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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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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.

Leave a Comment

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.”

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.

Tell me how it helps by leaving a comment.

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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.

Leave a Comment

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.

Listen on Spotify or Apple or Amazon

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

“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.

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.

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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

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?

Leave a comment

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Weekly Easter eggs, insights and extras over at Behavioral Detective HQ.

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?

Leave a comment

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?

Leave a comment

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.

Leave a comment

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

Leave a comment

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

Traci Brown is the #3 body language expert in the world and a leader in training people to increase sales by detecting deception. She’s a frequent guest on TV interpreting the body language of criminals and politicians. (And sometimes both labels describe the same person!)

She even helps lawyers pick and persuade a jury using body language.

Traci Brown

Body Language Expert & Author

Website: https://www.bodylanguagetrainer.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/BodyLanguageSpeaker

Transcript

Chris: There you are. How are you doing?

Traci: Good, good! I’m trying to get my camera right here. Sometimes the… the Zoom goes a little crazy, so…

Chris: I understand. You got a… you got a Brunswick bowling PIN behind you. You don’t see those very often.

Traci: Let me… I do! I, um, there’s a story behind it. Do you want it now, or do you want it during the, uh…

Chris: Uh, we, we can do it on the thing there, um, and I appreciate your questions and your, and your intro, and I’m gonna do all that, too, and I appreciate you being on here.

Traci: Yeah, sorry, I… I don’t know if I sent it prior, and I was just like, oh my gosh, I don’t know, anyway.

Chris: Yeah, you said it… now, I know that your book was written a few years ago, do you want me to say hot off the presses?

Traci: Um… Uh, you know, I’m right at the crossroads now of, um… I just finished my new book, and it’s in…

Chris: Okay.

Traci: I… what… what I would like to do is say, yeah, I have a book, it’s awesome, and we can tease a new one.

Chris: Okay.

Traci: So, uh, because I have something really cool that I’m gonna do with it. And I just want to get people to sign up for my newsletter, um, because it’s so cool, and it’s so top secret, and no one has done this before with a book. Uh… I just can’t say what it is right now.

Chris: Well, then don’t, but I mean, the information gap is a great thing when you’re setting up a.

Traci: Yeah. Mm-hmm.

Chris: a story, right? So, that’s…

Traci: Yep, mhm.

Chris: That’s cool. Well, again, thank you for being on here. Well, I’ll tell you what, why don’t I, um…

Traci: Yeah.

Chris: My plan is to always do audio, but if this works great, you’ve got a great background, I might do Zoom, and I forgot to send you a media release, so I’ll have to send you that before we can do that. It’s not a big deal.

Traci: Oh, it’s fine. Whatever. I’m not worried.

Chris: I just… I’m surrounded by lawyers in my life, so the, um… you probably are too. So, so…

Traci: I have a few, I do have a couple, yeah.

Chris: Yeah, but I will definitely link to your website, and do all that kind of fun stuff, and…

Traci: Okay.

Chris: And we’re gaining about 2 to 3 subscribers a day, so, I mean, it’s a new project, and uh, but it seems to.

Traci: Oh, cool!

Chris: be resonating with people, so that’ll be fun, so… cool. All right, so I’ll tell you what, uh, let me just… let me just get started here.

Traci: I like it! That’s good.

Chris: All right, well, Traci, I’m glad you’re here. Thank you.

Traci: Thanks for having me, this is great!

Chris: Well, listen, for folks that don’t know Traci Brown, she’s the number 3 body language expert in the world, and a leader in training people to increase the detecting deception. I tried to say that, like, 3 or 4 times, but that’s a tongue twister for me, alright?

Traci: It is! Mm-hmm.

Chris: She’s a frequent guest on TV interpreting body language, and I was just watching another one of her newsletters. She puts videos on there, so I highly recommend becoming a part of her newsletter. But she interprets the body language of criminals and politicians, and sometimes those are the same things in today’s world, right? She even helps lawyers, um, pick and persuade using body language as far as they’re picking their juries.

Traci: Mm-hmm.

Chris: And she’s a former member of the U.S. National Cycling Team. Is that what I saw?

Traci: That is true, 100%.

Chris: Well, I’ve got to ask you about that, because I used to ride a bike 4 and 5,000 miles a year.

Traci: Okay, all right, so did I.

Chris: Yeah, I bet you did, if you were on… I was just doing it to go from beer to beer and barbecue to barbecue to keep the weight off, but it was… it was a lot of fun, but… You’ve got your book, How to Detect Lies and Fraud and Identity Theft?

Traci: Mm-hmm.

Chris: And… Are you gonna tease the new book, or are we gonna hold that secret right now?

Traci: I have… okay, so… I’m gonna tease the book, and I’m really gonna tease how I’m gonna roll it out. So, um… Yeah, so, so far the working title is, um, called Watch What They Say. And it’s… at best, it’ll come out summer 2027.

Chris: Okay.

Traci: because publishers are glacial in speed, and I have the coolest. Book promo to go along with it that anyone has ever done in the history and I am not kidding you, I am not exaggerating, it is the coolest. book promo that anyone has ever done in the history of the world, and I am… I am doing it, and I can’t tell you what it is yet. Um, but that’s why people want to sign up for my newsletter. And of course, there’s gonna be cool stuff in my newsletter between now and when I can announce that.

Chris: Where is that newsletter? So, give us the URL, just for anybody that wants it.

Traci: Oh, uh, you can go to bodylanguageTrainer.com, and, um, it’s down at the… at the, uh, bottom, you’ll see it there in the link to sign up, or. Anytime I post anything on my TikToks or my, um, Facebook, the link is there.

Chris: And we’re gonna link to it in this article, too. So, I mean, so that’ll be great. And, as I understand it, you’re an executive producer of a TV series?

Traci: As well. Mm-hmm. I got one in the works in Hollywood, yeah, and so, um, the working title of that is… Um, we just changed it. Uh, truth be told.

Chris: Truth be told, okay.

Traci: Yeah, mm-hmm. So, um, you know, Hollywood’s a fickle place, so knock on wood. That, uh, something cool happens with it.

Chris: Yeah, well, that is a lot of fun. So, let’s circle back to this bicycling thing. You were a pro at bicycling. Is that the deal? How did you get into that? How did you get out of it? What did you experience?

