especially if you are buying a home with only 5% down, or less.

The banks are going to ask the appraiser to value that house with a fine-toothed comb. Check everything.

Because the truth is, appraisals are there to protect the bank’s interest in the loan. If you were to default and you have twenty to thirty percent equity, the bank will be made whole. If you default and you don’t have much into the house, as far as equity is concerned, the bank could take a hit.

Banks don’t like that.

The rules of finance favor the well off, or downright rich.

Same as it ever was.

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© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved

Want more behavioral and observational analysis? Join me over at Behavioral Detective HQ.

Make sure you let me know you want in. It’s a private group. Leave a message: “Cal sent me.”

Listen on Spotify or Apple or Amazon

The Meet

The elevator opened and I stepped on from the top floor of a K Street law firm with a subpoena in hand. The plan was to get back to ground level, look up the obscure address in Northern Virginia in my trusty ADC map and make an afternoon serve that needed expediting.

The plan wasn’t to be put in my place.

Two floors down the elevator slowed to a stop, the doors opened, and John Riggins stepped in.

John Riggins.

Super Bowl MVP for the Washington Redskins.

Kansas Jayhawk.

The guy who went to sleep on a banquet room floor, in a tux, with Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor giving a speech.

Flanked by two men in suits, John and his “team” were all business. There was an air about them that said, “Leave us alone.”

Still, I couldn’t overcome the urge. I had to say something. I’m not usually star-struck. But John and I, well, we had a connection. Sort of.

I turned.

“Mr. Riggins, I went to Kansas, too.”

He looked right through me with no expression. He wasn’t mad. But clearly, he didn’t want to be having this conversation.

“A lot of people did, son.” He dismissed me. It was in the tone of voice.

I turned back, smiled to myself in the elevator door reflection, and we all went our separate directions once we reached the ground floor. Me to my illegally parked Ford Escort. John & Co. to a black SUV parked right in front with a patient driver already opening the rear passenger door.

The interaction makes me chuckle when I tell the story. It also put me in my place. Washington, DC is full of people you read about, see on television and cheer or boo from the cheap seats.

You might believe you think you know them. You don’t.

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Next Week

A true story you probably won’t believe. Nevertheless, it happened.
The Last Sunlight Station - a chance meeting on the Red Line.

The Podcast - Author’s Note

I’m amazed at how fast the podcast is getting traction. Even faster than readership. Maybe it’s because of the speed of our lives now days?

In any case, listen to The Behavioral Detective wherever you get your podcasts.

Notice of Assignment - Fall Release

A Cal Brink File, this will be my debut novella. It’s written. Right now it is editing. And I’ve hired a professional who is blessing the project.

If you’d like to know more and have access to advance copies, then enroll here at CalBrink.com

I’d tell you the premise, but it’s at the link.

Behavioral Detective Facebook and Reels

Here I share tidbits of tradecraft and where I see fraud in today’s world of real estate. The Zoom fraud. AI voice cloning. Appraisal fraud. The crimes are the same. The technology has advanced to frightening levels.

Reading Recommendations

I am honored to have been listed on the Thriller & Mystery Author Directory. So many good reads to be found. Give it a look.

Share The Process Server Chronicles

Chris Lengquist
A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended
Read full legalese here

© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved

Thank you for the feedback I’ve been receiving.

Listen on Spotify or Apple or Amazon

There was a time when mobile phones were not ubiquitous.

Late 1988
I had a rush delivery subpoena for a man the defendant’s attorney needed in court the next afternoon. If he doesn’t show, the defendant may be sunk. That was made very clear to me when I accepted the work at 3:45 pm.

The service would be in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia.

If you were from the Washington, DC area in the 1980s, you knew that the trip between Gaithersburg (where I lived) and Bethesda (where I was picking up the subpoena) was no small feat at 4:00 pm. And to go from Bethesda to Tyson’s Corner at rush hour was another hour’s commitment, depending on the mood of the Beltway traffic god, that day.

The address I was given for the subject’s residence was, as I discovered, an apartment building. One of four like-kind buildings, each with twenty-four apartments, eight on each floor.

