Death Sentence (19 page)

“I'm sure he is. I was very impressed. So were a lot of other people watching, I'm sure. One gets the feeling Captain Mastro has just thrown his hand into the political ring.”

“I've had that feeling for a week or more,” Irene agreed. “But why won't he catch the vigilante, Harry?”

“I can think of two reasons. One is that it would be an embarrassment to Mastro, in the long term. He'd lose more votes than he'd gain.”

“Assuming he really does have the ambitions we're imputing to him.”

“Yes, assuming that.”

“And the other?”

“I think the vigilante has run his course,” Harry Chisum said. He glanced at Paul and went back to Irene: “He's done what he set out to do. It's beginning to backfire on him now. It's beginning to have unpleasant consequences that he didn't anticipate when he started. I think, to use the vernacular, that pretty soon the vigilante is going to hang up his guns.”

Irene laughed. “Sometimes you get downright fanciful, Harry.”

“Don't you think I'm right?”

“No. I think the man's got the smell of smoke and the taste of blood in him now. I think he's gone rogue. I don't believe anything will stop him short of handcuffs and a prison cell—or a bullet.”

“Care to place a small wager on it?” The old man was smiling.

“Are you serious?”

“Certainly. What would you say to fifty dollars?”

“Why Harry, gambling is illegal.”

“Weaseling out? No courage with your convictions?”

“I'll take the bet.” She grinned at him.

Harry Chisum turned his head. Paul couldn't make out his expression; the light was behind the old man. “What about you, Paul?”

“I'll pass. I'm afraid I haven't got a side to pick.”

“If you change your mind let me know. I'm always glad to take a sucker's money.”

“Harry's a fanatical bridge player,” Irene said.

And probably pretty good at poker too, Paul thought. He wished he could fathom what was transpiring behind those dewlappy eyes.

They talked for another hour before the old man saw them to the door. He was all affability when he shook Paul's hand and urged him to come again. When the door closed Paul thought he glimpsed something else in Chisum's face: a hint of reproach—or did he imagine it?

Driving Irene back to the city he hardly spoke at all.

31

¶
CHICAGO, JAN. 5TH
—Last night, for the second time in little more than 24 hours, Chicago's vigilante struck again, killing one man and injuring two others.

The dead man apparently was an innocent bystander, the intended victim of a robbery allegedly committed by the two wounded men.

Two men who allegedly had been rolling drunks near several bars in the Loop were found by police officers on Wabash Avenue shortly after 1:00 a.m. this morning, bleeding from .45 caliber bullet wounds, while a third man lay dead nearby.

According to Sergeant James Anderson of the Central District Patrol, the dead man has been identified as Peter A. Whitmore, 43, of 4122 Albion in Lincolnwood. Apparently Whitmore was on his way from a Balbo Avenue bar to the Harrison Street El-station, on foot, when he was accosted on Wabash Avenue by the two alleged robbers, whose identities have been withheld by police pending further investigation. The two men allegedly knocked Whitmore down and were going through his pockets when they were fired on from a passing car.

One of the men was shot in the shoulder, the other wounded twice, in the hip and in the collarbone. The bullet which passed through the second man's hip barely grazed the flesh, according to police, and it continued on its trajectory, killing Whitmore almost instantly when it struck him in the temple.

According to Sergeant Anderson, the two men said the car from which the shots were fired never stopped moving, and they did not see the gunman's face or note the type or license number of the car.

Captain Victor Mastro, charged with investigating the series of vigilante shootings, said last night in a telephone interview from his home that ballistics analysis on the bullets recovered from the dead and wounded man had not yet been completed. “But we're proceeding on the assumption they were fired from the same .45 caliber automatic pistol that's been used in several other vigilante cases.”

At a press conference yesterday afternoon, Captain Mastro revealed for the first time the specific descriptions of the two known handguns that have been identified by ballistics studies as having been used in the so-called Vigilante killings. One has been identified as a .45 Luger automatic, Captain Mastro said, and the other has been identified as a .38 S&W Centennial revolver. Laboratory study of the bullets recovered in several cases led to these identifications, according to Captain Mastro.

Such identifications are made possible by the fact that each different firearm model possesses a distinctly machined bore. When a bullet fired from the weapon passes through the barrel, the “lands and grooves” of rifling that have been machined into the steel, in order to spin the bullet, leave their imprint on the bullets. Microscopic examination of fired bullets can provide, in most cases, the exact make and model of the weapon from which they were fired. Later, of course, if a weapon is recovered by police, a sample bullet can be fired from it and compared with those used in earlier shootings, to determine whether the specific handgun in possession was used to fire the earlier bullets. Such ballistics identifications are as positive and exact as fingerprint identification, according to Captain Mastro; no two handguns will leave exactly the same markings on a bullet fired from them.

The two wounded men in last night's shooting are being held in custody in the jail wing of County Hospital, according to a Central District spokesman. They are being questioned further about the incident.