Traci: Yeah. Yeah, mm-hmm. Oh, well, uh, that led me directly into being a body language expert, um, because I learned quickly that the core of cycling, like the elite level. is for little people, and I’m a big person, and uh… you know, 5’9”, I don’t think overly big, but when you race against elf-sized people. Um, you have to do some things differently to start to keep up and eventually win, and I was able to predict what was going to happen before. Before it actually happened, maybe before even people knew they were gonna make their move, and getting that half a second, uh, jump on what was about to happen was what. allowed me to, to eventually keep up and, and uh… and then, and then win, and I needed… and I needed it, here’s the thing, because. I had jumped into the deep end of cycling without even knowing it. There was this guy, he kept showing up to the races, uh, and, well, he was there in the training rides, you know, because you always train with the men, but every now and then, I’d jump in the races and race right alongside him. His name was Lance, and uh, he was really fast. Lance Armstrong!

Chris: I was gonna say, did he have any medical conditions later on? Yeah, yeah, so…

Traci: He did have a few, so… excuse me. Anyway, um, he’s no joke really fast, but I had to be able to anticipate what was going to happen, so I, because the problem is in cycling. The problem, and I know that you know this from doing a little bit of riding yourself, it’s not like, I don’t know, if you’re playing softball or soccer or whatever, you’re having a bad day, you know, it’s not that you sit on the bench, who cares? You know, it’s not that big of a… Big of a deal. When… in cycling, if you don’t… if you don’t cut it, they leave you behind, and you’ve got to find your way home, and you are exhausted anyway, and I’m talking wind, rain, hail.

Chris: Oh.

Traci: Uh, heat, cold, all of it. Snow? And, uh, I was tired of that, and so I had to really focus in on what I did know and what I could use, and that was understanding body language at a really deep level. But the thing is, I didn’t realize I was doing it. Until, um, I had already retired. And, uh, and I was… I was watching the Tour de France with a friend. I’m like, oh, look, here’s what’s gonna happen. And she’s like, don’t you understand you’ve been doing this body language thing for.

Chris: Yeah.

Traci: way longer than you ever thought, and I was like, oh, it hit me hard! So, um… Uh, so I, you know, I’ve been reading people since I was 14 years old, and uh, now, you know, I’ve gone into business with those skills, and I’ve been lucky enough to train right alongside our country’s top law enforcement. uh, FBI police, uh, and, and, you know, military, um, Green Berets and Navy, and, um, and I’ve… and it’s using those same skills to build your bottom line, save you time, money, and energy.

Chris: Well, we’re not gonna make this whole interview about bicycling, but what was a tell? Like, you’re sitting by… you’re sitting in the draft.

Traci: Uh-huh.

Chris: And, and you… and you… what was a tell that you can share?

Traci: Uh, well, everyone… and this is the same in the boardroom, okay? It’s the same at work, it’s the same at home. Everyone has their own unique tells. And when you can start to understand everyone’s uniqueness. Um, then you can start to anticipate what goes on. So, with some people, it would be a sudden change in the angle of their back. Right? Um, other people… other times, um, I would notice, um. You know, when it gets hot, it didn’t work in the winter as much, but when it gets hot, and people start to sweat, if there’s a line of salt. Uh, just under the… under the elastic band of their shorts. I knew I could attack and they wouldn’t come with me. Because they were… they were busted. So, um, little bitty things like, like that, like when someone starts drinking too much, when, um…

Chris: Yeah.

Traci: Sometimes you can notice when people become sloppy and they start bouncing around a little bit. then, um, that’s a tell as well, that they’re just, like, they’re struggling, right? So, um, and of course, I had to understand, like, the flow of the pack, and what was about to happen next, because, um, and you know this too, and I think it’s true in the rest of the world. If you’re not moving up, you’re moving back. That’s just it, you can’t, you can’t sit still in the pack and be like, all right, I’m good. As soon as you do that, you get dumped out the back. It just doesn’t work. Like, someone will gap you, and then. And then you gotta go around them, and then you’re fighting to get back to the front, so… Always, if you’re not moving up, you’re moving back.

Chris: Yeah, you described all of my bicycling tells. I was constantly bonking. Just kidding. So, it was a lot of fun. So, hey! you work with all kinds of investigations. You help financial and insurance groups spot lies and therefore prevent fraud. What are some of the easy ways that anyone can use these tools we’re talking about.

Traci: Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm.

Chris: to stop, you know, to find the lies and stop the losses. I mean, give us real practicality.

Traci: Well, okay, so if someone nods their head yes, this means yes, okay? And if they shake their head no, this means no. And, um, you know, a perfect example of this right now is, um, super timely, it’s the Clintons.

Chris: Right.

Traci: when… because they just released all of their, uh, deposition to Congress, or testimony… I don’t know if it’s a deposition or testimony. Um, but, uh, you know, Bill Clinton got asked, did you, uh, have any sexual, uh, contact with anyone Jeffrey Epstein introduced you to? And he very clearly says, no. He nods his head, yes, right? So, what happens is, during deception, we go into cognitive overload.

Chris: Okay.

Traci: And, um, the, uh, prefrontal cortex, like the adult, like the newest part of our brain. starts to take over functions that it shouldn’t be doing, right? Because it’s having to fabricate all this information, and um… and also, the body doesn’t want to keep a lie in. It’s very expensive energetically.

Chris: Yeah.

Traci: Like, like, the brain is a… the brain is a big energy hog, and so if you ask it to deceive, right, it’s having to keep the lie in, it’s having to create. Energy, uh, like, to sell the concept, it’s having to add emotions. And so, the system just melts down, but it’s in these little, tiny ways. And so when you can… when you can pick up on, on that, that’s when you can. you can, uh… because it’s not always about creating these gotcha moments, right? It’s… it’s really about… Knowing more than is immediately obvious, and navigating around that so that you can begin to, um… uh, like, get the right answer out of people, but more importantly, inform your decisions, right? Because you can just do something different, like knowing what you know.

Chris: So, I’m going to go off script a little bit here, because I want to dig here if we can, if that’s okay, because what I found as an investigator is if I asked enough questions, people couldn’t help but talk.

Traci: Okay, let’s do it. Oh, yeah.

Chris: And, and what I didn’t understand was how… because I’m a little bit like you, you said. you could tell, but you didn’t know how or why. You were reading these kinds of things, right? So…

Traci: Mm-hmm.

Chris: When you’re learning how to… to identify this in real time, how was it for you that you began to realize, I’m picking this stuff up. And I’m transferring it, and I’m making it knowledge that I can now use. Do you see what I’m trying to say, or am I asking… I’m not asking a very good question, because I didn’t know why I was good at it, but then as I began to learn it by seeing the same patterns over again, I began to then put it into groups.

Traci: Um… Well, when I was really able to put it into play, uh, a lot more than just from bike racing was, uh, because I’m trained as a hypnotist. I saw clients.

