True Crime Process Server Story: He Shot at Me

What happens when a standard, low-key daylight process service turns immediately hostile? You find out exactly how your body burns off adrenaline.

It’s 1988 in Hyattsville, Maryland. A young process server executes a routine, non-confrontational delivery to an office building off Route 1. But a sudden pivot past a receptionist leads straight into a hostile office, a flash of movement in a desk drawer, and a loud gunshot echoing through the parking lot.

Decades later, Chris breaks down the anatomy of a shooting, analyzing the tactical errors of a young investigator, the distinct behavioral differences between an on-edge rookie cop and a veteran state trooper, and the ultimate reality of self-preservation in the field.

In this episode, you’ll hear:

• Bypassing the Gatekeeper: The tactical choice to walk past reception to avoid a public spectacle—and the unintended hostility it triggered.
• The Physics of Fear: How an immediate flood of adrenaline forces the body into a steady, uncontrollable vibration.
• Rookie vs. Veteran: Dissecting the body language and verbal tells of responding officers under pressure.
• The Ultimate Weapon: Why carrying a firearm isn't always the answer to self-preservation when things go sideways.

Key Quote: “In each occasion, it was my brain that got me out of the situation. Alive. Or luck. Or Godly intervention. You decide.”

Join the Breakdown: Did the target shoot to hit, or was it a display of anger? Share your thoughts on the street science by leaving a comment at ProcessServerChronicles.com.

Notice of Assignment: Get the first four chapters over at CalBrink.com

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:13

Gyattville, Maryland, 1988. I was young, running daylight serves and trying to avoid DC tourist traffic. It felt like a completely routine Wednesday until a hostile target reached into his desk drawer and pulled the trigger. 38 years ago, I learned that a flooding rush of adrenaline makes your hands vibrate so hard you can barely write the date in your logbook. Today we are breaking down a moment where courtesy met a gunshot, how a green police officer and a seasoned state trooper handled a shaken kid, and the exact street science of fight or flight under fire. You're listening to The Behavioral Detective. From the ProcessServer Chronicles.com, he shot at me. Case file number 059, a close call on a service of process. This is a truish story of the Process Server Chronicles. Names, dates, and exact location, and trackable details are altered to protect privacy. But the spine, the emotions, yes, those happened. Hyattville, Maryland, 1988. Your hands are shaking, the Prince George's County police officer observed. A black woman, young twenties, in a cleanly pressed uniform 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 worked for and was given the 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 in the evening because it looked like a home address up off Georgia Avenue 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 dock served somewhere around eight or nine, when most people would be at 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're 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 RA. 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 45 minutes. Since Hyattesville 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 in my life, I wasn't that much older than the kids walking around campus, earning 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 place and ordered hamburger and fries and found a discarded copy of that day's Washington Post. Between the news and commentaries, I like 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. But 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 if 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 the door was the name of the subject I was there to serve. Inside the office of the partially open door was a man on the phone sitting behind a desk that had a nameplate 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 reasoned for seeing the 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 midstep, 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 as I quietly 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 had 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 fist fight. 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. My mind raced. Did he actually shoot at me? Or was he firing an anger shot into the air? In that 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 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 75 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 lickety split and diffused the entire situation. It wasn't one of the men I had seen in the lobby. I'm not sure where he came from. 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 off. Somehow, some way. But her tone when she asked me 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 had seen this before. I don't begrudge the officer her inexperience. Thirty-eight years later, I realized 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's 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 can't explain that. The behavioral detective, what did you notice? Question one, what were my actions that contributed to this man losing his sanity even if only temporarily? Question two, what should I have noticed during the serve that would have told me he'd behave this way? And question three, 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 be 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 number zero three six, 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. Let's go back to question one. What were my actions that contributed to this man losing his sanity even if only temporarily? In retrospect, I could have checked in with a 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 Question two 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 the 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. 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 their ready. Or maybe I was too young and too inexperienced myself to realize how violently people could react to their financial security being threatened. Question three. 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 that more than a few readers are like many others I've told this story to who 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 carry and still don't carry a gun. You can say they are there 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. When your life is threatened, everyone says I'd pull a gun. But it's in the trenches, it's it's your brain, your restraint, or pure luck that can actually get you out of there alive. A gun wouldn't have saved me that day. Situational awareness did. Did the target mean to hit me, or was it just a performative show of rage? Head over to the ProcessServerCronicles.com and drop your take in the comments. If you want a full-length thriller packed with this exact kind of raw real estate street science, go to cowbrink.com right now to secure early access and read the first four chapters of Notice of Assignment dropping this October. Until next week, keep your hands steady, watch the hands of the guy across from you, and stay sharp. You've been listening to the Behavioral Detective.