Брайан Гарфилд - Death Sentence

“... up again for the month of November, according to figures released today in Washington. Wholesale prices increased another one and a half per cent, raising the index to thirteen percentage points above where it was a year ago at the same time. And finally, in local news, there was tragedy tonight in a West Side bakery when police responded to an alarm and found the owner and two saleswomen shot to death and a third saleswoman shot and wounded. According to the injured woman, who is listed in satisfactory condition in County Hospital, two armed men entered the bakery this afternoon and allegedly demanded all the money in the place. The owner of the bakery, Charles Liddell, allegedly drew a pistol from his belt and fired a shot at the intruders. The two robbers then allegedly opened fire at everything that moved, killing Liddell and two of his three employees, and injuring Mrs. Deborah Weinberg with two bullets in the hip and chest. The robbery suspects then fled on foot, and no money was taken. Mrs. Weinberg is reported as saying that Mr. Liddell had started carrying the pistol in his belt after hearing about the Chicago vigilante on radio news. And now, tonight’s forecast calls for snow continuing into morning with possible accumulations of up to six inches...”

Paul sat frozen in his seat staring at the screen. He felt prickles of sweat burst out on his forehead. When he looked down at the goblet in his hand he saw that his knuckles were white: he had all but crushed the glass.

To cover the shock he lifted the glass to his lips. His hand shook. He drank quickly and put the goblet down.

“And now stay tuned as Channel Eleven presents the Miles Cavender Interview. Mr. Cavender’s guest tonight will be Chicago Police Captain Victor Mastro, chief of homicide detectives and commander of the special squad detailed to investigate the Chicago vigilante.”

Paul looked around cautiously. Irene was watching the screen. He brought Chisum into focus. The old man looked away quickly, reaching for his cognac; but Paul was certain Chisum had been staring at him.

The program came on with a burst of electronic music and an announcement that the broadcast was made possible by a grant from an oil company. The moderator appeared on the screen, his face wavering from side to side as the weak tube groped for resolution; Paul leaned back, slid down on the couch until his head rested against its back; he forced himself to pay attention.

Mastro was a thin man with dark striking features. His glistening black hair was combed smoothly back over the small ears. He wore a police uniform with decorations on the blouse, although in the newspaper photos he’d been wearing civilian clothes. Mastro was smiling slightly as he listened to Miles Cavender’s introduction; he didn’t seem unnerved, there was no indication of stage fright.

“... has been with the Chicago force for sixteen years, and before that was an officer with a Military Police detachment of the U.S. Army. He has received degrees in criminology and sociology from the University of Chicago, and was promoted to the rank of captain two years ago. There’s talk around City Hall of a pending promotion for Victor Mastro to deputy superintendent. Do you have any comment to offer on that speculation, Captain?”

“I’d rather not. I’ve had no official indications from the department.” Mastro’s voice was smooth and confident, surprisingly deep for such a small man. He had an actor’s resonance.

“One would assume,” Cavender said with the insinuation of overprecise enunciation, “that such a promotion might be contingent on the outcome of the vigilante case. Is that possible, Captain?”

“Sure. We’re like any organization — promotions come on the basis of incentives and performance.”

“I appreciate your candor.” Cavender had a slightly effeminate voice. He didn’t leer but he was the prying sort of interviewer Paul disliked intensely: subtle courtesy masking hostility.

“Captain, we’re here to talk about the vigilante. First, of course, there’s the question that’s been spoken a good many times lately. Is the vigilante real — or is the whole thing a myth that’s been cooked up by City Hall in a desperate effort to stave off the continuing increase in the Chicago crime rate?”

Mastro’s eyes flashed briefly but his answer was controlled and unhurried. “It’s not a phony. We didn’t create the vigilante. He’s real, he’s out there and he’s using his guns. He shot two boys on the South Side this afternoon.”

“What were the boys doing?”

“Apparently they may have been molesting two small girls who were on their way home from school.”

“‘Apparently.’...‘May have been.’ Aren’t you sure?”

“We’ve talked to the little girls, and we’ve got the two boys in custody in the hospital.”

“Then neither of them was killed by the vigilante. Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

“These are the first victims who haven’t been shot dead, yes.”

“Can you account for it?”

“Not yet. It’s possible he fired from a moving car. That may have thrown his aim off.”

“How sure are you that this is the same so-called vigilante who’s been blamed for the other killings?”

“The bullets appear to have come from the same revolver that was used in most of the other cases.”

“You say ‘most of the other cases.’ Isn’t it likely there are more than one of them?”

“Revolvers or vigilantes?”

Cavender smiled a bit. “Vigilantes, Captain.”

“We know for sure that there is one vigilante. There may be a second one, but that hasn’t been established beyond doubt.”

“But the use in different cases of two admittedly distinct handguns ...”

“He could own two guns, you know. Particularly today’s case suggests that it’s the same man. He used the thirty-eight revolver today, but he fired from his car, and that’s the same pattern that’s been established in two or three other cases where he’s used the forty-five automatic.”

“I see. Then you’re pressing your investigation on the assumption that you’re looking for a single culprit.”

“We haven’t closed any doors.”

Cavender shifted in his chair; it was an indication he wanted to change to another angle of attack. “Captain, the modus operandi of the Chicago vigilante, whether one man or two men or an entire society of men, seems to be quite simple, in a sense. That is, he simply finds a criminal in the act of committing a crime, and shoots the criminal dead in his tracks. Would you agree that’s a fair summary of his pattern?”

“It’s what the evidence suggests.”

“Yes. Well doesn’t it seem curious to you that this vigilante seems to have very little trouble locating these people?”

“I’m not sure I understand your question.”

“What I’m saying, Captain, is that the vigilante seems to find it very easy to find out who is going to commit a crime, and when and where the crime will take place. Then all the vigilante has to do is be at the right place at the right time. Now I suppose you must have devoted some part of your investigation to inquiring into that question, haven’t you?”

“Naturally.”

“The sources of the vigilante’s intelligence, I mean. How he identifies the criminals. How he finds out when and where the crimes will take place.” Cavender leaned forward now, peering at the policeman with something like a vindictive gleam. “How does he do it, Captain? How does he do it so easily?”

“There’s a certain logic to it. In some of the cases it’s pretty obvious that he sets himself up as a mark. He probably dresses fairly well, and a man who’s well-dressed walking alone in some neighborhoods is an open invitation to a mugging. He just waits for them to come to him, and when they begin to attack him he kills them. It isn’t that hard, if you know the city and the neighborhoods.”