The Kill Clause tr-1

by Gregg Hurwitz

  The men and the woman nodded.

  “Please respond orally.”

  “Yes,” Rayner said. “We are agreed.” He had a con man’s easy charm and quick grin, qualities Tim recognized all too well.

  As Rayner slid behind Tim to close the door, the woman said, “Before anything else, we’d like to offer our condolences for your daughter.” Her tone rang genuine, and it seemed to include some personal sadness. Had the circumstances been otherwise, Tim might have found it moving.

  The man whom Tim recognized from last night rose from his chair. “I knew you’d show up, Mr. Rackley.” He crossed the room and took Tim’s hand. “Franklin Dumone.”

  Tim felt him for a wire. Dumone gestured to the others, who unbut-toned or pulled up their shirts, exposing their chests. The twins’ compact, gym-tempered torsos struck a contrast to the formless flesh of the man in the loud shirt. Even the woman followed suit, pulling aside her sweater and white blouse and exposing a lace bra. She met Tim’s glance unflinchingly, mild amusement playing across her lips.

  Tim removed an RF emitter from his bag and walked the perimeter of the room, scanning the wand across the walls to check for any radio frequencies that indicated the presence of a digital transmitter. He paid particular attention to the electrical outlets and a grandfather clock beside the window. The others watched him with interest.

  The device emitted no tones suggesting they were being recorded.

  Rayner had been watching Tim with a little grin. “Are you done?”

  When Tim did not respond, Rayner nodded to the severe-looking twin. With a quick flick of his hand, the twin removed Tim’s G-Shock from his wrist. He tossed it to his brother, who dug in his shirt pocket, came up with a tiny screwdriver, and removed the watch’s backing. With tweezers he extracted a minuscule digital transmitter, which he pocketed.

  The man in the bright shirt spoke in a high-pitched, wheezy voice complicated by a number of minor speech defects. “I turned off the signal when you pulled through the gate-that’s why you didn’t pick it up just now.”

  “How long have you been listening to me?”

  “Since the day of your daughter’s funeral.”

  “We apologize for the intrusion into your privacy,” Dumone said, “but we had to be sure.”

  They’d been party to his shooting review board, his confrontation with Tannino, and his and Dray’s intimate exchange of blows last night. Tim fought to regain his focus. “Sure of what?”

  “Why don’t you sit down?”

  Tim made no move to the couch. “Who are you, and why have you been gathering intel on me?”

  The twin tightened the final screw and tossed the watch back at Tim, hard. Tim caught it in front of his face.

  “I assume you know of William Rayner,” Dumone said. “Social psychologist, expert on psychology and the law, and notorious cultural pundit.”

  Rayner raised his glass with mock solemnity. “I prefer celebrated cultural pundit.”

  “This is his teaching assistant and protege, Jenna Ananberg. I myself am a retired sergeant from Boston PD, Major Crimes Unit. These two are Robert and Mitchell Masterson, former detectives and task-force members out of Detroit. Robert was a precision marksman, one of SWAT’s top snipers, and Mitchell worked as a bomb tech in explosive ordnance disposal.” After a reluctant pause, Mitchell nodded, but Robert, who’d snatched the watch from Tim’s wrist, just stared at him.

  Robert’s aggressive bearing and the sharpness of his face reminded Tim of the Green Beret who had trained him in hand-to-hand. He’d taught Tim a close-quarters front-move, a downthrusting punch to the opponent’s groin, tight and viciously hard, timed with the twisting sink of the hips to give it more force. It could shatter the pelvis like a dropped dinner plate. The Beret claimed that if the punch was correctly aligned so the knuckles struck the top of the pubic bone, it could knock a man’s dick clean off. His smile when he’d related the fact had a particular gleam that told of strange appetites and vivid memories.

  Robert and his brother were dangerous men, not because they gave off anger but because they exuded a fearlessness that years of training and combat had attuned Tim to distinguish. They shared a graveyard gleam in the eyes.

  Dumone continued, “And this is Eddie Davis, aka the Stork. He’s a former sound agent and forensic locksmith for the FBI.”

