complicated," he said. "A sort of symbiosis. Mutual back scratching. He would guarantee 'fair treatment' for Courtney, and I would be... properly grateful."
"Your son's confession was misplaced?"
Gilman spread his hands.
"Presumably. Filed away for future reference, I suppose. At the time, I wasn't interested in the mechanics, only results. Smalley was... effective. The prowler charge was quietly dismissed, and we placed our son in a suitable institution."
"How did he escape?"
Gilman shrugged listlessly.
"No one seems to know, or at least they won't admit it. The hospital wasn't designed for maximum security."
Bolan saw no need to dwell upon the murders that had followed Courtney Gilman's first escape... or his second. The Executioner had heard enough about the lax security in even the best mental hospitals to know that escapes were commonplace. The Boston Strangler, for one, had made a habit of leaving his padded room behind to kill, returning when he was finished, and no one had been the wiser until he confessed, probably from sheer boredom and frustration.
In any case, Bolan was more interested in the mechanics of the cover-up than in the details of murder.
"How was he recaptured?" Bolan asked.
Gilman still wore the bitter smile.
"Smalley has his ways, I suppose. He keeps the details to himself, but he made sure we realized that Courtney had... been in trouble again."
And, yeah, Bolan could see the pattern clearly now. The mad youth escaping, killing, being recaptured — probably by Jack Fawcett — returned to the sanitarium, only to escape and kill again. And again. And with each new crime, each new escape, Tom Gilman's complicity increased, Roger Smalley's blackmail hold was strengthened.
Gilman's taut voice interrupted the Executioner's train of thought.
"I made Smalley, you know," he was saying. "At least, I helped put him where he is. A nudge here, a word there. I was properly grateful, oh, yes."
Bolan read a bitterness approaching self-hatred in the politician's voice.
"Five lives!" Gilman said, almost sobbing. "Five young women dead. Oh, I'm well aware of my achievements, Mr. La Mancha."
Bolan's frown deepened.
"There's guilt enough to go around, Gilman," he said soberly. "Sort it out later. Right now, I need your help. Your son's sixth victim needs help."
Louise Gilman let out a strangled gasp. "A sixth? Dear God!"
"A survivor," Bolan said. "The next may not be so lucky."
Gilman's answering voice was a plea for belief and understanding.
"I swear we don't know where he is. He blames us for locking him away, you see. Our son is logical, if nothing else. He wouldn't contact us if his life depended on it."
"It might," Bolan told him.
Man and wife looked at him long and soulfully. Bolan was certain they had nothing more to tell him. He was ready to disengage when Gilman broke the tortured silence.
"How... how did you find out about our son?" he asked.
Bolan sensed the deep anxiety, a continuing terror, beneath the words.
"It's not common knowledge," he replied. "Not yet. But the numbers are running out, Gilman."
Gilman nodded resignedly.
"I've been expecting it for some time. Maybe hoping for it, secretly — who knows? I plan to make a clean breast of everything this afternoon at a press conference."
Bolan's brow furrowed; his mind raced ahead.
"I hope you'll reconsider that," he said earnestly, "at least until you hear from me again."
"But why?" Gilman looked honestly confused now. "If I can warn one person... save even one life..."
"It's too late for noble gestures now," Bolan said curtly. "Save your story for the courtroom, where it will have some real impact."
The Gilmans were thinking that over as Bolan turned to leave them. He paused in the doorway, half turning.
"I'll be in touch," he told them both. "If you hear from your son in the meantime..."
"I can handle it," Thomas Gilman assured him.
There was infinite sadness in the older man's voice, and yeah, Mack Bolan believed
"Your son's confession was misplaced?"
Gilman spread his hands.
"Presumably. Filed away for future reference, I suppose. At the time, I wasn't interested in the mechanics, only results. Smalley was... effective. The prowler charge was quietly dismissed, and we placed our son in a suitable institution."
"How did he escape?"
Gilman shrugged listlessly.
"No one seems to know, or at least they won't admit it. The hospital wasn't designed for maximum security."
Bolan saw no need to dwell upon the murders that had followed Courtney Gilman's first escape... or his second. The Executioner had heard enough about the lax security in even the best mental hospitals to know that escapes were commonplace. The Boston Strangler, for one, had made a habit of leaving his padded room behind to kill, returning when he was finished, and no one had been the wiser until he confessed, probably from sheer boredom and frustration.
In any case, Bolan was more interested in the mechanics of the cover-up than in the details of murder.
"How was he recaptured?" Bolan asked.
Gilman still wore the bitter smile.
"Smalley has his ways, I suppose. He keeps the details to himself, but he made sure we realized that Courtney had... been in trouble again."
And, yeah, Bolan could see the pattern clearly now. The mad youth escaping, killing, being recaptured — probably by Jack Fawcett — returned to the sanitarium, only to escape and kill again. And again. And with each new crime, each new escape, Tom Gilman's complicity increased, Roger Smalley's blackmail hold was strengthened.
Gilman's taut voice interrupted the Executioner's train of thought.
"I made Smalley, you know," he was saying. "At least, I helped put him where he is. A nudge here, a word there. I was properly grateful, oh, yes."
Bolan read a bitterness approaching self-hatred in the politician's voice.
"Five lives!" Gilman said, almost sobbing. "Five young women dead. Oh, I'm well aware of my achievements, Mr. La Mancha."
Bolan's frown deepened.
"There's guilt enough to go around, Gilman," he said soberly. "Sort it out later. Right now, I need your help. Your son's sixth victim needs help."
Louise Gilman let out a strangled gasp. "A sixth? Dear God!"
"A survivor," Bolan said. "The next may not be so lucky."
Gilman's answering voice was a plea for belief and understanding.
"I swear we don't know where he is. He blames us for locking him away, you see. Our son is logical, if nothing else. He wouldn't contact us if his life depended on it."
"It might," Bolan told him.
Man and wife looked at him long and soulfully. Bolan was certain they had nothing more to tell him. He was ready to disengage when Gilman broke the tortured silence.
"How... how did you find out about our son?" he asked.
Bolan sensed the deep anxiety, a continuing terror, beneath the words.
"It's not common knowledge," he replied. "Not yet. But the numbers are running out, Gilman."
Gilman nodded resignedly.
"I've been expecting it for some time. Maybe hoping for it, secretly — who knows? I plan to make a clean breast of everything this afternoon at a press conference."
Bolan's brow furrowed; his mind raced ahead.
"I hope you'll reconsider that," he said earnestly, "at least until you hear from me again."
"But why?" Gilman looked honestly confused now. "If I can warn one person... save even one life..."
"It's too late for noble gestures now," Bolan said curtly. "Save your story for the courtroom, where it will have some real impact."
The Gilmans were thinking that over as Bolan turned to leave them. He paused in the doorway, half turning.
"I'll be in touch," he told them both. "If you hear from your son in the meantime..."
"I can handle it," Thomas Gilman assured him.
There was infinite sadness in the older man's voice, and yeah, Mack Bolan believed
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