The Kill Clause

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Tim turned the corner and drove around the block. A conservative, moneyed community located south of Hollywood and west of downtown, Hancock Park is Los Angeles’s best stab at East Coast sophistication. The enormous houses Tim watched fading into the dusk had been built mostly in the 1920s by rich WASPs, after the infiltration of the middle class had made Pasadena less palatable. Despite the imperious brick mailboxes and staid English exteriors, the houses still feel a touch gritty and oddly free-spirited, like a nun smoking a cigarette. In Los Angeles there’s a new twist to every habit.

  When Tim came up to the house again, he pulled into the drive. He pushed a button on the call box, and the large gates swung open. He put the Beemer in park, preferring to leave it outside the gates in case he needed to make a hasty retreat, slung a black bag over one shoulder, and walked to the front door. Oak, solid core. Doorknob probably weighed ten pounds.

  Tim adjusted his Sig, ensuring that it remained snugly tucked into his jeans over his right kidney, handle flared outward to precipitate a fast draw. He’d looped a few rubber bands around the fore end of the grip just below the hammer so the pistol couldn’t slip beneath his waistband. It didn’t sit on him as well as his .357.

  He raised the knocker, a brass rabbit that looked uncomfortably elongated, and let it fall. It sent an echo into the house, and the murmur of conversation inside ceased.

  The door swung open, revealing William Rayner. Tim covered his surprise quickly. Rayner wore an expensively tailored suit, much like the one he’d had on in the television interview last night, and he held a gin and tonic, from the smell of it.

  “Mr. Rackley, so glad you decided to come.” The man offered his hand. In person his face had a decidedly mischievous cast. “William Rayner.”

  Tim pulled the proffered hand aside with his left and tapped Rayner’s chest and stomach with the knuckles of his right, checking for a wire.

  Rayner regarded him with amusement. “Good, good. We value caution.” He stepped back, letting the door swing with him, but Tim didn’t move from the porch. “Come now, Mr. Rackley, we certainly didn’t invite you all this way to beat you with pipes.”

  Tim entered the foyer warily. It was a dim room, heavy with original oils and dark wood. An ornately carved newel post marked the base of a curving staircase carpeted with a brass-pinned runner. Without another glance at Tim, Rayner walked ahead into an adjoining room. Tim circled the foyer before following.

  Five men—including Rayner—and a woman awaited him, sitting in elaborate armchairs and on a seasoned leather club sofa. Two of the men were twins in their late thirties with hard blue eyes, thick blond mustaches, and Popeye forearm bulges covered with reddish-blond hair. They were unbelievably sturdy, with action-figure bulk, barrel chests, and sharp-tapering lats. About average height—maybe five-ten. Though they were nearly identical, some ineffable quality gave one a harder, more focused orientation. He was holding a glass of water but sipping it like a scotch. Probably spoke fluent Twelve-Step.

  A slight man with too-thick eyeglasses in fat black frames sat perched on the couch. His features were rounded and yielding, like those of a cloth doll. His Magnum, PI, shirt screamed out in the muted furnishings, as did the sheen of light from his bald, pointed head. He had no chin to speak of and an extremely slight nose. His upper lip bore the signs of a repaired cleft palate. His small hand swept up from between the cushions of the couch, knuckling his glasses back up the almost nonexistent bridge of his nose. Beside him sat Tim’s visitor from last night.

  The woman sat in one of the armchairs directly facing Tim, framed perfectly by the fireplace behind her. She was primly attractive; a thin button-up sweater showed off a lean, feminine build, and her glasses looked as if they’d been plucked off the face of a 1950s secretary. She wore her hair up, neatly styled and fixed in place by a pair of black chopsticks. The youngest of the group, she looked to be in her late twenties.

  All around them rose bookcases, stretching from the floor to the twenty-foot ceiling. A sliding library ladder hooked onto a brass bar that ran the length of the far wall. The books were organized by set and series—law publications, sociology journals, psych texts. When Tim saw the rows of Rayner’s own books, he recognized this as the library from which KCOM had broadcast Rayner’s interview last night—it only looked like a set. His books all bore titles reminiscent of network movies from the eighties—Violent Loss, Thwarted Vengeance, Beyond the Abyss.

  A honey-hued writing desk occupied the far corner; on it stood a sculpture of Blind Justice with her scales. This hokey prop seemed a cut below the other furnishings, perhaps because it was placed for TV. Or for Tim.

  The woman smiled curtly. “What happened to your eye?”

  “I fell down the stairs.” Tim dropped his bag on the Persian rug. “I would like to state for the record that I have not consented to anything, that I am only here regarding a meeting about which, at present, I know nothing. Are we agreed?”

  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 protégé,
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 argu
ments 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.”