Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

Rayner at last reached the final page of his report. “The footage of the execution is making the rounds on the Internet via a chain e-mail with an mpeg attachment-it’s the topic of choice in a wide range of chat rooms. A family-values activist appearing on Oprah this afternoon expressed concern about the impact the footage has had on children. She drew a comparison to the Challenger exploding on live TV or the planes hitting the World Trade Center.”

“Except those were regrettable events,” Robert said.

Mitchell’s grin flashed beneath his thick mustache. “It’s adult content, all right.”

“And now the big news,” Dumone said. “I have it on good authority that LAPD recovered an undisclosed amount of sarin nerve gas in the trunk of Lane’s car. In a canister prepped for aerosol delivery. A briefcase in the passenger seat contained diagrams of KCOM’s air-conditioning system, with the ducts labeled based on ease of accessibility. It seems not unlikely that Lane was planning on leaving a little gift for the government-controlled leftist media on his way back into hiding.”

“Why hasn’t that information been made public?” Tim asked.

“Because it shows LAPD’s ass. Particularly after September 11, intel and enforcement communities aren’t rushing to the public to point out their oversights and blind spots. Especially regarding a suspect who’s so obvious. Another atrocity was avoided only because of dumb luck.”

“And us,” Robert added.

Rayner smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “The public knows nothing about that, but still the polls are overwhelmingly in our favor.”

“We didn’t do this for the polls,” Tim said, but Rayner didn’t appear to hear.

“Three morning talk shows over the past two days featured call-ins regarding variations of the same question: Was Lane’s assassination an undesirable event? ‘No’ scored seventy-six, seventy-two, and sixty-six percent. The proper news shows’ pedestrian interviews were fairly well split between tacit approvers and indignant citizens. A significant minority expressed their disgust that such a thing had occurred, regardless of the character of the victim. One commentator referred to it as ‘pornographic.’”

“How do you get all this stuff?” Mitchell asked. “I don’t see you watching TV twenty-four/seven.”

“Media breakdowns on topics relevant to my research are faxed to me twice daily.”

Ananberg ran her hands over her thighs, smoothing her skirt. She wore a striped dress shirt with well-starched cuffs, cut like a man’s, which oddly made it more feminine, and a sweater arranged in a country-club loop just below her neck. The frames of her glasses peaked out at the top corners. “Grad students,” she said. “The ultimate workhorses. And you don’t even have to groom them.”

“So far my sense of it is, no one knows what to make of us yet,” Rayner said. “So I’d like to raise the obvious consideration at this point, one which I’m sure we’ve all given some thought to. Do we make our position-though not our identities-public?”

“Absolutely not,” Dumone said. “Too much of an operational risk.”

“We want more from Lane’s death than public euphoria. It may be more effective to take credit and explain how we arrived at the decision.”

“I think it’s cowardice not to,” Ananberg said. “No responsible state-no entity I respect or trust-commits secret executions. It was a public act. I say we leak some sort of communique that states how we determined his guilt. ‘We citizens who have empowered ourselves thus, made the decision on the following evidence-’”

“We do not submit the defendant to the mob in this country,” Dumone said. “Our judges and juries don’t grovel for societal support. They make rulings.”

Rayner said, “We could release some equivalent to the minutes-”

“Any sophisticated document would be laden with clues for the press and the authorities,” Tim said.

“No,” the Stork said. “No way we make a statement. Too great a risk.”

“It’s irresponsible not to give the public our rationale,” Rayner said. “Without it they’re left with nothing but the aftermath of a lynching.”

Dumone said, “Lane’s death was all about restraint, precision, circumspection. The public will be able to distinguish it as an execution, not a hit.”

“Who cares if it’s distinguished?” Robert said.

“The difference,” Dumone said sharply, “is everything.”

Rayner said, “A communique would clarify matters precisely.”

“If you’re with us, toot your car horns on your morning commute,” Tim said.

“It wouldn’t be that vulgar, Mr. Rackley. We’re trying to force meaningful dialogue from a recalcitrant public here. How does society feel about criminals who get off through loopholes? Should the system be amended? Was Lane’s execution justice?”

“Yes,” Robert said.

Tim felt a familiar pull-instinctive resistance in the face of Robert’s unequivocality.

“We know it. Anyone who studies the record knows it. That’s good enough for me,” Mitchell said. “And those who don’t get it now will after the next execution. We’ll soon establish a pattern. We don’t need to turn over potentially damning evidence.”

“You’re going to be in high demand, I’m sure, for talking-head appearances,” Dumone said to Rayner. “And, if you’d like, you can always steer conversation in the appropriate direction. Keep dialogue on track-without giving anything up. But we’re not exposing ourselves at this stage. We can revisit the issue later.”

Ananberg leaned back in her chair, thin arms woven across her chest in an inadvertently prudish show of frustration. Rayner tilted his head, his expression one of concession.

Rayner’s financial supremacy and facility with armchair social theory ostensibly put him in the driver’s seat, but it was ever clearer that Dumone was the on-the-ground chief. When Rayner talked, the others listened; when Dumone spoke, they shut up.

“Can we get to voting?” Robert asked. “I didn’t exactly come down here to talk about missives and Oprah Fuckin’ Win-”

Dumone fanned a flat hand, a gesture that was at once soothing and firm, and Robert cut off midsentence. Robert offered his brother a face-saving smirk as Rayner opened the safe and removed another binder from the stack. It hit the table with a slap.

“Mick Dobbins.”

“Mickey the Molester?” Robert said. He shot Ananberg a look. “Listen, sugarbritches, Mickey the Alleged Molester just don’t have the same ring.”

Dumone held the binder before him in one hand like a psalm book, letting it fall open. “Groundskeeper at Venice Care for Kids. Indicted on eight counts of lewd acts with a child, one count of murder one. Before the incidents, he was beloved by kids and staff.” He passed the detective progress reports to Tim. “IQ seventy-six.”

“Does that preclude capital punishment right off the bat?” Tim asked.

Ananberg shook her head. “Two independent psychiatric evaluations failed to classify him as mentally retarded. I guess it doesn’t just come down to IQ, it has to do with level of functioning and other stuff.”

The remainder of the papers were segmented and passed around the table.

“Seven girls, ages four to five, claimed they were molested by him,” Dumone said.

“How?” Tim asked.

“Genital and anal touching. Some digital insertion. One girl claimed to have been sodomized with a pen.”

“Intercourse?”

“No.” Dumone shuffled through the pages, glancing at the lab results.

“How’s this a capital case?” Ananberg asked.

“Peggie Knoll was admitted to the hospital with high fever, shaking chills. Evidently it was a bladder infection-by the time they caught it, it had turned into a kidney infection. She died of”-he flipped open the hospital report-“overwhelming urosepsis.”