Chris: Okay.

Traci: for 8 years, and I was able to… because here’s the thing, when people go to therapy, okay, for one, no one wants to go to therapy, no one wants to be there, okay? Uh, just bottom line thing. And, um, when they are there, there’s a shame factor that’s in play, okay? And it’s… it’s the same factor, like, if you’re interviewing someone in an investigation, right? There’s a. There’s a shame factor at play. And so that can, can lead people to stretch the truth, or minimize, or, um… what have you. Now, as a therapist, right, I need to know exactly what’s going on. so I can get them across the hump, right? Because they didn’t come… they didn’t come in. To be the same. Like, they came, they, they walked in one way, and they paid me money so they could walk out another way.

Chris: No.

Traci: And, uh, and if they’re not being straight with me, I have to know that, so that I can… so I can get them to point B. Like, and it is amazing, the amount of people that come in. Don’t want to tell you the whole thing. And I got really good at figuring out when they weren’t telling me everything. And then I got really good at pulling the truth out of them. And so… so this whole thing started, right, just in the sake of… of results. And, um, and of course, now I do… I do different, like, bigger things, uh, with it, but, um… that’s, that’s when I started to realize, I’m like, okay, wait, I’m getting good at this.

Chris: Yeah, it’s fun to think back about how those progressions happened, and that’s, that’s why I was just asking you, because I think some of our readers or listeners are probably.

Traci: Yeah.

Chris: you’re reading detective stories for a reason. Like, you kind of get into trying to figure that out. So, is body language the same for big and small lies?

Traci: Mm-hmm. It is. Uh, no, well, yeah, it is. It’s more subtle for the small ones, okay? So…

Chris: Okay, tell me more.

Traci: So, body language doesn’t… so for one… so, first, first thing, let’s get this… really straight. Body language by itself doesn’t indicate a whole lot, okay? However, it’s that intricate dance with the words, and uh… and with your tone, and with your volume, and with your pacing. That all of a sudden, it can create a big… more complete picture. So, um…

Chris: Right.

Traci: Body language, it doesn’t scream at you, it leaks. And I think that every now and then it’ll scream but, but, but most, mostly. it leaks. And so…

Chris: That sounds like a line for your TV show. I’m telling you, that line jumps out at me.

Traci: Yeah, well, good, good! Call the people in Hollywood and tell them to light a fire under them. Man, I’ve never met people who have less urgency than people in Hollywood. Um, so, uh, point being is that you really have to raise your sensory acuity. That’s how much you’re paying attention to what goes on outside of you. Uh, to see these things, because most of us go, um, go through life, like, paying… So much attention to ourselves, we just don’t pay attention to what’s going on outside us. And so, and here’s the thing. It’s… I understand how difficult it is to do, just in daily life, because one of the things that, um. over the last, let’s say, year, I’ve been, uh, really working on focusing on, uh, because it’s very… it’s very… accurate tell of stress is someone’s blink rate, and it’s not something that I was necessarily originally trained to watch. And, and so I’ve been, I’ve been trying to, to, to focus on that more and it is hard to, um. like, take that new piece and pay attention, right? And now that I’m getting it, it’s, it’s a lot easier, right? But even though, like, you can know.

Chris: Yeah.

Traci: All the stuff in the world, you can memorize every book ever written on the topic, but to put it into play. takes conscious effort. So, um, that’s, you know, in my keynotes, because a lot of what I do is. Is, uh, speak to associations and corporations to help them integrate this into their sales and negotiations and hiring and things like that. Um, like, I make sure in my talk that people have an experience of using it, but it’s up to you to keep using it. Because, uh, like, there’s so much uncertainty going on these days. Uh, with everything around us, and whether it’s economically, politically, or even online, like, we are so… we are more deceived than ever. More than ever! And, um, knowing the truth. is key to making the best decisions that you can, right? And… and… and moving forward powerfully, because every… every big, um… Like, like, leadership decision, like, has an impact and it, like, with dollars, time and money and, and so it’s super important. To best inform that decision immediately, right away, so that. Um, you’re working with all the information that you have.

Chris: Yeah, alright. Great, great words there, and by the way, now I’m really self-conscious about my blinking, so, like…

Traci: Well, the thing about blinks, here’s the thing about blinks. There’s… there’s two things that you can’t manually control. Uh, one is your blink rate. And the other is your forehead. And so, when you can start to watch those 2. body parts. I was gonna call them, like, items, but when you can watch those two things, you’re gonna get a really accurate view.

Chris: You’re…

Traci: Of… of someone’s emotional state, and what they’re comfortable with and what they’re not. Like, because here’s the thing. Uh, Chris, is that signs of deception are… there’s no, like, sign of deception. It’s what you’re looking for is a sign of stress. And stress is… for people who are not, uh, like…

Chris: Mm-hmm.

Traci: Neurologically, uh…

Chris: Yeah.

Traci: Like, like a psychopath or something like that. Uh, then that’s gonna be a really accurate read on what’s going on for someone.

Chris: So your best people to interview for body language are bald people, because we have lots of forehead, and you don’t have to worry about doing that.

Traci: Yeah, for sure, but even if you don’t, I mean, yeah, the worst ones are the bangs. I’m like, get rid of the bangs! Or, um… Botox is another one that’s… that’ll, um…

Chris: Oh, yeah.

Traci: That can throw a wrench in… in, uh… But even, even so, like, here’s the thing, I don’t have a thing against Botox, I like it, I think it’s great. I, um, I think it can lead to a really good look, so I’m not getting down on people or judging or anything. Um, and… but here’s the thing, there’s always an area outside the affected area that will move. So, so don’t think, like, if you, if you find someone whose eyebrows are cemented into place, there’s other tells, um, like, head to toe, but definitely in the forehead, too, you can still see stuff.

Chris: Got it. Fantastic. So… How do we start to use this info at work and get real answers that we need out of customers and coworkers?

Traci: Okay, so to get answers, here’s the key, and I want you to consider this, and I know you know this, but my mentor in the FBI. He’s an FBI trainer, retired now. He goes, look, it’s all about information recovery. So, all you gotta do is keep people talking. Just keep them talking. And uh… and you can do, like, little bitty things, just elicitation things, and just say, really? Or, no way, right? Like, little things like that will keep people talking. You can even tell them information that you know is. empirically wrong, because people want to help, and they want to, uh, they want to correct you, right? So, one of the ones that I’ve heard was back in, um…

Chris: Yep. Yep.

