The Kill Clause

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Rayner shuffled through his sheaf of notes while the others sat in varying degrees of attentiveness around the table, waiting for his media recap to conclude. Like mirrored objects, Robert and Mitchell sat on either side of the table, each shoved back in his chair, each with his legs loosely crossed, sneaker resting on opposite knee. Their languid postures suggested boredom; at last an attribute they shared with Ananberg. The Stork listened intently—Tim noted he had a tendency to blink frequently when concentrating—and Dumone, leaning back in his chair, statue-still, hands laced across his stomach, took it all in with a silent, almost magnanimous patience.

  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 communiqué 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 communiqué 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 a
nal 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.”

  “Did they do a rape kit?”

  “No. Knoll never claimed to have been molested. It wasn’t until after her death that the seven girls came forth, said they and Knoll were molested, put Knoll’s molest a few days prior to her hospitalization. The DA backtracked—paraded out a few expert witnesses who said if a molest—especially anal-vaginal—occurred in that time frame, it was a proximate cause of the bladder infection.”

  “How did Dobbins get off?” the Stork asked. He blushed deeply, hiding his face by sliding his glasses farther up his nose. “The trial, I mean.”

  “The jury found him guilty, but the judge was underwhelmed with the merits and threw the case out for insufficiency of evidence.”

  “They’re overturning juries now,” Robert said with disgust.

  “There was a decided lack of physical evidence,” Dumone said. “Nothing in Knoll’s medical records. The search of Dobbins’s apartment turned up nothing. The case detective noted a stack of pornography in a bathroom cabinet. Several issues of the magazine Barely Legal.”

  “I know it well,” Ananberg said. Six sets of eyes fastened on her. Mitchell looked distinctly annoyed; Tim alone wore a half smile.

  “Pornography don’t mean shit,” Robert said. “What else? What about the medical reports on the other girls?”

  The Stork raised his hand, his eyes, shiny through his glasses, focused on the sheet in front of him. “Medical examinations were inconclusive. No tearing, no scarring, no bruising, no bleeding, no trauma associated with penetration.”

  “But penetration was just digital,” Mitchell said. “That would cause less trauma.”

  “On a five-year-old girl, something would still be detectable,” Ananberg said.

  “How long after the alleged molestation were the girls examined?” Tim asked.

  The Stork flipped a sheet over. “Two weeks.”

  “Plenty of healing time.”

  “Especially if there were just superficial tears or light bruising,” Mitchell added.

  “No DNA, no nothing?” Ananberg asked. “Anywhere?”

  Rayner shook his head. “No.”

  “So the whole case hung on the girls’ testimony? Do you have the interrogation tapes?”

  Rayner pulled two tapes from his briefcase. “I got hold of them a few weeks ago.” He crossed the room and slid the first one into a VCR hidden in a dark wood cabinet. “The supervising DA and I were in Ivy together.” Off the others’ puzzled expressions, he added, “My eating club at Princeton.”

  The tape quality was poor; the recording jerked a bit, and the lighting washed out the interview room to whites and yellows. A young girl sat on a plastic chair, her heels resting at the seat’s edge, her knees drawn up to her chin.

  The interviewer—presumably a Suspected Child Abuse and Neglect social worker—sat on a low footstool, facing the girl. “…and so he touched you?”

  The girl hugged her legs, clasping her hands midway up her shins. “Yes.”

  “Okay, you’re doing a good job, Lisa. Did he touch you somewhere you didn’t want him to?”

  “No.”

  A frown appeared on the social worker’s face, a barely noticeable furrowing between her eyebrows. Her voice was soft and reassuring. “Are you sure you’re not scared to answer, sweetheart?”

  Lisa rested her chin on her knees. Her head bounced a few times before Tim realized she was chewing gum. “Not scared.”

  “Okay. Then I’ll ask you again….” Calm, drawn-out sentences. “Did he touch you somewhere on your lower body?”

  A tiny voice, almost inaudible. “Yes…”

  The social worker’s face softened with empathy. “Where? Can you show me on these dolls?” Two puppets appeared almost instantly from the social worker’s bag, complete with shiny polyester genitalia.

  Lisa studied them tentatively before reaching out to take them. She made the male puppet hold hands with the little girl puppet, then looked up at the social worker.

  “Okay…then what?”

  Lisa arranged the puppets in an embrace.

  “Okay…and after that?”

  Lisa chewed her gum thoughtfully for a moment, then put the male puppet’s hand on the little girl’s chest.

  “Very good, Lisa. Very good. And that’s how Peggie told you she was touched also?”

