But here was what I could observe: The victim was male, late-fiftyish, neither ugly nor attractive, tall nor short, skinny nor fat, and so forth. An everyday Joe. A man with bland features and a gray brush cut, physically ordinary and entirely unmemorable.

It occurred to me that if you walked past him on the street or sat beside him on the subway, you would look right past or perhaps through him.

And there, I thought, was one putative motive for going either postal or suicidal-fatal anonymity. "How long have you been here?" I asked Ms. Tran.

"Thirty minutes, more or less." She was jotting notes in a small notebook. She shifted her shoulder and-accidentally, I'm sure- blocked my view of her notebook. She asked, "What about you?"

"Just arrived. How about a little help getting oriented?" What I failed to mention was why I was here in the first place, which had something to do with the victim's phone being tapped by people from the FBI, who were working with people from the CIA, who had overheard a phone call from a distressed lady to the local cops, reporting a corpse.

The victim was what is termed in the intelligence business a target of interest; was being the operative tense. Now he was an object of mystery, and in every mystery there are five basic questions. Who died was obvious, as was where, leaving the three questions I was sent here to figure out-when, how, and with any luck, why.

Nobody informed me why and in this business, don't ask. If you need to know, they'll tell you. Irritating, certainly, but there are valid and important reasons for this rule. The fate of our nation might depend on it, so you have to swallow your curiosity, avoid speculation, and get on with it.

Anyway, suspicion of espionage-that was my guess. I mean, the FBI and CIA don't even like or trust each other. They are the Mr. Inside and Mr. Outside, except in cases of espionage, when the crap lands on both their doorsteps. Then you have two prima donnas sharing the same small stage, and we all know what that gets you.