Traci: in Vietnam. Okay, so the U.S. Navy’s in Vietnam, and the soldiers get a little bit of leave, and they go to the bar, and, you know, spies are everywhere. They’re everywhere. And, you know, they don’t wear fedoras and trench coats, you know, they don’t.

Chris: So…

Traci: Uh, and all they gotta do is keep them talking, and they said something like, oh, I heard the propellers on, on, uh, your boat was, you know, 10 feet wide, and, and they’re like, you know, they’re a little drunk. They’re like, no, no, they’re 15. Right? So… so, those are… that’s, like, just a little bit…

Chris: Yeah.

Traci: Of how you can keep people talking.

Chris: Yeah, when I would interview people, or especially when I was skip tracing, my challenge was to get my answer without asking them the question. Like, keep… like, ask all the peripheral questions, but they will volunteer the information eventually.

Traci: Uh-huh. Yeah. Mm-hmm. Oh yeah, yeah, they want to help. Skip tracing, tell me about that!

Chris: So… Well, you know, when I was an investigator in Maryland, I worked Maryland, D.C, and Virginia. I was a process server as well.

Traci: Uh…

Chris: And, um, I was 22, 23 the first time I did it, and it turned out I was pretty good at it, and they kept sending me out, because I could talk to people, and I could be whoever that person needed me to be.

Traci: Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Oh, okay.

Chris: Um, you know, I even talk about it in one of my articles, that if you need me to be a little rough and tumble and cuss, I could do that. If you need me to be very sweet. you know, friend of your son who I was trying to find, I could do that. Um, just… and if you just talk to them long enough and ask them enough peripheral questions, they’ll generally give you the answer that you came for, and…

Traci: Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. Yeah, behavioral flexibility, that is key.

Chris: Well, I love that term. We, you know, we called it pretext.

Traci: Uh-huh.

Chris: But my soul called it lying. I was always in inner conflict about all of us, if that makes any sense. That’s…

Traci: Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm.

Chris: after 9 years, I’d had enough of it, but I was good at it, which is kind of a scary thing, you know, so…

Traci: Yeah. It is, I gotta watch out for you.

Chris: Well, we’re gonna talk more about, um, a couple questions I had for you, but tell me about the Brunswick bowling pen.

Traci: Oh, my bowling PIN behind me. Okay, so I, um, I’m, uh, grew up in a family of bowlers, we’re all bowlers, and my uncle is the best one. Out of all of us. And so he has… he’s in Arkansas, and he has a, um, an attic that’s kind of like a… it’s like a museum. All the toys from the 1950s growing up are there, and so when me and my brother were little, we’d go up there and we’d get the little, you know, the marionettes and whatever that they had. And we had this bowling PIN up there, and I… it just blew my mind. It blew my mind, like. how could you get a bowling PIN? Like, you know, because I’m little, I’m like, because then, you know, you wouldn’t be able to set all the pins just right, because you’d be down a PIN, you know, and like… like, I just… it just blew my mind.

Chris: Yeah. I get it.

Traci: And so, I’ve always wanted a bowling PIN. I’ve always wanted one. And just after the pandemic, I got asked to speak at the Bowling Proprietors. association. And I gave my talk, it went great, and right before I was done, I was like, look, y’all. And I told him the story, and I said, I really want a bowling PIN. I will buy it. Can I buy a bowling PIN from someone in here? And the bowling lanes right over here by me, Chipper’s Lanes in Broomfield, Colorado, and mind you, we were in. Louisville, Kentucky, because, you know, conferences are everywhere. Uh, the girl from there came up, and she said.

Chris: Okay.

Traci: We would love to host you for a night of bowling on us, and we will give you a PIN, and that. And that is my PIN, and I’m so proud of it, and I just love it.

Chris: Well, so you, you lead a pretty cool life. You get to go talk to people and train with people about something you’re impassioned about, right? And so, what I’ve seen from your newsletters, that’s what you’re sharing with people.

Traci: Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm, I do. Mm-hmm, yeah.

Chris: And whether they ever use it or not, you’re sharing a really useful skill, and. It’s good entertainment.

Traci: Well, it is. People call my newsletters juicy, and so I’m always talking about someone in the news. who’s, like, showing these signs, and they’re probably being deceptive. And, you know, the more and more video that we have out, um, these days, the more there is to comment on. So, I do that once a month. And, um, and people can join, and I know you’re gonna put the link in the, uh… in your comments or in the article. Um, and… but if you’re hungrier than that. Um, every… every day, I post on Facebook or TikTok. And, um, I’m getting a huge following going. I’ve only been posting every day since about… let’s call the first of… let’s call it the first of December on Facebook. I’d been doing it kind of randomly on TikTok, like, and gaining a little bit. I got… okay, so let’s back up.

Chris: Okay.

Traci: I got kicked off TikTok. For my, uh, analysis of Harry and Meghan. Um, and I have… I believe that they have someone on the inside. at TikTok, who pulled everything, uh, off, and I’ll tell you, it was… it was, uh, February 2nd. 2024, I believe, was the date, whenever his book came out.

Chris: Okay.

Traci: Because I was… man, I was racking up the views, like, 600,000, 700,000. Uh, and I didn’t say, hey, look, he’s lying, so you should hate him. I was like, hey, here’s an example of someone who’s holding back information, someone who’s not being 100%. Truthful, all, you know, um… I think justifiable, right? Uh, but Harry and Meghan did not like it, and the reason I know that they have someone on the inside of TikTok. Is because on that day, uh, my friend who was kind of helping me craft all of this, like, you know, just strategy-wise. she… I’m like, look, my account’s gone. It’s not coming back. And… and she got on there, and you could not find anything about Harry or Meghan on TikTok at all. on that date. So they had it, they had everything, they, they scrubbed, uh, TikTok. So, anyway, so I, uh… Excuse me. So I was like, why am I putting all this effort into this, hoping to build something here, if it’s all gonna be just taken away?

Chris: Right.

Traci: Uh, and so I just quit for a year, and then I kind of got back doing it. I was like, why not? I have a little extra time. Anyway, it’s starting to blow up, um, but I post the same thing on Facebook, and that’s the one that’s really going. So since, um… I started out…

Chris: So you got the kids and the old people.

Traci: Yeah, yeah. So, so I… so, and Facebook, for real, it is old people, like, the 65 plus crowd loves me. You know, because I can see all the stats, but since, um…

Chris: Yeah.

Traci: since December, and we’re talking… today is, what, March 5th or so? Um… Since December, I’ve gained… I’ll give you the latest number, um… 66,000 followers, and 4 million views?

Chris: There you go.