There was no apartment number given on the subpoena.

I checked the mailboxes. Except for the apartment number most of the mailboxes were blank or unreadable. Only three or four had names on the slots. Most name slots were blank. I knocked on a couple doors but no one knew who my subject was or where he lived.

With no description of the subject or his car, and no apartment number, I questioned whether or not I was going to be able to make this happen.

But the importance to the defendant’s case had been emphasized. Twice.

After stewing in my black 1987 Ford Escort for about ten minutes, I finally decided to leave and go in search of a pay phone. I kept a console full of quarters for just this kind of occasion.

I found a pay phone about a mile away in a strip center located between the Giant grocery store and a locally owned clothing shop. It was now 6:00 pm, but I figured the attorney may still be in the office.

He was of no help, other than to give me the subject’s home phone number and to repeat a stern warning, “He can’t know you’re coming.”

I waited by the pay phone for about fifteen minutes while the attorney contacted his client, got a description of the man and called me back. Neither the attorney nor the client had any information on the subject’s car.

“Whatever you have to do, serve him,” were the attorney’s last words as he hung up the phone.

Then it hit me.

I dropped another quarter in the pay phone and dialed my boss’ pager. Then I waited by the pay phone. At times like this I wish I smoked, because at least then I’d have something to do.

Another five or six minutes passed before the pay phone rang.

I assumed the call was from my boss so I started right in. “Hey, that fancy new bag phone you have, can I use it?”

In 1989 these phones were expensive and a sign of prestige more than utility. My boss carried it for prestige. He liked the idea of clients knowing our firm was cutting edge. But my status in the office didn’t warrant the extra, considerable expense.

“I’m on it right now. Pretty handy. I’m headed to a dinner party in Cabin John. Why do you want it?” He was direct, as usual. I had the impression he’d love hauling that heavy bag phone into dinner with him just in case there was an important decision he’d have to make in front of the dinner party.

After explaining my idea, he said, “I like it. You got a pen? I’ll give you the address of where I’m going.”

When I had the address and was back in my car, I opened up my Montgomery County ADC map book, found the address and left Tyson’s Corner for Cabin John, on the Maryland side of the Potomac. I met him at the party where, of course, he had the phone with him in the house. After he made a show of giving me a quick tutoring session on how to use the phone, I returned to the apartment.

The time was now 6:35 pm.

With the subpoena and the bag phone in hand, I decided to start on the top floor of the building and work my way down. There I was with the phone on the ground and dialing a number from a handwritten piece of paper. I hit the call button, picked up the bag and started walking.

I repeated the call back procedure several times as I walked up and down the hall listening for any phones that were ringing in the apartments as I walked by.

I walked all three floors of the apartment building to no avail. Sure, I heard a phone ring in one apartment but my calling phone never made the connection.

When I returned to my car, I made my notes and listened to music for about an hour before I could no longer take it. I had to use a restroom. I made a return trip to the strip shopping center, including a quick stop at a fast food restaurant for a meal, before heading back to the apartment.

Due to the make-up of the apartment and the parking lots, there were two ways in and out. I parked where I had been. Even though I had been gone less than thirty minutes, there were now several new cars in the lot.

The time was now 8:25 pm.

I headed back into the apartments. This time I started on the first floor and repeated the call sequences to see what phones may be ringing.

Nothing.

On to the second floor.

About half way down, I heard a phone ringing. I hung up my phone and the ringing stopped. Had I heard footsteps?

After waiting about another thirty seconds, I dialed back. The ringing started again from apartment 206.

I decided to create stress.

While the phone was starting its third ring, I began knocking on the door. I heard a curse word inside followed by “Just a minute.”

The same man’s voice I heard curse in the apartment came on the phone to say, “Hello.”

I hung up, set the phone on the floor to the left of the door. And waited.

The door swung open, “Yes?”

The description matched. The phone number matched. “I have a subpoena for you,” I stated.

“What if I don’t want it?” He defiantly asked.

