act. And the punch line? The punch line? The punch line is that even if Feldman is given the maximum penalty he’ll still be free by the time he’s forty. He’ll be up and about while Kathy McClory and Luciana Young are cold and decomposing and forgotten. Feldman will still be alive because he isn’t the one who had a metal stake rammed through his heart. He isn’t the one who had to sit and listen to his doctor tell him that the chemo could only do so much and that it was time to go coffin shopping.
Landry presses his foot on the accelerator hoping the speed will make him feel better. Imagine crashing with Feldman in the back seat, and imagine Feldman getting killed. Yeah, that’d be nice. That’d be lovely. That’d be justice. The problem, though, is that he’d die too, and dying in the same car wreck as that sick bastard is so insulting that he eases his foot back off the pedal.
Landry grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He thinks about taking Feldman into the middle of nowhere and leaving him with nothing but a bullet rattling around the inside of his skull. It wouldn’t be murder, not really, not in the same sense of the word that Feldman is a murderer. It would be more like an exchange. A two for one bargain. He can’t save Kathy or Luciana, but he can save the next girl. That can’t be a bad thing. Not really. It can’t be a bad thing to live with.
Jesus. What a choice. What a responsibility.
Could he do it? Does he have it in him to do this city, this country, this world a favour by ending the life of a murderer? Does he have it in him to correct God’s mistake and delete this man from this world?
He isn’t sure.
19
My wrists are hurting. I try to make myself more comfortable but it’s impossible. Time starts slipping by. Just a casual drive through the city. But maybe we’re taking the long way because we don’t seem to be arriving anywhere. I recognise the streets but we just seem to be going around and around in circles, looping the edges of the city as if Detective Inspector Bill Landry of the Christchurch Police Department doesn’t know where he’s going. Or he’s stalling for time, trying to figure something out.
‘Why are we driving in circles?’ I ask, but he doesn’t answer. ‘Hey? Are we going somewhere or not?’
‘I haven’t decided.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I haven’t decided.’
‘Decided on what?’
‘You have the right to remain silent. You ought to use your rights.’
I start to use them because the alternative is pissing him off. We begin another run around the city. We skirt the edges of town where property looks rough but is usually expensive because of its location. The loop starts to get wider. We begin hitting the outer edges of suburbs. Different economic diversities. Nice homes. Nice people. Bad homes. Bad people. We keep driving. We end up going west, right out of the city.
‘Where are we going?’
He doesn’t answer. The bright lights of the city start to dim the further we get.
‘Come on, Inspector. Where in the hell are we going?’
‘You have the right to remain silent.’
‘You said that already.’
‘Then I must really mean it.’
‘Are we going to a different police station?’
He doesn’t answer, just stares ahead.
‘Hey, are we going to a different police station?’ I repeat.
‘We’re skipping that part, Feldman.’
I pull at the handcuffs but the only thing I achieve is pain in my wrists. Surely nothing in this direction can possibly relate to this homicide investigation.
‘Skipping what part?’
‘We’re heading straight to trial.’
Away from the city trial has an ominous kind of sound to it that could see me hanging from a tree and swinging in the breeze. I keep looking out the window, trying to figure out where we’re going – as if it actually matters, as if the location is the relevant point here and not the fact that Landry is crazy. Twenty minutes pass silently.
Landry presses his foot on the accelerator hoping the speed will make him feel better. Imagine crashing with Feldman in the back seat, and imagine Feldman getting killed. Yeah, that’d be nice. That’d be lovely. That’d be justice. The problem, though, is that he’d die too, and dying in the same car wreck as that sick bastard is so insulting that he eases his foot back off the pedal.
Landry grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He thinks about taking Feldman into the middle of nowhere and leaving him with nothing but a bullet rattling around the inside of his skull. It wouldn’t be murder, not really, not in the same sense of the word that Feldman is a murderer. It would be more like an exchange. A two for one bargain. He can’t save Kathy or Luciana, but he can save the next girl. That can’t be a bad thing. Not really. It can’t be a bad thing to live with.
Jesus. What a choice. What a responsibility.
Could he do it? Does he have it in him to do this city, this country, this world a favour by ending the life of a murderer? Does he have it in him to correct God’s mistake and delete this man from this world?
He isn’t sure.
19
My wrists are hurting. I try to make myself more comfortable but it’s impossible. Time starts slipping by. Just a casual drive through the city. But maybe we’re taking the long way because we don’t seem to be arriving anywhere. I recognise the streets but we just seem to be going around and around in circles, looping the edges of the city as if Detective Inspector Bill Landry of the Christchurch Police Department doesn’t know where he’s going. Or he’s stalling for time, trying to figure something out.
‘Why are we driving in circles?’ I ask, but he doesn’t answer. ‘Hey? Are we going somewhere or not?’
‘I haven’t decided.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I haven’t decided.’
‘Decided on what?’
‘You have the right to remain silent. You ought to use your rights.’
I start to use them because the alternative is pissing him off. We begin another run around the city. We skirt the edges of town where property looks rough but is usually expensive because of its location. The loop starts to get wider. We begin hitting the outer edges of suburbs. Different economic diversities. Nice homes. Nice people. Bad homes. Bad people. We keep driving. We end up going west, right out of the city.
‘Where are we going?’
He doesn’t answer. The bright lights of the city start to dim the further we get.
‘Come on, Inspector. Where in the hell are we going?’
‘You have the right to remain silent.’
‘You said that already.’
‘Then I must really mean it.’
‘Are we going to a different police station?’
He doesn’t answer, just stares ahead.
‘Hey, are we going to a different police station?’ I repeat.
‘We’re skipping that part, Feldman.’
I pull at the handcuffs but the only thing I achieve is pain in my wrists. Surely nothing in this direction can possibly relate to this homicide investigation.
‘Skipping what part?’
‘We’re heading straight to trial.’
Away from the city trial has an ominous kind of sound to it that could see me hanging from a tree and swinging in the breeze. I keep looking out the window, trying to figure out where we’re going – as if it actually matters, as if the location is the relevant point here and not the fact that Landry is crazy. Twenty minutes pass silently.
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