  The little man waved awkwardly before rewedging his hand between the couch cushions. Given the weather, the sunburn on his nose was as mystifying as his nickname.

  Dumone paced behind Tim, and Tim pivoted slightly to keep him in view. “And this, fellow members of the Commission, is Timothy Rackley, a former platoon sergeant who used to wear the Rangers tab. His military training includes Close Quarter Combat School, Night Movement School, SERE School, HALO School, Jumpmaster School, Pathfinder School, Land Nav, Sniper School, Demo School, SCUBA, Urban Warfare, Mountain Warfare, Jungle Warfare. Did I leave any schools out?”

  “A few.” Tim noticed an antique mirror hanging on the far wall, and he crossed to it, taking a letter opener from the desk on his way.

  “Would you like to name them?”

  Tim touched the tip of the letter opener to the mirror. The gap between the point and the reflection indicated all was normal; a one-way would have showed none. He returned the letter opener to the desk. “I’ve always thought credentials are overrated.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  Tim bit the inside of his lip, his impatience growing. “When it comes down to it, everyone bleeds just about the same.”

  Robert, who’d risen to lean cross-armed against a bookcase, snickered. Dimpled finger marks on his T-shirt sleeves showed he’d stretched them first to get his biceps through. Neither twin had spoken yet; they were busy posturing and exuding menace. Their intensity was displayed in the flush of their cheeks. Tim knew their type from his Ranger days: competent, vigorous, and fiercely loyal to what they thought their ideals were. Not afraid to get mean.

  Dumone turned back to the others and continued, “In his three years with the U.S. Marshals Service, Mr. Rackley has received three Outstanding Performance Ratings, two Distinguished Service Awards, and the Forsyth Medal of Valor for saving a fellow deputy’s life, one Mr. George ‘Bear’ Jowalski. The September before last, Mr. Rackley kicked through the wall of a crack house, retrieved Mr. Jowalski’s injured body while taking fire, and carried him to safety. Isn’t that right, Mr. Rackley?”

  “That’s the Hollywood version, yes.”

  “Why didn’t you stay in Spec Ops for the army?” Dumone asked. “Bump up to Delta?”

  “I wanted to spend more time with-” Tim bit his lip. Rayner started to say something, but Tim held up his hand. “Listen to me carefully. I will leave if you don’t tell me why I’m here. Right now.”

  The men and Ananberg exchanged looks, seeming to reconcile themselves to something. Dumone settled heavily into a chair. Rayner took off his jacket, revealing an elegant shirt with flared sleeves and gold cuff links, then hung it across the back of an armchair. He stepped in front of Tim, ice jiggling in his glass.

  “There is one thing we all share, Mr. Rackley. Everyone in this room, including you. We all have loved ones who have been victimized by perpetrators who managed to evade justice due to loopholes in the law. Procedural defects, chain-of-possession mishaps, warrant irregularities. The courts of this country, at times, have trouble functioning. They’re backed up, choked with statutes and new case law. Because of this we’re forming the Commission. The Commission will operate within the strictest legal guidelines. Our criteria will be the Constitution of the United States and the Penal Code for the state of California. We’ll review capital cases in which defendants have gotten off due to technicalities. The three responsibilities with which we will be concerned are those of judge, jury, and executioner. We’re all judge and jury.” His eyebrows drew together, forming a single silver line. “We’d like you to be our executioner.”

  Dumone used both arms
to help himself out of the chair. He headed over to a collection of bottles on a shelf behind the desk. “Can I get you a drink, Mr. Rackley? Christ knows, I need one.” He winked.

  Tim looked from face to face, searching for some hint of levity. “This is not a joke.” He realized his remark sounded closer to a statement than a question.

  “It would certainly be an elaborate one and a considerable waste of time if it were,” Rayner said. “Suffice it to say, none of us have a lot of time on our hands.”

  The ticktock of the grandfather clock was slightly unnerving.

  “So, Mr. Rackley,” Dumone said, “what do you think?”