I responded, “Then I drop it on the floor. Either way, you’ve been served. You decide.”

He reached out and snapped the papers out of my hand and walked away while slamming the door. Another curse word.

I made a mental note of the time, 8:37 pm, and then I left to deliver the bag phone back to the dinner party.

My boss had his moment when he directed me to tell the story in front of the hosts and their guests. I was their evening’s entertainment.

They had questions. I had stories.

I counted that time on my billing. At Rush Serve rates.

Author’s Notes

Your Turn

This true story takes place in late 1988. No cell phones. No GPS. No social media. Information isn’t yet sitting on the other side of your fingertips.

The Bag Phone - The Motorola that is pictured is remarkably close to what I had access to back in those days, followed by those ‘brick’ phones. This phone cost about $2,500… in 1988 dollars. It was heavy and awkward. You paid for usage by the minute.

ADC Map - Man, I miss paper maps. I took great pride in looking at the map, memorizing the route and then arriving without having to reference the map again. I would imagine most of my readers prefer GPS.

Quarters - Yes, I consider quarters technology because we had to have them at all times to check in on pay phones when out in the field.

Imagination and Patience - It seems a different lifetime that I would stand near a pay phone for minutes on end waiting for someone to call me.

What else did you notice? How would you have handled this?

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Chris Lengquist
A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended
Read full legalese here

© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved

He knows I’m here. I can see him glance at me every few bites. Then he goes back to his meal, chewing each bite an inordinate amount of times.

Twenty minutes. That’s how long he made me wait.

Audio for Today’s Read

Play on Spotify or Play on Apple for today’s newsletter.

The woman at the front desk had been helpful. Almost friendly. She’d turned her seat around and said, “Hey Officer [NAME REDACTED], this guy is here to see you. Says he has a subpoena.”

Officer [NAME REDACTED] had just walked in. Uniform pressed and clean. Holding a paper bag from a local sandwich shop in his hand.

“Tell him I’ll be a minute.”

Then he smiled directly at me and sat down at a table less than 20 feet from me. Behind the glass.

He proceeded to unwrap his meal as slowly as possible before leaving it on the table and disappearing for a minute or two. When he returned, he had a cold beverage in hand.

This guy. What an asshole.

Finally, he disappeared and reappeared into the lobby with me. He even brought a napkin to wipe the corners of his mouth like he’d just finished lunch at The Palm.

“Here you go.” I said it with, admittedly, with a little too much attitude and transparent disrespect.

I turned to leave, popped open the glass doors and heard the sudden sound of the ‘whoosh’ as the door opened with a bit too much force. As I exited, I brushed by another incoming officer and headed down the steps. I was just about to put the key in my car when…

“You!”

I stopped and whipped my head around. The same 6’2”, 240-pound officer is heading straight for me. Now he’s pissed.

“A fellow officer told me you called me an asshole as you stormed out the door,” his voice was loud and accusatory.

Hmm. So it wasn’t the subpoena he was mad about. I mean, he knew it was coming. I had left a message that it was about an accident he had responded to. Standard stuff for a patrol officer in Prince George’s County, Maryland.

Before I responded, he was standing over me. Eye to eye. Well, I’m 5’7.5”, 155 lbs. More like, he’s posturing me. So close I can smell the onion on his breath.

“Well, I don’t remember calling you an asshole. I remember thinking you were an asshole,” I said, looking up into his chin.

Another officer had come to see the confrontation. Then another. I felt outnumbered. And yes, intimidated. Until one laughed out loud.

“So, you did call me an asshole,” he thundered. A vein in his neck looked ready to pop.

“No. I don’t remember saying it,” I replied, staring him back down. “I do remember thinking it.”

“I ought to arrest you, you sorry son of a bitch.”

“For thinking you’re an asshole? Will a judge really convict me for thinking you’re an asshole?”

I noticed one of the officers who’d gathered, had stripes on his arms. He walked up to Officer [NAME REDACTED] and said softly, but in command, “C’mon. You’ve had your fun.”

The situation de-escalated quickly. Thank God.

