“We could afford it,” Chisum said. “That’s one of the points I’m trying to make in my book. Actually we’d save money, in the long run.”
“How?”
“By reducing the cost society pays for crime. If we can restore our legal structure to the point where it makes the risks of criminal behavior much greater, we’ll see a big reduction in crime. In the long run we should be able to reduce the size of the legal bureaucracy, but even before that happens we’ll save enormous sums simply by the fact that fewer crimes will be committed and less money will be lost. Not to mention the reduction in human suffering. To build the legal and penal structure up to the necessary size will require a considerable initial outlay of money, but that expense will be recouped very quickly.”
“Then what prevents us from doing it?”
“Politics, of course.”
Irene shot bolt upright in her chair. “My program!” She rushed across to the console. “How do you turn this damn thing on?”
“The left-hand knob. No, the one below the screen on the left…”
“I’ve got it.”
“Your watch is fast, my dear. It’s not nine yet.”
Paul heard a faint high-pitched whistle; at first he thought his ears were ringing. A dot of light appeared in the center of the screen; it became a tiny picture which slowly expanded into a wavering grey image of a newscaster speaking into the camera, reading his lines off a TelePrompter above the lens. The image lacked stability and the center of the newsman’s face kept slipping out to one side, distorting him like a funny-mirror in an amusement park. Gradually the sound system warmed up and the announcer’s voice became audible in mid-sentence:
“… up again for the month of November, according to figures released today in Washington. Wholesale prices increased another one and a half per cent, raising the index to thirteen percentage points above where it was a year ago at the same time. And finally, in local news, there was tragedy tonight in a West Side bakery when police responded to an alarm and found the owner and two saleswomen shot to death and a third saleswoman shot and wounded. According to the injured woman, who is listed in satisfactory condition in County Hospital, two armed men entered the bakery this afternoon and allegedly demanded all the money in the place. The owner of the bakery, Charles Liddell, allegedly drew a pistol from his belt and fired a shot at the intruders. The two robbers then allegedly opened fire at everything that moved, killing Liddell and two of his three employees, and injuring Mrs. Deborah Weinberg with two bullets in the hip and chest. The robbery suspects then fled on foot, and no money was taken. Mrs. Weinberg is reported as saying that Mr. Liddell had started carrying the pistol in his belt after hearing about the Chicago vigilante on radio news. And now, tonight’s forecast calls for snow continuing into morning with possible accumulations of up to six inches…”
Paul sat frozen in his seat staring at the screen. He felt prickles of sweat burst out on his forehead. When he looked down at the goblet in his hand he saw that his knuckles were white: he had all but crushed the glass.
To cover the shock he lifted the glass to his lips. His hand shook. He drank quickly and put the goblet down.
“And now stay tuned as Channel Eleven presents the Miles Cavender Interview. Mr. Cavender’s guest tonight will be Chicago Police Captain Victor Mastro, chief of homicide detectives and commander of the special squad detailed to investigate the Chicago vigilante.”
Paul looked around cautiously. Irene was watching the screen. He brought Chisum into focus. The old man looked away quickly, reaching for his cognac; but Paul was certain Chisum had been staring at him.
The program came on with a burst of electronic music and an announcement that the broadcast was made possible by a grant from an oil company. The moderator appeared on the screen, his face wavering from side to side as the weak tube groped for resolution; Paul leaned back, slid down on the couch until his head rested against its back; he forced himself to pay attention.
Mastro was a thin man with dark striking features. His glistening black hair was combed smoothly back over the small ears. He wore a police uniform with decorations on the blouse, although in the newspaper photos he’d been wearing civilian clothes. Mastro was smiling slightly as he listened to Miles Cavender’s introduction; he didn’t seem unnerved, there was no indication of stage fright.
“… has been with the Chicago force for sixteen years, and before that was an officer with a Military Police detachment of the U.S. Army. He has received degrees in criminology and sociology from the University of Chicago, and was promoted to the rank of captain two years ago. There’s talk around City Hall of a pending promotion for Victor Mastro to deputy superintendent. Do you have any comment to offer on that speculation, Captain?”
“I’d rather not. I’ve had no official indications from the department.” Mastro’s voice was smooth and confident, surprisingly deep for such a small man. He had an actor’s resonance.
“One would assume,” Cavender said with the insinuation of overprecise enunciation, “that such a promotion might be contingent on the outcome of the vigilante case. Is that possible, Captain?”
“Sure. We’re like any organization—promotions come on the basis of incentives and performance.”
“I appreciate your candor.” Cavender had a slightly effeminate voice. He didn’t leer but he was the prying sort of interviewer Paul disliked intensely: subtle courtesy masking hostility.
“Captain, we’re here to talk about the vigilante. First, of course, there’s the question that’s been spoken a good many times lately. Is the vigilante real—or is the whole thing a myth that’s been cooked up by City Hall in a desperate effort to stave off the continuing increase in the Chicago crime rate?”