  “I think you’ve all been watching too many Dirty Harry movies.” Tim dropped the RF emitter wand into his bag and zipped it up. “I want nothing to do with vigilante retribution.”

  “Of course not,” Ananberg said. “We would never ask you to engage in such activities. Vigilantes are outside the law. We’re an adjunct to it.” She crossed her legs, lacing her hands over a knee. Her voice was soothing and had the practiced cadence of a newscaster’s. “You see, Mr. Rackley, we have an immense luxury here. We can concern ourselves exclusively with the merits of a given case and the culpability of the defendant. We needn’t stand on procedural formalities or permit them to get in the way of justice. Courts regularly have to make rulings irrelevant to the merits. They’re not always ruling on the case itself-they’re ruling preemptively to deter illegal or improper government conduct in the future. They know that if they overlook warrant limitations or Miranda rights even once, it can set a precedent that will open the way for the government to act without regard for individual rights. And that is a valid and compelling concern.” She spread her hands. “For them.”

  “Constitutional guarantees will still function,” Dumone said. “We’re not in conflict with them. We’re not the state.”

  “You understand firsthand how complex Fourth Amendment search-and-seizure issues have grown,” Rayner said. “It’s gotten to the point that good-faith efforts by the police fall short. The system’s rough patches aren’t due to crooked cops who feel they’re above the law, or bleeding-heart knee-jerk judges. These are men and women like you and me, of good conscience and fair temperament, who are seeking to uphold a system that’s increasingly undercut by its neurotic fear of victimizing the accused.”

  Robert finally chimed in with a smoker’s voice, his hands flaring in disgust. “An honest cop can’t even fire a shot without being waylaid by an internal investigation, shooting board…”

  “Maybe a criminal and civil case on top of that,” Mitchell said.

  Dumone spoke coolly, mitigating some of the twins’ sharpness. “We need those people, and we need the system. We also need something else.”

  “We’ll be tied not to the letter of the law but the spirit.” Rayner gestured to the sculpture of Blind Justice on the desk. Their prop.

  Tim noted how carefully orchestrated the presentation was. The affluent milieu, designed to impress and intimidate him, the arguments laid out succinctly, the language heavy on law and logic-Tim’s language. The speakers hadn’t so much as interrupted one another. Yet despite their skillful maneuvering, they also evinced circumspection and righteousness. Tim felt like a buyer annoyed with the salesman’s pitch but still interested in the car.

  “You’re not a jury of their peers,” Tim said.

  “That’s right,” Rayner said. “We’re a jury of intelligent, discerning citizens.”

  Robert said, “I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a jury, but lemme tell you-they ain’t your peers. They’re a group of sorry-ass individuals with nothing better to do on a workday and no brains to fabricate an excuse to duck duty.”

  “But you’d be lying to say you don’t have biases. Your system is flawed, too.”

  “Isn’t everything?” Rayner said. “The question is, is our system less flawed?”

  Tim took this in silently.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Rackley?” Ananberg said.

  Tim didn’t budge. “Do you have an investigative arm?”

  “That’s the beauty of our system,” Rayner said. “We’ll address only those cases that have already gone to court-cases in which suspects were let off due to procedural technicalities. These cases tend to have exhaustive evidence and reports already in the dockets, court transcripts, and case binders.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “If they don’t, we won’t touch them. We’re aware of our limitations-we don’t consider ourselves equipped to deal with more complex investigation and evidence gathering. If the proof isn’t all there, we happily defer to the court’s decision.”

  “How do you get the court files and case binders?”

  “The court files are public record. But I have several judges-close friends-who send me materials relevant to my research. They enjoy seeing their names in the acknowledgments of my books.” He worked something off one of his cuff links with a fingernail. “Never underestimate vanity.” A self-aware grin. “And we have certain arrangements-untraceable arrangements-with temps, mailroom workers, clerks, and the like, positioned advantageously in DA and PD offices. We get our hands on what we need our hands on.”

  “Why do you only review capital cases?”

  “Because our capabilities for punitive action are limited. We can impose either a death sentence or nothing at all. Because of this we don’t concern ourselves with lesser charges.”