I was outnumbered, though I was pretty sure I was in the right. I was too young, too stubborn, or too stupid to back down.

It could have gone another way. Part his fault. A large part his fault.

Leading up to this event, I’d left three messages for him before this and I had made an additional visit to his station at quitting time, but he’d “already gone.”

Sure.

For this serve, I had arrived before the shift start that day.

Most cops I served over nine years were professional. One time, a Prince George’s officer pulled up behind me while I was surveilling a house. Once he saw my PI license and I explained why I’d been parked there for hours, he basically said, “He’s home. Let’s go.”

I followed him up the stairs. He knocked. Announced “Police.” When the door opened, I served the guy.

After the door closed, the officer looked at me and said, “Now get out of here so the neighbors will quit calling us.” He was matter-of-fact. Not upset. Not kind. Just, “Go.”

So I thanked him, got in my ’87 Ford Escort and popped in The Clash. I responded to Mick Jones that I should go.

Off I went.

Question: What’s the pettiest behavior you’ve witnessed?

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Chris Lengquist
A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended
Read full legalese here

© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved

Hey,

Sunday mornings at 6:07 are ours. That’s not changing.

But starting Wednesday, May 12^th at 6:07 pm, something new is showing up in your inbox. I’m launching a Fiction section inside The Process Server Chronicles called The Cal Brink Files.

Here’s what it is and what it isn’t.

You will meet Cal Brink, an amalgamation of my experiences, imagination and training. Cal allows me to reach across my sixty-one years and three careers to break the rules and tell stories I could not otherwise tell.

Consider The Cal Brink Files to be versions of the events I couldn’t publish as nonfiction. Or maybe it’s complete fiction my brain created from fragments. You’ll have to figure out the difference.

You’re automatically subscribed to The Cal Brink Files section. If that’s not your thing, no hard feelings. Just hit unsubscribe on the section and Sundays stay exactly as they are. No drama.

But if you stick around, the first two chapters of Charlie Had a Dinosaur drop next Wednesday at 6:07 pm.

There are five chapters about the identification of a missing child that started a new career. Cal will give you two chapters to start.

Cal Brink’s origin story. A parking lot. A pizza. A kid who needed finding.

See you Wednesday.

— Chris

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Chris Lengquist
A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended
Read full legalese here

© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved

Audio for the Behavioral Detective Podcast

Play on Spotify or Play on Apple for today’s newsletter.

I’ve seen the same shows you’ve seen, read the same books you’ve read, where the police or a private investigator conducts a surveillance (an old fashioned stakeout) and, frankly, they look kind of cool. Admittedly, there is a certain thrill we attach to honorably be watching someone to catch them doing something they probably shouldn’t be doing.

When I was a new investigator/process server, the thrill was the mindset I had. But after having been a part of countless surveillance situations, let me tell you what I learned.

Professional Stalker

First, and there is no way around this, I was a professional stalker.

I was there to watch people at the intersection of their public and private lives.

Think about it. If you give it long enough, can anyone’s life stand up to that kind of scrutiny? Human beings are complicated. We often have relationships with people or food or interests we know are bad for us, and we do it anyway.

In our society, we look down on stalkers and we send them to jail when we can. Yet perfectly normal people in our modern world think nothing of clicking down one too many links on someone else’s life.

“Oh, look at their vacation.”

Followed by, “Where was that?”

Followed by, “Who is that with them?” Click.

Followed by, “Well, where do they live?” Click

It’s the same surveillance behavior, albeit more curated, volunteered, and socially acceptable. Expected, even. But still.

Face it, social media fills a certain voyeuristic need.

My Body Has Needs

Watch any cop on surveillance on any screen and we will see him (or her) drinking bad coffee and eating some cheap food. Let me tell you about that.

It only takes one surveillance to learn that you don’t eat or drink during a stakeout.

If you do, unless you have the bladder of a camel, you will need to use the restroom sooner or later. We either need to carry a bladder bottle with us (and hopefully disinfectant wipes) or get out of the car and pee on a tree (not usually reasonable in a suburban neighborhood) or leave the scene while hoping your subject doesn’t move on without you.

