It was late 1959, right after the brand new headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency opened up at Langley, near the height of the Cold War.
It was early in the morning and Bradford St. John, Assistant Department Chief for Covert Operations, had just pulled into his assigned parking spot in the new 1960 Mercury Park Lane 4 door hardtop purchased two months prior. The Bermuda Sand over tan sedan stood out amongst the government issued navy blue Fairlanes and battleship gray Bel Airs that filled the lot, and remained his favorite new car until the day he died.
Not wanting to dissipate that new car smell, he still had never smoked in the Mercury. Instead, he left the house in MacLain, Virginia early enough each morning to get out of the car and light up a Lucky while he leaned against the left front fender. This morning was no different. Stepping out of the Park Lane, St. John gazed up at the gray sky above the trees that hid the complex from the wandering eyes of strangers who had no business speculating what might be taking place inside.
It was mornings like this one, the air thick with dew and the sun, hazy on the horizon as it rose, that made St. John think about just how strange was the path that had led him to this very place. A kid from Fort Stockton was as unlikely as any to have won up in his position. But a flawless war record, a willingness to bend the rules, and a talent to get out of most any situation alive made things possible that others never even dreamed of.
Down to his last drag, he was startled by the Dusk Rose 1957 Thunderbird that whipped into the spot next to him. He was even more taken aback by the tall drink of water that opened the door and gracefully eased out of it.
Her legs were as long as a Texas summer and twice as hot. She wore a skin tight ivory dress that said, ‘all business’, but made St. John think only ‘all pleasure’. It looked like the dress had been made to match the interior of the sporty Thunderbird coupe. The neckline showed a commonality with the front bumper. And then the hair. Golden blonde and done up in a way that could have been hiding a weapon. The picture in front of him was more colorful than the new NBC peacock that had just debuted.
Turns out she was one of three people completing the interview process for a new field position working for The Firm overseas, although the actual location would not be disclosed until the completion of the hiring process. She was the first and only female to be interviewed for such a position. He was surprised she’d been able to apply, but floored when she ended up being a finalist. That said something. The times were changing.
After a battery of cognitive and psychological tests completed in the weeks previous, this was the final step before selection. Each candidate was to be brought in individually, given a task, and told they had to complete it. This would separate the wheat from the chaff. If no candidate made it, the process would begin all over till the agency found just what they were looking for.
The first man was brought in, handed a gun, and told that his wife was in the next room and that he had to go in and kill her.
“You must be crazy. I can’t do that.” he replied.
“Thank you for your time. You are not the right candidate for this position.” The candidate was escorted out of the building without any further conversation.
The second male candidate was brought in and presented the same instructions. He picked up the gun and slowly entered the room. The door opened several minutes later and he and his wife both walked out, both with tears streaming down their faces. He laid the gun on the table and both walked out of the room, saying nothing. St. John snickered.
Finally, the blonde from the pink T-Bird was ushered in and told her fiancée was in the next room and was given the same instructions.
She picked up the gun, entered the room, and quickly shut the door behind her. Several shots are heard, followed by loud screams, then horrible crashing sounds, and finally a deathly silence.
She emerged from the room, slightly disheveled, but no less attractive. She tossed the gun on the table.
“You didn’t tell me the gun only had blanks. I had to use the chair to beat him to death.”
She was as killer as her pink ‘57 Thunderbird.
3 responses to “KILLER IN PINK”
I did not meet this particular woman but I met her Version 7.0 in an embassy cafeteria in an African nation in the mid 2000s. She was distractingly beautiful; Lana Turner, Catherine Deneuve, Catherine Oxenberg beautiful and, Sharon Stone smart. You had to close your eyes to look away and you did so, because your mouth was open and dry. She was there to change lives, marriages, identities, rulers etc. She was there because the basic formula had been successful since the original ‘Killer in Pink’. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
PS. The building pictured really looks like the ‘D Street’ entrance of Main State in the ’80s.
Captain:
Is this the same woman who suffered a debilitating accident during the line of duty that resulted in a long period of immobility that caused her to gain a hundred plus pounds, then owing to stress and permanent seething anger cut most of her hair off then dye it purple and finally, unable to resume the physical rigors of her old job, take a clerical job at one of the state drivers license offices?
Is this the one? If so then didn’t she also trade that T-Bird in on a tan AMC Rambler?
Of all the things I stand in admiration of, your memory for detail is near the top.