  Robert settled back against the wall and flexed his crossed arms. “Our rehabilitation program is not yet under development.” He ignored Dumone’s unamused glance, his eyes on Tim, dark stones in the leathery flesh of his face.

  Ananberg said, “An added benefit is, we serve as a corrective for all those death-penalty biases. The majority of those sent to death row by America’s traditional courts are underprivileged minorities who can’t afford proper representation-”

  “Whereas we’re an equal-opportunity exterminator,” Mitchell said.

  “Do you know, Mr. Rackley, one of the overlooked benefits of legal punishment?” Tim found Rayner’s rhetorical questions to be another indication of his not-so-subtle condescension. “It removes from the victims and victims’ families the moral obligation of retaliation. In doing so it prevents society from deteriorating into feuds. But when the state defaults on its ability to inflict punishment for you, you still feel it, don’t you? The moral necessity to see justice done for your daughter? You’ll always feel it-believe me. The twitch of a phantom limb.”

  Tim walked over, got in Rayner’s space just enough to imply aggression. Robert pushed himself up off his incline against the wall, but Dumone backed him down from across the room with the briefest flutter of his hand. Tim took note of all these dynamics and plugged them in to the dominance hierarchy he was evolving in his head. Rayner didn’t give the slightest indication of being intimidated.

  Tim gestured at the others. “And you collected them through your work?”

  “Yes. I conduct extensive subject analysis in the course of my research. It’s helped me determine who would be responsive to my ideas.”

  “And you took an interest in me when my daughter was killed.”

  “Virginia’s case caught our eye, yes,” Ananberg said.

  Tim was impressed by her decision to refrain from euphemism and refer to Ginny by name. This small, knowing touch also added credibility to Rayner’s claim that everybody present had lost a family member.

  “We were having a hard time finding candidates,” Rayner said. “Your particular set of skills and ethics is remarkably rare. And the other remotely similar candidates we were considering fell too much into the rule-follower camp, which made them unlikely to partake in a venture such as this. We started looking at candidates whose lives had been marred by some personal tragedy. Especially those who’d had loved ones killed or raped by assailants who navigated through a faulty system to find their way back onto the streets. So when Ginny’s story hit the news,
we thought, here is someone who understands our pain.”

  “We didn’t know, of course, that Kindell would get off again,” Ananberg said, “but when that happened, it pretty much sealed our decision to approach you.”

  “We’d hoped to recruit you as a deputy marshal, when you still had access to your tracking resources,” Rayner confided. “We were disappointed by your resignation.”

  “I never would have done anything to undermine the service,” Tim said. “I still wouldn’t.”

  Robert scowled. “Even after they betrayed you?”

  “Yes.” Tim turned back to Rayner. “Tell me how it started. This…idea.”

  “I met Franklin when I was in Boston for a law and psychology conference about three years ago,” Rayner said. “We were on the same panel-I had lost a boy, Franklin his wife-and we had an immediate affinity for each other. We went out to a meal afterward, found ourselves a few drinks in and theorizing openly, and the idea of the Commission was hatched. The next morning, of course, we dismissed our conversation as hypothetical banter. The conference ended, and I came back to L.A. A few weeks later I had one of those nights-you know the kind of night to which I’m referring, Mr. Rackley? The kind of night when grief and vengeance take on a life of their own? They become tangible, electric.” Rayner’s eyes drifted.

  “Yes.”

  “And so I called Franklin who, as fate would have it, was having a night similar to mine. We revisited the idea of the Commission, again in the safety of the night, but this time it took. It seemed less frightful in the cold light of the next morning.” His eyes regained their sharp focus, and his tone became more brisk. “I had tremendous resources at hand for selecting members of the Commission. In my studies I looked for law-enforcement officers with unusually high IQs, who were sensitive to authority and policy but were also independent thinkers. Now and then someone would strike me as particularly right for the Commission. And Franklin could run background checks, contact them, bring them into our circle.” He flashed a pleased little smile. “The hesitation you’re displaying now, Mr. Rackley, affirms our opinion that we want you on board.”