  Lisa nodded solemnly.

  Rayner looked troubled. He exchanged a glance with Ananberg, who shook her head, unimpressed. “Let’s watch the rest of the interviews first,” he said.

  Occasionally fast-forwarding, they made their way through the following six interviews, each of which featured similar questioning techniques by the same social worker.

  When the last girl finished tearfully recounting her molestation, Rayner stopped the tape. “It was a damn witch-hunt. No wonder the judge threw out the verdict.”

  “What are you talking about?” Robert said. “Every one of those girls said they were molested. They even acted it out on the dolls.”

  “The social worker asked leading questions, Rob,” Dumone said. “It’s fine for us, trying to pull a confession, but kids are more impressionable. They parrot.”

  “How were the questions leading?”

  “For starters, there weren’t any general questions,” Ananberg said. “Like ‘What happened?’ The social worker was prompting, implanting all the information through closed, suggestive questions. So ‘Did he touch you below the belt?’ turns into ‘Where did he touch you below the belt?’ And she was conditioning the girls, rewarding them for the answers she wanted to hear—smiling, saying ‘Good,’ telling them it’s okay.”

  “And frowning when she didn’t like what she heard,” Rayner added. “If a girl gave the ‘wrong’ answer, she was subjected to repeated questioning—and the interviewer’s tacit disapproval—until she made something up.”

  Tim glanced through the files at the badly photocopied detective notes. “The girls were in the same circles. Parents knew each other. After the first accusation, there were meetings between the families, conferences at school. Cross-pollination. These recorded interviews happened later. The witnesses weren’t exactly working from a clean slate.”

  “And who knows how many other opportunities there were to have memories implanted and reinforced?” Ananberg added. “Other kids, media…” She spun her hand in a double loop, a gestured et cetera.

  “What about the dolls?” Mitchell said.

  “Same criticisms apply,” Rayner said. “On top of which, anatomically correct dolls are not recommended to be used with very young children.”

  “Only with the elderly,” Ananberg said.

  Robert fixed her with a piercing stare. “This isn’t a fucking joke.” He gestured to his brother. “Not to us.”

  “I don’t think she meant anything,” Dumone said.

  “No, he’s right.” Ananberg ran her hand through her dark brown hair. “I’m sorry. Just trying to defuse the tension in here. It’s a, uh, tough topic.”

  “If you can’t handle tough topics, maybe you’re in the wrong place.”

  “Robert. She apologized,” Tim said. “Let’s keep moving.”

  Ananberg returned to her usual briskly professional tone. “According to the Ceci and Bruck study published in 1995, questioning young children with anatomically correct dolls is less than reliable.”

  Mitchell glanced up from the court file. “Who cares about the dolls? According to this, the guy confessed.”

  “
The confession was persuasively called into question by the defense,” Rayner said. He strode over to the VCR and switched tapes.

  The cold light of a police interrogation room. The camera caught some glare from the backside of a one-way mirror. Mick Dobbins sat hunched in a metal folding chair while two detectives worked him. Despite his solid frame and broad shoulders, his orientation was distinctly youthful. His arms hung loose and heavy between his spread knees, and his left sneaker was untied, his foot turned on its side. One of his overalls straps had come undone; it swayed at his side like a yoyo waiting to be snapped up.

  The detectives had the lights going hot, one of them always staying just out of Dobbins’s view, to his side, behind his back. Dobbins kept his head hung but tried to follow the detectives with his eyes, which peered nervously through the sweat-matted tangle of his bangs. His low-set ears protruded from his oddly rectangular head like opposing coffee-mug handles.

  “So you like girls?” the detective asked.

  “Yeah. Girls. Girls ’n’ boys.” When Dobbins spoke, his mild retardation was immediately apparent in his low register and plodding cadence.

  “You like girls a lot, don’t you? Don’t you?” The detective raised a foot, placed it squarely on the small patch of metal chair exposed between Dobbins’s legs. Dobbins lowered his head more, tucking his chin into the hollow of his shoulder. The detective leaned forward, his face inches from the top of Dobbins’s head. “I asked you a question. Tell me about them, tell me about the girls. You like them? You like girls?”

  “Y-y-yeah. I like girls.”

  “Do you like touching them?”

  Dobbins wiped his nose with the back of his hand, a rough, frustrated gesture. He muttered to himself. “Chocolate, vanilla, rocky road—”

  The detective snapped his fingers inches from Dobbins’s face. “Do you like touching them?”

  “I hug girls. Girls and boys.”

  “Do you like touching girls?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah what?”

  “I like touching girls. I…”