Traci: Um, hang on, let me get you the number here.

Chris: And this is on TikTok, or…

Traci: This is on Facebook, 4.7 million views in the last month. So, it’s going somewhere, that’s good. Um…

Chris: Facebook. Well, I’ll have to… I’ll have to look you up. I’m gonna… I’m gonna… it’s a… it’s a personal goal to die without ever being on TikTok, but that’s just…

Traci: Well, I had that goal too, but then I was like, maybe I could make some money. But…

Chris: That’s just me. I get it. I get it.

Traci: Um, but I’ll tell ya, um, the Chinese, uh, I don’t think they’re that good at math, because, uh… I went viral the last couple days talking about the McDonald’s CEO.

Chris: Uh-huh.

Traci: And, you know, because he ate that burger, yeah, and so I’m like, well, how does this actually come together? Like, why… why are we feeling this big mismatch? And so I did an analysis, and so that’s almost 700,000 views right now, and they… and I started out.

Chris: That was funny.

Traci: I don’t know if I’m throwing around too many numbers. I started out at 44,000 followers. They told me I got almost 20,000 followers from this one video, and my follower number is only up to 50,000, so something’s… something’s like…

Chris: Yeah, well, I love numbers, but they don’t always match, so that’s… it’s the trends I look for, but that’s…

Traci: Well, they definitely don’t match on TikTok, so…

Chris: Well, I mean, so, in my life, you know, I never stopped being an investigator, I just did it differently.

Traci: Uh-huh.

Chris: I became a photographer because I learned how to take pictures of people doing things they shouldn’t be doing.

Traci: Oh, okay, alright.

Chris: And that led into… my photography life, and then that led into my real estate life, which I’ve had for the last 26 years, but I’ve still always investigated the numbers.

Traci: Okay. Yeah.

Chris: The profitability, all these different kinds of things that makes it fun.

Traci: Well, start investing on TikTok, that… that would help me out!

Chris: Well, TikTok, I’ve never… I’ve never quite figured out there, but… so, what closing thoughts do you have for us today? Because I think everybody should be on the newsletter, right? And so, but…

Traci: Uh-huh, yeah, yeah, sign up for the newsletter, mhm.

Chris: Yeah, and that’s, um, uh, bodylanguetrainer.com.

Traci: BodyLanguageTrainer.com. You gotta scroll down, it’s at the bottom, or just find me on… on Facebook and… or TikTok, and it’ll be there, too.

Chris: Okay. Okay, but what closing thoughts would you have for us? For the people that read.

Traci: Um, and it’s, it’s…

Chris: you know, the process server chronicles. They’re probably interested in stories, they’re probably interested in… I do a little thing on there about behavioral detective, you know, like, the tells and that kind of thing, but what…

Traci: Uh-huh. Uh-huh, uh-huh.

Chris: What is it you would leave with the readers?

Traci: I… I gotta tell you, it’s just one thing, it’s pay attention or pay with pain. That is it.

Chris: Hmm.

Traci: And that is the bottom line. Pay your attention, Bill. You will get a lot further. In whatever area of life that you… if you want, whether it’s, you know, the real estate you’re talking about, or investigating, or what have you. the information is there. The question is, are you gonna… are you gonna pay attention? Are you gonna use it?

Chris: So, so, you know, you ought to just become a writer, or a screenwriter or something. You’ve got pay with pain, or pay attention, or pay with pain. I love that. And then body language doesn’t scream, it leaks.

Traci: Yeah. Mm-hmm. Yeah.

Chris: Those are… those are Mickey Spillane-type lines. Great job.

Traci: That’s good. Well, I’ll tell you what, on my, um… when people sign up for my newsletter, you get all my videos, because I do have some Hollywood thriller, uh, level videos that I’ve done, and they’re, they’re keynote promos. Uh, so I sneak that in there, but there’s a plot in the last one that I did, I got 2 of them, and I’ll… I’ll do a third. Uh, shortly. The, uh… and I do have a writer in Hollywood who helps me out. She, um… She’s amazing, and uh… like, she was a VP at HBO, she’s written for the Hallmark Channel, I mean, she’s… She’s really something. Anyway, uh, where was I going with that? Is, uh, yes. uh, to more, um, Hollywood-type stuff, because it’s so exciting. Anyway, you can see those on my website, um, you can see them on my, on my YouTube, wherever. you wanna go, and when you sign up for my newsletter, you’ll get… you’ll get the details on why I’m doing another one, but I gotta… it’s a big cliffhanger, and if you haven’t seen it, you’re gonna… you’re gonna be like, oh, when are we gonna get the next one?

Chris: So, all right, well, that’s fantastic. Traci, I really want to thank you for being here today. I really…

Traci: Hey, thanks for having me! This is super nice.

Chris: I really do. Fantastic. Well, listen, we’ll catch you around, keep reading, keep writing, keep talking.

Traci: Absolutely.

Chris: Boom. Done. So, yeah, we… Thank you so much!

Traci: Cool, we did it! Cut! We’re done. Awesome! Yeah, yeah, for sure. Um, you know, let me know how… how everything shakes out, and I know this is… this is new. When I… when I do my, um… when I do my book launch, maybe… maybe we can circle back and… and, uh, help with that, because it’s going to be… it’s going to be really something.

Chris: Yeah. Well, that’ll be fun, and I’m gonna send you the media release now, so I don’t forget.

Traci: Hmm. Okay.

Chris: And, um, what I would say is it’s probably 4 to 6 weeks before I release this.

Traci: Okay.

Chris: Uh, maybe a little bit sooner, I already have another one lined up to go out here soon. But it’s, um, we’re having some fun.

Traci: Okay. Uh-huh. Good! Oh, I love it. I can’t wait to hear it!

Chris: Okay. Alright, I’ll talk to you later, Traci.

Traci: Alright, cool, see ya! Bye.

Chris: Alright, bye-bye.

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What did you hear that you’d like to discuss in The Detective’s Lounge?

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

One blue eye. One brown.

I had a Siberian husky once. Reddish coloring, beautiful dog, wild as heck. Docile with kids but always full of energy. We lived in a townhouse in Germantown with an 18x24-foot backyard.

That’s not nearly enough room for a breed bred to run from Anchorage to Nome ten hours a day in freezing temperatures.

When he’d escape, and he would escape, it was like catching a greased pig. He’d run, evade, circle back. I swear to this day that once, after a long chase, he stood there and smiled at me before sprinting straight back to the house to wait for me at the door.

Huskies are fun. Incredibly intelligent. Exuberant, shall we say.