Mastro’s eyes flashed briefly but his answer was controlled and unhurried. “It’s not a phony. We didn’t create the vigilante. He’s real, he’s out there and he’s using his guns. He shot two boys on the South Side this afternoon.”
“What were the boys doing?”
“Apparently they may have been molesting two small girls who were on their way home from school.”
“‘Apparently.’…‘May have been.’ Aren’t you sure?”
“We’ve talked to the little girls, and we’ve got the two boys in custody in the hospital.”
“Then neither of them was killed by the vigilante. Isn’t that a bit unusual?”
“These are the first victims who haven’t been shot dead, yes.”
“Can you account for it?”
“Not yet. It’s possible he fired from a moving car. That may have thrown his aim off.”
“How sure are you that this is the same so-called vigilante who’s been blamed for the other killings?”
“The bullets appear to have come from the same revolver that was used in most of the other cases.”
“You say ‘most of the other cases.’ Isn’t it likely there are more than one of them?”
“Revolvers or vigilantes?”
Cavender smiled a bit. “Vigilantes, Captain.”
“We know for sure that there is one vigilante. There may be a second one, but that hasn’t been established beyond doubt.”
“But the use in different cases of two admittedly distinct handguns …”
“He could own two guns, you know. Particularly today’s case suggests that it’s the same man. He used the thirty-eight revolver today, but he fired from his car, and that’s the same pattern that’s been established in two or three other cases where he’s used the forty-five automatic.”
“I see. Then you’re pressing your investigation on the assumption that you’re looking for a single culprit.”
“We haven’t closed any doors.”
Cavender shifted in his chair; it was an indication he wanted to change to another angle of attack. “Captain, the modus operandi of the Chicago vigilante, whether one man or two men or an entire society of men, seems to be quite simple, in a sense. That is, he simply finds a criminal in t
he act of committing a crime, and shoots the criminal dead in his tracks. Would you agree that’s a fair summary of his pattern?”
“It’s what the evidence suggests.”
“Yes. Well doesn’t it seem curious to you that this vigilante seems to have very little trouble locating these people?”
“I’m not sure I understand your question.”
“What I’m saying, Captain, is that the vigilante seems to find it very easy to find out who is going to commit a crime, and when and where the crime will take place. Then all the vigilante has to do is be at the right place at the right time. Now I suppose you must have devoted some part of your investigation to inquiring into that question, haven’t you?”
“Naturally.”
“The sources of the vigilante’s intelligence, I mean. How he identifies the criminals. How he finds out when and where the crimes will take place.” Cavender leaned forward now, peering at the policeman with something like a vindictive gleam. “How does he do it, Captain? How does he do it so easily?”
“There’s a certain logic to it. In some of the cases it’s pretty obvious that he sets himself up as a mark. He probably dresses fairly well, and a man who’s well-dressed walking alone in some neighborhoods is an open invitation to a mugging. He just waits for them to come to him, and when they begin to attack him he kills them. It isn’t that hard, if you know the city and the neighborhoods.”
“I see. But what about the cases where he’s interrupted crimes against other persons?”
“We have a theory that he has access to information about criminals. Possibly police records or court records. He finds the name and address of a criminal, we think, and then he stakes out the criminal and tails him until the criminal makes a move. Then the vigilante moves in for the kill. We’re assuming this because nearly all his victims have had prior records of arrest and conviction. Therefore we assume the vigilante has access to these records. Of course a lot of them are matters of public record—he could find them in the official directories of court proceedings, or even the newspaper morgues.”
“Yes. Or the files of the Police Department itself?”
“It’s possible.” Mastro actually smiled: it was evident he knew what was coming.
Cavender plunged. “Doesn’t this suggest the strong possibility that the vigilante is himself a police officer?”
In the rocking chair Harry Chisum snorted. “What absolute bloody rubbish.”
Mastro was still smiling, his grey face wavering on the television screen. “I wouldn’t call it a strong possibility. But we admit it’s a possibility. We’re not ignoring that avenue of investigation. We’re checking it out.”
“Yes, of course. But it leads to a far more compelling question, doesn’t it, Captain.”
“What question?”
“Simply this. If the vigilante can so easily find these criminals, and beat them to the punch as it were, then why can’t the police do the same thing?”
“You mean kill them on sight, Mr. Cavender?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean, Captain. Why can’t our policemen be as successful as this vigilante in preventing crimes?”
“Actually they are. They’re far more successful, as a matter of fact.”
“You’ve just lost me, Captain.”
“We assign plainclothes officers to shadow known criminals, particularly some of those who are let out on bail, or those who have just returned from prison, or others when we receive tips from our informants that they’re planning something. We have a sizable group of detectives that’s assigned to surveillance of these suspects, and quite often the surveillance results in arrests when the officers apprehend the suspects in the act of committing crimes. But the point is, these arrests don’t generate the kind of publicity the vigilante gets with his cold-blooded murders. As a case in point, the vigilante has killed at least sixteen people in the past two weeks or so—or at least that’s the number of killings that have been attributed to him. At the same time, our stakeouts have resulted in more than forty arrests, under very similar circumstances. But naturally these arrests don’t make headlines the way vigilante murders do.”