That’s not something you want to explain to your client.

Absurd, right?

Maybe I’m over-sharing, but I have decreased kidney function and I have known that since I was in my mid-forties. Did it have anything to do with sitting in a hot and humid car in Washington, DC summers without drinking enough to stay hydrated because twenty-something me thought it better than having to leave and find a bathroom?

I don’t know. But I suspect. Correlation and causation are not necessarily the same. But, you do the math. Because sixty-one-year-old me does it every day.

Basic Surveillance Skills

I spent a number of years as a professional photographer. In fact, those years overlapped the end of my process server career and the beginning of my real estate career. That’s because…

I was taught how to use a camera with long lenses and high-speed film to take pictures of people doing things they shouldn’t be doing.

See how this works?

Then there is the skill of documentation. When you sit in a witness box next to a judge with dozens of faces staring right at you answering a question under oath, which I have done many times, you are more believable if you have notes.

7:16 pm – AAS (Arrived at scene)

7:33 pm – SLIF (Subject left, I followed)

8:01 pm – A (Arrived) at Wilson’s nightclub.

8:11 pm – Viewed making contact with woman, brunette, 5’4”, 115 pounds.

9:22 pm – Followed to local hotel.

Judges and juries love handwritten notes. Attorneys for the defendant, not so much.

Be Charming and Then Be Gone

Do enough surveillance work and you will be “made.” We don’t usually get to see this in the movies or hear it in the notes of your favorite true crime podcast.

I’ve talked to a dozen cops about my “right to be here,” showed my PI license and then moved on. Because once you are burned, you are burned.

Surveillance is expensive to the client and there is no sense in sticking around to anonymously observe if the local nosy-neighbor has announced to the entire neighborhood that you are there by having sent in the police.

Don’t think that really happens or couldn’t happen to your favorite private investigator on television? Think again.

Romance v Reality

I loved being a private investigator and process server. It was exciting, I was good at it and I’ve been telling stories about my experiences for going on forty years.

I also hated being a PI. Because watching people takes a toll.

Ever rung a doorbell with exceedingly bad financial news (a summons that will allow a lawyer to crawl way up inside your finances) and find the person who opens the door is someone you see on a regular basis?

Awkward.

But that’s the actual job.

Where in your life have you had a love/hate relationship?

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Chris Lengquist
A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended
Read full legalese here

Subscribe now

Audio Version

I’m not sure how the file got to our office or even how much work Tony had already done on the case. Insurance fraud. The subject had been awarded $164,000 in a settlement. That’s 1988 dollars. About $446,000 today. Not small money.

Insurance companies, as we all know, hate losing cash.

Tony had been tasked with doing a follow-up visit about six months after the settlement. I don’t remember all the details because I wasn’t lead on this. I was the lowest rung of a tall ladder of investigators at our place.

Tony issued a command as he walked by me: “Get your stuff. You’re coming with me.”

So I did.

We drove about four miles to a Rockville, MD grocery store and pulled into a parking space, head out. The temperature was hot, so we rolled the windows down. I’m just glad the sun was to our rear, not glaring into the windshield.

“See that green Chevy? That’s the subject’s car,” Tony said, pointing to the next row of cars in front of us, one car to our right.

Tony put up one of those whole-window sunshades, the kind that blocks out the entire windshield. Only this one had a homemade flap that moved side to side. Pretty clever, really.

Tony was good at what he did. He knew cameras. In fact, it was Tony who showed me how to take great pictures from long distances in any kind of light of people doing things they probably shouldn’t be doing. Those skills later translated into some pretty high-end sports photography for me. Whole other story.

He handed me a photograph. White male, scruffy dark brown hair, brown eyes, unfortunate mustache.

“Your pretense is buying groceries. But here’s the real deal. The subject works behind the high counter next to all the registers. Take a good look at this.”

I studied the photo.

“When he goes to leave, I need you to follow. I’ll be watching, but just in case, when you come out of the store behind him, look my way and tip that chicken hat of yours,” Tony teased.