They’re also not violent or dangerous in any way, shape, or form.

The Serve

I pulled up to an aging bungalow in need of some TLC located in Hyattsville. Real working man kind of neighborhood. Routine summons. Auto accident stuff. Just give it to your insurance company and call it a day. Most people don’t realize why they pay the premiums for car insurance. Accidents happen. This moment is why you pay the premiums.

The house was surrounded by a chain-link fence. Beware of Dog sign on the gate. Trash in the yard. Sitting in a white rocker on the porch: a gruff-looking white guy, unshaved, beer belly that took effort, more effort in his hand.

These guys are always fun. I prepare for a berating.

As I approached the gate with a Maglite and summons in hand, I saw a large dog galloping toward me. Quiet. Smiling. Making a beeline.

Simultaneously, I heard: “I wouldn’t enter. You don’t want to deal with the dog.”

I always carried my two-D-battery Maglite. Day or night, rain or shine. In the right hands, these flashlights are incapacitating weapons. Maybe we can get into that later. But I digress.

So there I am at the chain-link gate. Gruff guy on the porch. Dog closing in.

One blue eye. One brown.

A Siberian husky.

I opened the gate. Petted “Cujo.” Gave him a biscuit I keep in my jacket for exactly these kind of times. He walked up the porch steps with me happy to smell someone new.

Gruff guy took a sip of his IC Light. Light? It’s not working, pal. But I digress, again.

I smiled. He smiled.

“You have a husky?” It was a statement more than a question.

“Yeah.”

“Thought so.”

I handed him the summons and said in a friendly tone, “You’re served.”

He looked at the papers. Looked at his dog. Looked at me.

“Think our football team will be any good this year?” He had already moved on.

“As long as we have Joe Gibbs, I expect so.” I responded.

“Wanna cold one?” He offered.

His husky was now sitting between us, panting, looking up at his owner like he’d just made a new friend.

Which, I guess, he had.

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NOTE: Your job here, should you choose to accept it, is to read the Remembrances below and then Comment whether they are TRUE, TRUE(ish) or FICTION in the Comments section. Then check The Reveal.

What I Remember About That Day

1. The “Beware of Dog” sign was hand-painted on a piece of plywood.

2. Gruff guy was drinking Iron City Light—12-ounce can, half empty.

3. The husky’s name was Duke. He told me after I served him.

4. The dog had one blue eye on the right, one brown on the left.

5. There were three empty beer cans on the porch railing.

6. I petted Duke for a solid two minutes before leaving. He leaned into it.

Your move: True? True(ish)? Fiction?

How to Play:

• Drop your guesses in the comments (TRUE / TRUE(ish) / FICTION for each)

• First person to get all six correct wins bragging rights

• After leaving comment, tap the reveal picture below.

Leave a comment

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

Reveal is reserved for Insiders until 12:01 pm, Tuesday, April 7, 2026

Read Case File #066: Why I Ignored the “Beware of Dog” Sign

The Disposition

What I Remember About That Day

1. The “Beware of Dog” sign was hand-painted on a piece of plywood.
   FALSE: As you can see on the photo below, which was the title photo, it was one of those hardware store bought ones.

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Here is a demonstration of creating commonality and trust in a matter of seconds.

The Rockville High Pretext: How I learned to create commonality.
A Skip Trace Demonstration

With my black Escort sitting in front, I walked up the driveway listening to the required lawnmower hum of suburbia on a spring Saturday morning. I knocked on the door and stepped back and down the two stairs and off to the side. There I stood facing the door, smiling.

I looked normal enough. Twenty-three, about the same age as the person I was looking for. And I was wearing an Orioles hat because I heard he had played on his high school baseball team. Outfielder.

The door opened, cautiously, by a woman in her 50s who reminded me of June Cleaver. I asked if her son was home. When she raised her eyebrow, I could see she had also raised her guard. She decided to gather more information before disclosing anything. After all, she had no idea who I was or why I had come unannounced.

“He’s not home. How can I help you?”

Cautious. Curious.

“I’m a Rockville High classmate. Chris. No one has been able to locate him for a while. We are putting together an impromptu reunion and I said ‘I know where he used to live, I’ll stop by and see if his parents are still there.”

While saying that, I turned ¼ to my right, like I’m about to leave. Signaled I’m not coming after her.

A small smile emerged from the woman. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Truthfully, he doesn’t live here anymore, and we don’t talk nearly enough. But if I get you his phone number, will that help?” Her guard is now not only down, but she also left the door partially open as she disappeared inside.

“Absolutely.” I said as I smiled back. I stayed right where I was, enjoying the smell of the cherry blossoms.

She returned and came down the two stairs to me.

Handing me a piece of paper with a number scribbled on it she said, “When you talk to him, tell him to call me.” The voice was almost sad, her eyes avoiding mine. But there was also hope. She wanted to believe I would help her reconnect with her son.

“I will.” I promised. And I did.

I’d deal with the ethical question of lying years later. Pretext we called it.

Pretext is a fictitious reason to have a conversation. A pretext can be as innocuous as walking down the wrong hall to bump into that person you are longing to see or as guise to learn information that will help to locate a person of interest.

Commonality Changes How You Are Seen

Did you spot the commonality built in an instant? Did you catch the signals of “I’m not a threat?”

In the 1990s, I wasn’t thinking about all these fancy terms of today. That was knowledge still to be learned. I was just beating the defenses. I learned what worked through trial and error. In the beginning, the rush of wind from a slamming door was more common than getting a phone number scribbled on a piece of paper. I still carry those scars from the skip tracings I conducted.

Skip tracing is the name private investigators use to say that they are searching for someone that doesn’t want to be found. There are more people avoiding others than you think. For whatever reasons: divorce, dodging old acquaintances, dodging bill collectors or other responsibilities. Heck, maybe they just want to disappear.

Skip tracing was my thing. The office often asked me to locate people that had reasons not to be located. That and finding where people had hid their money, or rather who they had hid it with, was my specialty.

There was no internet, no GPS tracking, no cell phones. Just the White Pages, a pocket full of quarters and a place to start.

I learned the skill to be who I needed to be to ascertain information. If the person I was interviewing needed me to have a soft personality, I could relax my body language and soften my voice.

If a moment required me to be louder and tougher, I could change modes. Even throw in a swear word or two.

Knocking on doors and talking to hundreds of people telling little white lies as I stood on their front porches, I learned the street science version of behavioral psychology. A fellow investigator described me as a bit of a Behavioral Detective.

In about 7 seconds or less I had to make an impression on the person I was looking to serve or interview or watch. I had to be in the “Not a threat” category.