Last night's shootings bring to twenty-one the toll attributed to the vigilante. Of those, only four have survived their injuries. The death last night of Peter Whitmore marks the first time an innocent bystander has been shot by the vigilante, according to police. “Apparently he didn't intend to shoot Whitmore,” Sergeant Anderson said. “He was shooting from a moving car, as far as we can tell, and his aim may have been disturbed by hitting a bump or something.”

“You could call it an accident,” Captain Mastro agreed in the telephone interview last night, “but according to law it's first-degree murder. The felony-murder statute specifies that any homicide committed during the commission of another felony—in this case the assault against the two alleged robbers—is automatically classified as first-degree murder, even if the homicide took place accidentally.”

In any case, Captain Mastro remarked, “He's got enough scores against him so that when we catch him we won't have to worry very much about the technicalities of this particular homicide. He's got a lot more than that to answer for. But this type of so-called ‘accident,' involving the violent death of an innocent party, is all too typical of what happens when vigilantism rears its head.”

32

S
HE WAS ASLEEP
with one hand clutched in her hair. He eased out of the bed and padded into the bathroom. The tiles struck cold under his feet. He shut the door before he switched on the light. Washed and used her toothbrush and had a look at his Sunday-morning eyes in the medicine cabinet mirror. Things were breaking up: it was harder to keep a grip on them. In the mirror he was drawn, grey, blear; he felt jumpy.

He switched it off and went back into the bedroom. A little morning greyness filtered in through the closed slats of the blinds; he found his clothes and picked them up and carried them silently out to the living room, and shut the door behind him before he dressed. Laced up his shoes, got his coat from the hall closet and let himself out of her apartment.

He had trouble starting the car and when he put it in gear it stalled. He cursed aloud and finally willed it, chugging and bucking, into the street.

She'd wake up in an hour or two and she'd phone him to find out why he'd sneaked put before breakfast. He'd have to have an answer ready. He worked it out while he drove.

It was warmer than it had been in weeks and the pavements were going to slush. Passing cars threw up great filthy wakes around them like yachts at high speed. The sun was shining, a thin pale disc above the haze, but he had to keep the wipers on.

He put it in its garage slot and took the elevator up to the lobby, getting off there because he wanted to pick up yesterday's mail; he hadn't been home since Friday. He crossed to the mail room and put his key in the box. Bills and bulk-mail ads; nothing interesting; he dropped the ads in the trash bin and went back toward the elevators and that was when he saw the old man rising from the chair.

He was stunned. He stopped in his tracks.

“Good morning, Paul.” Harry Chisum was affable enough.

“How long have you been here?”

“Half an hour perhaps. I came by yesterday but you weren't here.”

“Irene and I were doing the art museums.”

“Yes well I suspected you two were together. I didn't want to trouble Irene with it. I wanted an opportunity to talk to you alone.” Chisum had a deerstalker and a walking stick in his hand; he wore a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, and a bulky grey cashmere sweater under it; he looked younger than Paul had seen him before but his expression was grave.

“You could have phoned, saved yourself all that traveling back and forth.” Paul heard the ring of his own voice and resented it: it sounded hollow.

“It's better this way. I didn't want to—forewarn you.”

“Very mysterious.”

“Am I? Well why don't we go up to your apartment.”

“Yes of course. I'm sorry….”

In the elevator he touched his thumb to the depressed plastic square and watched it light up. The old man tucked the walking stick under his arm. It was a slender stick of hardwood, gone completely black with antiquity; it had a head that appeared to be a chunk of ivory fixed to the stick with a bronze collar. It didn't mesh with Chisum's tweed and cashmere; it was the sort of thing you carried when you wore an opera cape. But the old man was indifferent to appearances.

“Well then, to what do I owe this honor?” It sounded weak and silly; he immediately regretted having uttered it.

“I think you know.” Chisum's words had a dry rustle. The doors slid open; Paul led the way along the corridor, fumbling for keys.

He let the old man waddle in ahead of him; he shot the locks before he pocketed the keys and shrugged out of his coat. “I haven't had breakfast yet. Join me?”

“Just coffee. I've eaten.” Chisum trailed him toward the kitchen and stood there with one shoulder propped against the jamb. He unbuttoned the jacket and let it hang back; his flannel trousers were pleated and cinched high and looked more than ever like a mailbag.

Paul busied himself with utensils. His hands rattled things. He tried to concentrate on it, to avoid looking at the old man. The silence became almost unbearable: finally he wheeled. “All right. What is it?”

“She's dented your armor, hasn't she. It's taught you to be afraid, and that's no good. Fear must be avoided like a whore with gonorrhea.”

“What are you talking about?” The pulse was thudding in his temples.

“Friday evening—that news report about the baker and his saleswomen. I was watching your face, Paul. I think that was the moment when the enormity of your error struck you fully for the first time. If I hadn't been looking right at you at that moment I suppose I'd never have suspected. But the whole thing was written on your face. You're not a very good actor—you're a poor dissembler, really, I'm amazed you've been able to keep the secret this long.”

“I'm trying to be polite, Harry, but I'm getting a little impatient. I have the feeling I've just wandered into a one-act drama of the absurd by mistake.”