Jayhawk. I keep telling you, Jayhawk, I think to myself.

Everyone from out East has no idea there’s land west of the Ohio River until they land in Los Angeles. And don’t even get me started on New Yorkers.

“Be quick,” Tony added. “He gets off in about ten minutes.”

I walked up and down the aisles, half paying attention to what pasta sauce I was adding to the cart. Then I saw mustache man, getting ready to leave. Right on time. Neck brace and all.

Still wearing a neck brace? I really should have learned more about this case.

But then he does something unexpected. He grabs a basket and starts shopping. Slowly. Eight or ten items later, he finally leaves the freezer section for the checkouts.

I abandoned my cart, grabbed an empty checkout next to him, and paid for a Coke and a Heath Bar I picked up from the last-minute candy section. I love the crunch of the toffee.

Don’t judge. I was still young.

He exited the grocery store at a loafer’s pace, carrying one very full brown paper bag.

It’s hard for me to walk that slow. But I adjusted. Exited the sliding door. Tipped my hat in a half-wave sort of fashion.

Even thirty or forty yards away, Tony and I made eye contact.

He was smiling.

As I was instructed, I stayed about ten or twelve yards behind and went to the second car from Tony. Ostensibly, looking for my keys while watching our subject the whole time.

Ah. Now I see it.

There were two rolls of quarters just under the driver’s door of the subject’s car. One roll intact. One roll broken open, scattered in a small area.

Bait.

Easy enough to see. But you’d have to reach down to get them.

And he did.

Dude reached down while holding the paper bag. But not before looking around to see if anyone else had noticed. And I mean a full side-to-side neck turn. The guilty-looking kind.

It was just too good.

This guy was bent over, neck brace on, holding a bag of groceries, picking up quarters and throwing them in the bag, and still looking from side to side as if he was stealing the Hope Diamond.

I never learned all the ins and outs of this case. I filled out a report and moved on. But I was told the insurance company loved the video Tony provided to them. Permanently disabled guy from an accident (allegedly), bending over and straining himself for $20 while holding weight in one arm. (Here I would also say “allegedly” but not for the fact that I was there and I know what I witnessed.)

I don’t actually know if the insurance company recovered any money. That’s true. I wasn’t part of the recovery. Lawyers and insurance types don’t circle back to keep us updated.

But I know he lost that $164,000 settlement for twenty bucks in twenty-five cent increments. No way the insurance company was letting that slide.

Because Tony was in his car, flap to the side, videotaping every bit of what went on.

$20 in quarters cost this guy $164,000.
What’s the smallest thing you’ve ever seen someone lose something big over?
Tell me your version.

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Chris Lengquist
A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended
Read full legalese here

© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved

Audio Version

Bang!
Bang-bang!
Bang!
That cadence. I can still repeat it exactly, 38 years later.
Late summer of ’87. SE Washington, D.C. The crack cocaine wars were just beginning to show their teeth. I could feel the city changing.

I was sent to Southeast to wait out a subject and serve him a subpoena. Nobody knew where he spent his days, but he always came home at night.

Eventually.

He was a Black male. About 6’ tall. Around 210 pounds. Early 40s.

He lived on one of the alphabet streets off 18th and Minnesota. Modest house. Trees spaced like they were planned by a committee—every 35 feet or so. Cars parked tight on both sides of a summer-hot street with that blacktop that holds heat long after the sun gives up.

I was in one of those cars. A black Ford Escort. Windows down. Music off. Watching the house three doors up.

My car blended right in.

My skin color, not so much.

An occasional dog walker would past in the dark and notice me. They’d pause half a beat too long. Then keep going. Sometimes they’d circle back on the other side of the street like they were suddenly very committed to cardio.

If the walker was younger, or in a group, you’d hear it: “Five-O.”

Don’t bother me, I won’t bother you. That was my motto.

One hour turned to two. Two was almost three. It was about 11:20 p.m. and still no sign of my subject.

Honestly? I was bored.

Then it happened.

Bang!
Bang-bang!
Bang!