I had to read them before they read me.

Creating Commonality In Seconds

Every single day you see people use the same techniques of seeking commonality to drop threat levels. When you walk through the front door of an open house for sale in your neighborhood and the real estate agent standing there smiles, steps back a half pace and asks, “You from Arizona?” referencing the Arizona shirt you are wearing. She may, or may not, really care; she is just breaking the ice.

The loud frat boys know this skill, consciously or not. The more shadowy of our society, confidence men (and women), practice this skill like it makes them money.

“No. We just visited the Grand Canyon last year.” says the open house visitor.

“Me, too,” smiles the real estate agent.

What is really being said between the two is, “Welcome to my tribe.” Ground is broken. The threat level is lowered. After a three-minute conversation about the North Rim the would-be buyers are now comfortable with this real estate agent.

Their real estate agent.

The Information Gathered

The phone number I garnered from June Cleaver was important to my role as skip tracer for the client that had hired our firm. I wasn’t there to worry about the right or wrong of what I was doing. Never crossed my mind. Nor was I concerned about a larger schism this may cause in the relationship of a mother and son, already strained.

I would deal with that fall out years later as I sat on those worn eastern steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

You can see how this plays out in that story of the Kansas Kid. See if you can see where commonality was built. Start to be a Behavioral Detective on your own.

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How would you have handled the ethics of what the job of skip tracer entailed? Debate it in The Detective’s Lounge.

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

The Disposition

Read more

Audio Version Included

Crash! Pow! Rattle.

Like a 1960s Batman episode.

“What the [REDACTED] are you doing?!”

I really couldn’t believe it, though I don’t know why. Dude had just rammed my car.

This was supposed to be an easy serve. The subject lived in NW, not far from American University. I knew the neighborhood. I had served bbq sandwiches at a campus event there once. Different gig, different life. Joan Jett was there.

The subpoena had something to do with his business. Money. A lot of money. Pretty standard stuff.

So I knocked and I waited at the door. I could hear people inside: faint voices, movement. By this time, after hundreds of knocks, I had learned to watch the curtains.

And yep. One moved.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

No answer.

I drove away.

Ok. This wasn’t going to be an easy serve. But now I knew his vehicle. Black Honda Ridgeline. One of those weird truck-SUV hybrids that had just started showing up. I hated them on principle.

And I knew where his business was located. I’d give it until tomorrow morning. These kind of guys started early.

The next morning I was sitting in a pristine NW neighborhood, engine off, windows down. It was early but the sounds of the neighborhood waking up were building. I had already grown sweaty, even at that time of morning. DC humidity can be oppressive.

No coffee. If you drink coffee, you need to go to the bathroom. If you need to go to the bathroom, you need to leave, or worse, pee into some bottle. Neither is great.

Seconds. And I mean seconds after I had settled in and started making my notes, I glanced up and he had his key in the car door, getting into the Ridgeline.

I was too far away to rush him. So, I followed.

We didn’t have far to go. Traffic was light. He pulled into his business, bright and early. First one there. Good business owner.

I followed him in just ten or twelve feet from his bumper, giving up any pretense of being sneaky in this one egress parking lot.

Suddenly, he stopped. Hard.

This guy was not surprised by me. This guy did not want to be served.

I avoided hitting him, but not by much. Immediately I jumped out of my car (I didn’t wear a seatbelt, different era) with papers in one hand and my trusty Maglite in the other.

He was screaming profanities as I walked up to him, still sitting in his car. Throwing in a threat or two. This guy was on edge in a highly visible parking lot in a better part of town.

His window was rolled down. I leaned in.

“You’re served.”

I tried to hand him the papers. He wouldn’t take them. He opened his door and bumped up against me, still threatening.

Note: He was white, blonde, about twenty-five years older, six to eight inches taller, and easily had thirty pounds on me. Speed was my only advantage.

I dropped the papers inside his window.

“You’re still served.”

That was the end of that. Or so I thought. It wasn’t necessary that he touch the legal documents or be happy with receiving them. Many bluster. Some threaten. Most just accept it in the end.

I turned to walk back to my car.

Then—

Crash! Pow! Rattle.

The sound of metal on metal. My bumper crumpling. The whole car shuddered backward.

Dude just rammed my car.

This really didn’t fit the profile.

As I stood there in amazement, he accelerated forward, flipped the Ridgeline around, and sped toward the exit. No, he didn’t try to run me down. In fact, he made it clear by taking a wide path. But he was still yelling threats as he pulled back onto the street, speeding away.

I looked at my watch. 6:27 AM.

After making a note of the day and time I sat in the parking lot writing out a full report in my spiral notebook. Then I got back out and walked around my black Ford Escort.

Definitely drivable. But ugly. Even for a Ford Escort.

As I was getting ready to leave, an employee pulled into the parking lot to open the store.

“You ok?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

I made another note. Description of the person, car, tag, and time. Then I headed to the local precinct to fill out the reports. The cops weren’t all that interested but the legal world loves a paper trail.

When I got back to the office after stopping a body shop for an estimate, the owner was there. He was always no-nonsense. Tall. Always a little ragged looking. The office always had the faint smell of alcohol from the night before, no matter what time of day. I’m not testifying that the two are related.

We seldom saw eye-to-eye. He had called me a neophyte a few months earlier. I had to look that up later that day. Webster’s definition wasn’t exactly complimentary.

He looked at the car. Gave me a name to call.

His attorney.

“How much do you want?” the attorney asked when I met him in person. He was direct and to the point and after settling my nerves by walking the two blocks to his Rockville office I responded, “I just want my car fixed.”

“No, son. Civil suits are not about getting your car fixed. They’re about additional damages. Money. That’s what civil suits are. How much are you thinking?” the jaded professional asked again.

“I have an estimate for about $2,480. I just want my car fixed.”

He looked at me like I was wasting his time.

Truth be told, he was the first lawyer I’d ever sat with in a situation like this. I was raised non-privileged. Self-responsibility. Figure it out. I made fun of some of the papers I served because I liked to read through them, and so many were just ridiculous.

“I work with your firm all the time. You’re missing a chance to get a payday here. You were damaged.”

“I really just want my car fixed,” I repeated for the third time.

Three days later, I had a check. $2,480. Exactly what I asked for.

I later learned that guy had his whole life crashing down around him. His business was failing. His marriage was falling apart. Who knows what else.

In DC, image and status matter. They’re closely guarded.

He wasn’t mad at me. He was losing his world. I was the proverbial last straw.

The lawyer was right. I could’ve gotten more. But I didn’t want more. I just wanted my car fixed.

