A Long Line of Dead Men

"But we're talking life and death here, and our desire to stay out of the spotlight is comparatively inconsequential. I can't argue with that. But let's take this a little further. What happens to Severance?"

"He stays in some maximum-security joint upstate for the rest of his life."

"Think so?"

"I thought we were supposing he'd be found guilty. I don't think the court's going to slap his wrist and let him off with time served and five years' probation."

"Let's assume he gets a life sentence. How much time would he serve?"

"That depends."

"Seven years?"

"It could be a lot more than that."

"Don't you think he could behave himself in prison? Don't you think he could convince the parole board that he's a changed man? Matt, the man's the most patient son of a bitch on God's earth. He's spent thirty years killing us and he's only a little more than halfway through. You think he won't be content to bide his time? They'll have him stamping out license plates and it'll just be another menial job, like working as a rent-a-cop in Queens. They'll stick him in a cell and it'll just be another in a long string of furnished rooms. What does he care how long he has to sit on his ass? He's been sitting on his ass for thirty years. Sooner or later they'll have to let him out, and do you think for one moment that he'll be magically rehabilitated?"

I looked at him.

"Well? Do you?"

"No, of course not."

"He'll start in where he left off. By the time he gets out, Mother Nature will have done some of his work for him. There'll have been some thinning of the ranks. But some of us will be left, and what do you bet he comes after us? What do you bet he tries to pick us off one by one?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it without saying anything.

"You know I'm right," he said.

"I know you've always opposed capital punishment."

"Absolutely," he said. "Unequivocally."

"That's not how you sound this morning."

"I think it's regrettable that a man like Severance could ever be released from prison. That doesn't mean I think the state should go into the business of official murder."

"I didn't think we were talking about the state."

"Oh?"

"You want to apprehend him without involving the media or the police. I get the feeling you'd like to see sentence passed and carried out in much the same manner."

"In other words?"

"You want me to find him and kill him for you," I said. "I won't do it."

"I wouldn't ask you to."

"I don't want to find him so you can kill him yourself, either. How would you do it? Draw straws to see who pulls the duty? Or string him up and have everybody pull on the rope?"

"What would you do?"

"Me?"

"In our position."

"I was in your position once," I said. "There was a man named… well, never mind what his name was. The point is that he had sworn to kill me. He'd already killed a lot of other people. I don't know if I could have got him sent to prison, but I know they wouldn't have kept him there forever. Sooner or later they'd have had to let him out."

"What did you do?"

"I did what I had to do."

"You killed him?"

"I did what I had to do."

"Do you regret it?"

"No."

"Do you feel guilty?"

"No."

"Would you do it again?"

"I suppose I would," I said. "If I had to."

"So would I," he said, "if I had to. But that's not what I have in mind. I don't really believe in capital punishment whether it's the state or an individual who imposes the sentence."

"I'm lost," I said. "You'll have to explain."

"I intend to." He drank some coffee. "I've given this some thought," he said, "and I've talked to several of the others. How does this sound to you?"

I heard him out. I had a lot of questions and raised a lot of objections, but he had prepared well. I had no choice but to give him the verdict he wanted.

"It sounds crazy," I said at length, "and the cost-"

"That's not a problem."

"Well, I don't have any moral objection to it," I said. "And it might work."

30

The first week in August I got a call around one in the afternoon. Joe Durkin said, "Matt, I'd like to talk to you. Why don't you come around the station house?"

"I'd be happy to," I said. "What would be a good time?"

"Now would be a good time," he said.

I went straight over there, stopping en route for a couple of containers of coffee. I gave one to Joe and he lifted the lid and sniffed the steam. "This'll spoil me," he said. "I've been getting used to squadroom coffee. What's this, French roast?"

"I don't know."

"It smells great, whatever it is."

He set it down, opened a drawer, took out one of the palm cards that had been circulating around town for a couple of weeks. It was on postcard stock and about the size of a standard postcard. One side was blank. The other showed James Severance as sketched by Ray Galindez. Beneath the sketch was a seven-digit telephone number.

"What's this?" he said, and flipped it across the desk to me.

"Looks like a postcard," I said. I turned it over. "Blank on the back. I guess you would write your message here and put the address over here on the right. The stamp would go in the corner."