“An entire metropolitan police department prevents only two or three times as many crimes from being consummated as one man with a couple of handguns. Isn’t that a pretty woeful batting average for the police?”
“We don’t have unlimited funds or unlimited manpower, Mr. Cavender. If we had enough men and money to put tails on every suspected criminal in the streets of Chicago, we’d do it, believe me. It would make our job a whole lot simpler. But we’ve got a great deal to do, an enormous territory to cover, and a great many duties other than crime prevention and suspect-shadowing. We’re spread thin, and I think we’re doing a damn good job considering everything.”
“I have no doubt you feel that way, Captain, but I think you can understand how some of us may not agree with you completely.”
“That’s your privilege.”
“I’m impressed, at any rate, by the fact that you haven’t chosen to rear back on your dignity and plead that you’ve been hamstrung by the laws about entrapment and such.”
“We do have those problems, yes, but there’s not much point bleating about them. We’ve got to operate within the system as it is, not as we’d like it to be.”
“I think we’re all fortunate that’s the case, Captain. Very well, I’d like to get your views on another side of this subject. What can you tell us about the vigilante himself?”
“In what sense?”
“What sort of person is he? Have you formed an impression of him?”
“A physical description?”
“Well obviously we’re all eager to know whether you have a description of the man yet, after all this time, but in addition to that, I think our audience is curious to know what picture of the vigilante you may have formed in your own mind. What sort of personality he is. What his character is. Anything you may have concluded about his background, or especially his motives. But let’s start with the physical description, since you mentioned it. What does he look like?”
“I’d prefer not to go into much detail about how much we know about him. I can say this much. We believe he’s a male Caucasian.”
“A white man.”
“Yes.”
“Ruling out blacks, Spanish-Americans, Orientals, American Indians, women and children. Well that’s quite a step, Captain, it must narrow the field right down to two or three million suspects.”
Mastro only smiled in reply; he was, Paul saw, genuinely amused.
“What else can you tell us, then? Do you think he has delusions? That he suffers, for example, from messianic fantasies?”
“I’m not a psychiatrist. I don’t know. All we have is the record of what he’s actually done. He could have any number of motives or delusions.”
“He’s been clever enough to elude your massive task force for quite a long time now.”
“He’s not a raving maniac, no.” Mastro was still smiling with the side of his mouth. “He’s probably an ordinary citizen unless you happen to catch him with a smoking gun in his hand.”
“Well obviously there’s at least one important difference between the vigilante and the rest of us ordinary citizens.”
“He shoots people.”
“Yes, quite.”
Mastro said, “I think everybody has fantasies of violence at one time or another. Even the most civilized people experience anger at some point in their lives. Your wife is mugged, or your kid is beaten up, or somebody slashes the tires of your car—the nature of the offense is almost beside the point. It’s the sense that you personally have been violated. I remember once years ago I left my car parked on a side street while my wife and I visited some friends. It was our personal car, not an official vehicle. We had an old convertible at the time. When we left our friends’ house and returned to our car, I found that the canvas roof had been slashed by vandals. Well it was an old clunker of a ca
r, the whole car probably wasn’t worth a hundred dollars, and no real lasting damage or great cost had been inflicted on me. But in spite of the fact that I’ve been a cop all my adult life and I’ve had to deal with things that are unspeakably worse than this trivial vandalism of a piece of canvas, I still had a predictable natural reaction to this event.”
“What was it?”
“The same as yours or anybody’s, under equivalent circumstances. For just a moment there, in the hot rage of the instant, I had the feeling that if I’d been there in time to see the man slash the car, I’d have killed the son of a bitch in his tracks.”
“You would?”
“Instant gut reaction, Mr. Cavender. I’d been threatened. That car, poor as it was, was my own personal property, and by attacking it this guy had violated me in a very personal sense.”
“Would you really have shot him if you’d caught him in the act? You do carry a gun.”
“Yes, I carry a gun, and no, I would not have shot him. I’ve been a police officer for twenty-two years, including service with the military, and I’ve never killed a man with a gun.”
“Never?”
“I’ve shot a few and wounded them but I’ve never killed a man.”
“You must be rather proud of that record. I know I commend it.”
“Thank you. I can’t say it’s always a matter of choice. Perhaps I’ve been lucky: I’ve never been pushed into a position where I had no choice but to kill, in the line of duty. I don’t think we can condemn officers who’ve found themselves in the position, though.”
“Let’s get back to the slashing of your car.”
“I carry a gun. If I’m not mistaken, I had it on my person that night when we discovered the vandalism. And my gut reaction, as I said, was red-hot anger: I’d have killed the guy, I told myself, if I’d caught him. Now the point is, I wouldn’t actually have killed him. I’d have arrested him. But that situation didn’t apply, you see. The guy wasn’t really there—he’d done his slashing and he was long gone by then. And because he wasn’t there, I was free to indulge in this angry fantasy of killing the guy in retaliation for his violation of my person. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
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