For a split second, my brain tried to explain it away.

Firecrackers? No.

Shot? Yep. That sounds like a .32 caliber.

No more than twenty-five, maybe thirty yards away. Close enough that on the last bang I swear I saw a flash in the corner of my eye as I whipped my head around.

I grew up with guns. Of course I did. I’m from Kansas, right on the border with Missouri. Weekends were at my grandparents’ place in Rich Hill, an old coal strip-mining town dying a slow, inevitable death. The Suzie-Qs from the local burger joint still pull me back from time to time.

Most Saturdays or Sundays we’d shoot. Rifles. Pistols. Shotguns. I started around eight years old. My uncle drilled safety into me.

And I’m not repeating his exact line, because it’s not a sentence you put in print and feel good about. But the lesson was clear: treat it like it’s loaded, respect it, don’t get stupid.

I’d heard gunshots thousands of times growing up.

But this was different.

There were no bottles or cans.

This was real.

Did I freeze? No.

Did I run toward the gunfire? Definitely not.

I’ve learned over the years, between 22 year old kid I was then and now at 61, that I have a fight response, not flight or freeze. But that night? I didn’t have training. I was young. I wasn’t sure what the “right” action even looked like. And frankly, it took me two or three seconds to realize what was actually happening.

Should I stay on the surveillance or leave the area?

Or should I investigate the shooting?

I never saw the shooter at all. I never even saw my subject that night.

I was there to serve a paper, not get involved in a shooting. Fifteen dollars an hour to surveil and forty bucks for successful service to get shot? No, thank you.

So, I made a decision: I’d come back another time.

You could say I was afraid. You’d be right. Who wouldn’t be?

But what surprised me later was how cold I felt at that moment. Like some part of my brain shut a door and said, “Not tonight.”

I wasn’t panicked. I was unsure. Hyperaware and thinking quickly once the shock wore off.

I turned the key. Kept the lights off. Put the car in D. Foot on the brake. Hands on the wheel, slick with sweat.

Then the sirens started coming from all directions like the city had been holding its breath and finally exhaled.

I was 22 years old.

I didn’t sign up for this.

I took my foot off the brake, rolled forward, flipped on my headlights like I belonged there, and drove east, crossing a perpendicular street as a police cruiser bore down and careened to his left behind me, heading toward the shots.

I worked my way to Pennsylvania Avenue and crossed the John Phillip Sousa Bridge like it was a border checkpoint. I didn’t stop until I got to 2nd Street.

In the moon shadow of the Supreme Court, I finally pulled over, gathered myself, and started writing detailed notes.

DNS. (Did Not Serve.) Time of arrival. Shots fired. Surveillance terminated. Time/Date.

Two and a half miles.

That’s how far the violence is from the Supreme Court. Two and a half miles, but a world away. The world’s beacon of freedom just stone’s throw from poverty and gunfire.

The next morning at the office, I told the story. The older investigators barely looked up.

“You get out quick?” Tony inquired without even looking up from his newspaper.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Tommy, the one who brought me in, leaned back in his chair like he was settling into a porch swing. “You go back?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t. Give it a couple days. Let it settle.”

That was it. No drama. No debrief. Just: you got out, good, wait a couple days.

Three nights later, I went back.

Same street. Same house. Same black Ford Escort.

This time the subject came home around 9:30 p.m. Walked right up to his door, calm as could be.

I got out, walked up behind him.

“[NAME REDACTED], I’ve got a subpoena for you.”

He looked at the papers. Looked at me. “Yeah,” he said. “I was expecting you. Heard you were in the neighborhood the night of the shooting.”

I let the moment breathe. He was matter-of-fact. Comfortable, even.

“You know who it was?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said. “None of my business.”

He went inside.

I went back to my car, wrote the time, and drove to my last service of the evening.

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The Split-Second Decision

You hear gunshots. Twenty-five yards away. You’re sitting in your car on a dark street. What do you do?

A) Leave immediately
B) Stay and observe
C) Call the cops
D) Something else

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Chris Lengquist
A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended
Read full legalese here

© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved