Robert Tanenbaum: Resolved

"Just that. I will give you a substantial dose of morphine, enough to make it appear to a casual observer that you are deceased. In the early morning hours, I will move you into the morgue cooler. There are drugs I have that can slow your breathing so that it is almost imperceptible, and also your heart rate. Dr. McMartin is not a skillful physician. He will examine you briefly, with a stethoscope that I will have altered so that it would not detect a jet engine. Your skin will be quite cold. The picture will be a sick man who has passed away in the night. He will sign the death certificate with no qualms. Then I will autopsy you."

"You'll what?"

"It is required. I do it all the time, although it is not authorized for me to do it alone. However, the doctor does not care for autopsies and he is glad of my skill."

"You're not a doctor, how the fuck can you fake-"

"I am, in fact, a physician, in all but the details of licensure. I had four years of medical training in Cairo before I was arrested by the regime. I will make shallow cuts in a Y shape on your chest and sew them up again, as if I have removed your organs. I have put aside organs from a real autopsy, which I will present as yours, if anyone asks. Which I doubt that they will. Everyone, in fact, will be delighted that you are dead. Then your body will be shipped to your cousin in New York City."

"I don't have a cousin in New York."

"Oh, but you do," said the Arab. "It is all arranged."

Felix felt irritation grow in him, for though he certainly wanted to get out of prison, he wanted even more the feeling of being in control of things. Nor did he enjoy being in the debt of some sand nigger.

"What do you mean, it's all arranged. How the hell did you know I'd be in here?"

Another little shrug. A smile. "If not you, then someone like you. You see what I look like. On the outside I have… colleagues, who look the same. People who look like us are now restricted in their movements because of the recent events in New York. I have need of someone who does not look like that, an American, for certain tasks."

Now Felix smiled. "You're a fucking terrorist?"

"Why use such a meaningless word?" said the Arab, not smiling at all now. "The rulers of the world, the rich, the powerful, the Jews and their agents, the same people who have spoiled your own life, as you have told me, they will always call terrorists those who refuse to be crushed. Like us. Also, I thought you would be a good choice because we have several interests in common, you and I."

"Yeah? Such as?"

"A desire to exact revenge on people who have hurt us. To achieve what we are meant to achieve despite the conspiracies against us. As I said, I have friends in administration. I know about you, your records."

"Oh, yeah?" Felix didn't like this, but he kept his face friendly.

"Yes. Do you know that we were both convicted by the same man? And not just the man. He has a wife who was involved in both of our cases. Isn't that strange? He is a Jew, of course."

"Karp?"

"Yes, Karp. Wouldn't you like to pay him back?"

"Yeah, him and a lot of other people," said Felix. "So what's the plan? You got people on the outside?"

"Yes, many. People who have been here for many years, very secure. But Arabs, unfortunately. They may be watched, do you see? Because of these events of last year. You, on the other hand, will not be looked for. You will be the invisible man."

"The hell I will! Nobody they're looking for more than an escaped con…" Felix stopped short, as the thought hit him, and his face broke into one of its rare genuine smiles. "No, they won't. I'll be dead."

The two men shared a laugh. "Yes," said the Arab, "you will be dead, a ghost. Like a ghost you will strike fear. Karp is a senior prosecutor, an important man, but they will not be able to protect him. Or his family. The wife, of course, and they have three children. One by one they will fall, and him last. I want him to know fear and despair and helplessness."

"So, that's your end of this deal? You want me to whack Karp and his bitch and the three kids. That's it?"

"Yes. Precisely."

"What's the catch?"

Felix had to explain the joke. After that, the two men laughed louder than before.

The plan proceeded smoothly. No one in the prison system likes trials involving the murder of a corrections officer. Such an event speaks to incompetence, to carelessness in handling violence. It also clouds the future recruitment of guards. Thus, no one in the hierarchy of the prison was greatly put out by the news that Felix Tighe was ailing. As he approached death's door, no one insisted on heroic measures to save him. Dr. McMartin stumbled over to the bedside a few times and observed what seemed to be a dying man. When Feisal announced the death, the doctor inspected the corpse and signed the papers without demur.

The Arab was well pleased. He had worked with men like Felix many times, and considered that he was a good example of his type. Brutal, with a grudge, intelligent enough to carry out a plan, not intelligent enough to see that once his mission had been accomplished he could under no circumstances be allowed to live, since his very existence compromised the Arab's own position at the prison. On autopsy day, then, he looked down at the faux corpse with something approaching affection.

Two days later, a man from the State Department of Corrections called the office of the chief assistant district attorney for New York County. The chief ADA had a short list of convicts about whose status he wished to be notified whenever the status changed in any way. These were all people sentenced to long prison terms, whom Karp never wanted to see let out on the street, or given new trials, or shifted to lower levels of security than maximum. Felix Tighe was on that list, so the corrections guy called Karp to tell him that the man's status had changed permanently. Karp called his wife to tell her the news.

"Can we spit on his corpse?" she asked.

"Not officially. I guess I could find out where he's buried and dance on his grave."

"We could hire a band. God, that was a long time ago! I was pregnant with Lucy and we didn't know. That horrible woman. His dear old mom. I had nightmares about that for years."

"But not anymore."

"No, now I have nightmares about me. How are you?"

"Keeping up. It's hot. I thought I'd come out with the boys this weekend, hit the beach."

A long silence. "I don't know if that's such a great idea. You could go to Jones Beach."

"Oh, fuck Jones and fuck his beach! Marlene, you can't hide out there forever. You have a family. We miss you."

"Do you? My warm maternal ways. I need some more time, Butch, you know?"

"It's been almost a year."

"I'll come in."

"When?"

"I'll call you," she said.

It was the kind of case that Karp would have liked to try, if they still let him try cases. Failing that, he thought Terrell Collins was doing a pretty good job for the People on this, the first day of trial. Collins was a tall, graceful man nearly the same color as the victim in the case, one Moussa Onabajo, late of Nigeria. On the stand was one of the several witnesses to the killing, a man named Touri. As Collins took him through the warm-up- who he was, how he knew the victim, what if anything he saw on the night of- Karp turned his eye on the defendants, Eric Gerber, detective third grade, NYPD, and Frank Nixon, detective second.

Only the backs of their heads were visible from the rear of the courtroom where Karp stood; Nixon had a full head of dark yellow hair, Gerber's skull was a thick blocklike object covered with short red bristles. Gerber should have picked different genes had he set out to be the defendant in this sort of case. He looked like the Nazi trooper in a dozen war movies. Nixon had a more intelligent look, but he could have played the SS officer, the one who lifts the heroine's chin with the riding crop. There was no evidence in either man's record of racism in action, but in their minds, who knew?