David Wiltse - Into The Fire

Someone who would do that, take that kind of risk for no reason. It's unusual. I don't really understand it."

"You're surrounded by risk takers in here."

Swann shivered. "I don't understand them, either.

Please don't lump me with them."

"The judge already did that. You pleaded to three counts of manslaughter and aggravated assault."

"My lawyer told me to do that. My landlady attacked me, she went crazy and just came at me, I was defending myself…

"You misunderstood me, Swann. I said the guard thinks I'm an attorney, you don't. Spare me the bullshit."

"My innocence is not bullshit to me, Mr. Becker."

"Uh-huh. Well, innocence is a relative thing. You did slit the landlady's gullet, after all. Or at least you said you did when you pleaded guilty."

"It was a horrible time, she was coming at me, I struggled with her, she tried to stab me-you don't know, you just don't know. How could you understand what it was like?"

"You'd be surprised at my imagination," Becker said.

"Why me, Swann? I can't think I have a lot of fans in here."

"Oh, they don't hate you, isn't that odd? They think they know you.

It's like-I don't know-like wolves from different packs will kill each other sometimes, they don't like each other maybe, they've got to defend their turf, but they understand each other. They understand each other better than they understand the sheep."

Becker took the open pack of cigarettes from his pocket and inhaled the scent of tobacco again. Swann's analogy linking him to the people he pursued in a commonality of understanding was too close to the bone. It was as if the prisoner had read his thoughts of only moments ago.

Becker tapped a cigarette loose, paying great attention to the work as he tried to settle his mind.

Swann accepted the cigarette gratefully and Becker shoved the whole package across the table to him.

Swann's hand covered it and it was suddenly gone.

"They say you're fair," Swann said and Becker thought briefly of Pegeen's use of the word earlier. "They say you'll treat people right if they're straight with you."

Becker laughed. "Nobody in here ever told you I was fair. But maybe they told you I was an idiot who would believe whatever you said."'

Swann laced his fingers in front of him, then studied them for a moment, pouting.

"They said you can tell," he said, his tone lower, more sincere. I 'They say you can look at a man and know if he's telling the truth. They say you can see it in his eyes."

Becker snorted. "Who am I supposed to be, the truth fairy? You can't tell anything by looking into a man's eyes. Any good liar can control his eyes. I look at his hands."

Becker chuckled as Swann predictably stopped moving his hands and folded them on the table in front of him.

Becker knew he would be unable to treat them naturally for the rest of the interview. They were strong hands, unusually large for a man Swann's size, with thick wrists.

In truth, Becker never paid much attention to a person's hands, either, but he liked making the prisoner uncomfortable. Nothing valuable was ever learned when the person being interviewed was too comfortable.

"Men don't look each other straight in the eyes, anyway, don't you know that, Swann? It makes them uncomfortable, it's an unnatural act. We look women straight in the eyes, not other men. You sure as hell must have learned it in here. If a man looks you straight in the eyes when he tells you something, it means one of two things.

Either he's lying to you or he wants to fuck you."

Swann twisted uneasily on his chair.

"I know about that part," he said.

"I imagine you do," said Becker.

"That's why I wrote to you."

"Okay."

"I want revenge on an animal."

"I didn't think it was your civic duty."

"I'm a man," Swann hissed. "A man. He called me his punk, he called me his wife-and he used me like his whore. He nearly killed me. Many times.

Many times. He threatened to snap my head off, and he would have, anyw ere else he would have. He wouldn't regret it, he wouldn't even think about it… No, that's not true, he thinks about them, all of them, he loves to think about them, brag about them, go over and over how he did it and where he did it and who they were. He kills them again, every night. Probably even in his sleep. And he'll keep doing it, there's no doubt about it. I could find a record of only two of the killings, but he talked about dozens of them. I found the two girls in the coal mine in the paper-I work in the library, I searched everything I could find, but most of them wouldn't have been in the paper-he killed migrants and fringe people, they wouldn't be in the Times and that's the only newspaper we have that goes back…":'He's killed while in here?" 'No. But he's gone, he's out. He got out three weeks ago."

"Why didn't you tell us about him when he was in here?"

"I did. Look at the dates on the letters. He was still in here… He was still with me. Living with me. Talking about them. Using me… And they cheer, did you know that, Mr. Becker? The other prisoners cheer like it's a sport. I felt like a Christian-I am a Christian-being thrown to the lions and everyone was cheering for the lion."

Revenge isn't a very Christian sentiment," Becker said.

Swann had been edging closer to Becker, leaning in across the table, propelled forward by his intensity. Now he sighed audibly and leaned back in his chair.

"I have thought of that," Swann said. "I wish my heart were without hate. I have prayed for that… But it hasn't been given."

"You can always keep praying," Becker said.

"I always do, Mr. Becker. I always pray. I think that Jesus understands me. I know he does."

"You're not that hard to understand. Even I can do it."

"But Jesus not only understands. He forgives."

"Does he forgive the man you're turning in, too? Does he forgive all those killings?"

"He might," Swann said. "I don't."

"What's his name?"

Once more, Swann looked nervously around the room.

He opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind, shaking his head.

"That doesn't seem like a lot to ask," Becker said.

"You don't understand how dangerous it is in here," Swann said. "If I give you a name, even if they don't know it, I will know it. If anybody asks me if I gave somebody up and I know I've given you his naine-I'm such a bad liar, I get so frightened-they can smell it on you, I swear some of them can smell if you're lying, if you're scared. And he may have friends still in here, I don't think so, I don't think he had any friends but me, but you can't be sure. Isn't there another way? You'll figure it out, you can look at the prison records-if you could find me you can certainly figure out who he is. Just don't make me say his name.

I've got to be able to say I didn't tell you anybody's name and believe it myself."

"So what are you giving me? What am I here for?"

"Him, I'm giving you him. Those bodies in the newspaper, the girls in the coal mine, he killed them, he admitted it to me, he bragged about it. He's never been tried for those. There are dozens of others. He'll confess to all of them, I think he would have confessed to anyone, anytime, because he's proud of all the killings. He thinks they make him a man. But nobody ever asked him, the cops never knew anything about him because he just drifts, he's done things in states that don't even know he's alive. I can tell you what to ask him."

"You're willing to testify against him? I thought you wouldn't even tell us his name."

"If I'm safe, I'll do whatever you want. You can't ask me to risk my life by testifying while I'm still in here."

"I didn't ask for anything from you, Swann, you sought me out. I was just as happy not knowing anything about this."