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Question:

The lawyer asks: “How much do you want?”

You’ve got a crumpled car, a police report, and a subject who just committed assault.

Do you:

• Take the payday (sue for damages)

• Just fix the car and move on

What’s your move? Debate it in The Detective’s Lounge.

The Clue Game

What I Remember About That Day

1. The subject drove a black Honda Ridgeline.

2. The crash happened at exactly 6:27 AM—I checked my watch immediately.

3. The employee who witnessed it was driving a red Chevy Celebrity.

4. My repair estimate was $2,480. I got a check for that exact amount three days later.

5. The lawyer’s office was in Rockville, above a Chinese restaurant that’s still there today.

Your move: True? True(ish)? Fiction? Call it below. Feel free to debate the answers of the other detectives in the room.

Leave your answers before seeing The Reveal.

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Then Insiders can go to The Reveal.

The Reveal

This site grows by your word of mouth and engagement. Here is a hat-tip to you.

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

I’m parked illegally on 13th Street NW at 4:45 PM, watching a parking lot exit. Blue BMW. Virginia plates is what I’m watching for. Probably not more than a dozen in this building. The owner is a high-income Black male, 46, slim, well-dressed. Wife thinks he’s seeing someone on Wednesday nights. She’s hired us to confirm.

His name is John. Works on K Street. Lives in Lake Barcroft. Doesn’t know his wife suspects anything.

The BMW sits there, clean as a whistle.

Time passes. At 5:20, a cop tells me to move along. I pull forward into the alley next to the firehouse, wait a few minutes, circle back to the same spot. Illegal standing is just part of the deal on a follow job.

At 7:10, a blue BMW pulls out. DC plates. Wrong yuppie.

At 7:20, the right BMW turns left, heads north on 13th.

Great.

An illegal U-turn later, I’m about six cars back. Carefully scooching through a red light I catch up to him at Thomas Circle which was always fun at this time of evening, chaotic enough to give cover, tight enough to lose someone if you blink. I end up close behind him through the circle and north on 15th.

So far, nothing out of the ordinary. Except Lake Barcroft is the other direction.

Left on U Street. Right on 18th.

Parking’s tight around here. He’s cruising, looking for a spot. I stay back as much as possible, visors down. Without signaling he parallel parks, I wait passively, then ease past, watching him in the rearview the whole time.

First empty curb space I find, I pull in. Still watching the mirror.

He gets out. Heads north. Toward me.

I get out and lean against my car, curbside, flipping through my map book (yes, a real live map book, yellow cover). I hope there’s no fire around here because this plug is covered. No parking cop either.

He turns into the Ethiopian restaurant.

I’ve heard of this place. Always wanted to try it. Adams Morgan is full of spots like this, immigrant-run, authentic, the kind of place you find by accident and remember forever. I need to see who he is meeting. Now I can have a beer on the client’s bill.

I wait a few minutes to make sure he’s settled, then decide I should move my car before some cop decides to talk with me.

Everything’s going great. Surveillances can go bad fast. You can lose them in traffic, they spot you, whatever. But so far, so good. Gonna be an easy night.

I walk through the door.

And immediately realize I am now seen and easily identified.

The restaurant isn’t dark, but it’s not well-lit either. The smell of peppery lamb hits me first. Then I see my subject sitting with a beautiful woman, wearing a dress from a Chris de Burgh song. Both of them are looking at me.

So is everyone else in the room.

See, here’s the thing: Washington, DC is a majority-Black city. Adams Morgan is a hotspot for immigrant homes and businesses. This bar currently is hosting entirely Black patrons. Black bartender. Black servers.

And me.

White guy. Blue Kansas hat on my head. Standing in the doorway like I just walked into the wrong house party.

Well, he doesn’t know I’m a PI. But he’s seen me up close now. My time following him is done. But my time here? I can stay a little longer.

I play it cool. Walk to the bar. Order a beer.

“You have any African beers?”

The bartender lights up. “Man, I got just the thing.”

He pulls out a bottle I’ve never seen before. Cold. Malty. Sweet.

It’s clear our subject is going to be a while. I can see it in the way he leans in, the way she laughs. You can physically see the connection. These two are comfortable with each other.

There’s a pay phone in the back.

I make the call.

“Stay put,” my boss says. “And don’t follow. I’m sending you Tony.”

Tony’s a good investigator. Ten, maybe twelve years older than me. Properly trained. I learn on the job and use my time watching Columbo and Moonlighting episodes as education. He’s ex-military. And his skin color fits in with this place. He’ll page me when he’s in position on the car. After that, I’m out.

I spend the next 45 minutes at that bar.

Second beer. Different kind, just as good. Order an appetizer. I’m not really crazy about the food. Not my deal. But the beers? Love them.

And that bartender? Fun guy. We talk about Kenya, about DC, about the Redskins. Most of all we talk soccer. I tell him I had found Adams Morgan when I came to the neighborhood in ’86 to watch some World Cup games. The matches weren’t on any television I had, so I found a Brazilian bar there that had a tv and the patrons adopted me. They loved the American who loved futbol.

He never asks why I am there. I never say.

When my pager buzzes, I pay my tab, leave a good tip, and walk out.

John and his girlfriend are still at their table, wrapped up in each other.

Tony picks up the surveillance from there.

I go home, cooler air whipping through the open windows. When I see her, I kiss my wife. I am not the guy I was surveilling.

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Before the Clue Game - Let me ask you…

Have you ever been "made?” You know, spotted, identified, or caught in the act when you were trying to stay invisible?
Doesn't have to be PI work. Could be anything.

Tell your story in The Detective’s Lounge.

The Clue Game

What I Remember About That Day

1. The BMW had Virginia plates. I remember checking them twice.

2. The bartender’s name was Kwame. He had a scar above his left eyebrow.

3. The first beer he gave me was Tusker Lager from Kenya.

4. The woman with John was wearing a red dress.

5. I ordered sambusas as my appetizer. They were cold in the middle.

6. Tony paged me at exactly 8:47 PM.

Your move: True? True(ish)? Fiction?

Leave your comments before seeing The Reveal.

Leave a comment

Then go to…

The Reveal

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

The Disposition

What I Remember About That Day

1. The BMW had Virginia plates. I remember checking them twice.
   TRUE: Lake Barcroft, mentioned in the story, is located in Fairfax County, VA.

2. The bartender’s name was Kwame. He had a scar above his left eyebrow.
   FICTION: I can sorta kinda see his face. But I can’t remember his name or whether or not he had a scar…

Read more