"How it's going, Doc?" young man clad in a grey checkered robe asked in a husky voice.
He was sitting at a long narrow desk in the brightly lighted room with grey walls. Opposite to him sat middle aged man in posh costume of tweed, refined lacqered hairdo crowning his head.
" Mr. Sumner,please, don't call me Doc," the man's lips curved forming a grin.
"Ok, Mr. Cunning," the young man said in irritated manner. "Do you mind calling me John. Quid pro quo. And what else would be delightful for my ears is to know how far our case has advanced."
Mr. Cunning's oval smooth, tanned face seemed dull with a sparkle of solemn superiority in his shrewd eyes.
"Look, John," he said. "Unfortunately there's no way of releasing you on bail. They have hundred percent witnesses, all of them are decent, honourable people; they have your fingerprints, positive DNA test, they have a gun, the gun, I mean definitely your gun with your fingerprints, they have ballistic expertise, they have..."
" Enough!" John shouted, his gaunt, pale face flushed. "I'm not asking you what they have, what I'm asking you is what you have or what you have done to have something for my defence!"
The door opened, and a robust wardguard peeped in the room.
" We are all right, sir, we are all right!" Mr. Cunning addressed the wardguard. The latter got out and closed the door.
"Look, John, there's no point to get too excited. That is not going to help us. You should be cool. Remember the most bright stars always shine on the darkest sky."
"Fuck your frigging vague allegories, Mr. Cunning!" John said viciously. " Just level with me and talk to the point. I remember you telling me about your would-be moves. Well, let me ask you what about... how do you call it... a manslaughter?"
" Right," Mr. Cunning nodded. "But it sucks."
" Well, self-defense?"
"Sucks."
" Murder in a state of affect?"
"Sucks."
"Murder by force majeure?" John exclaimed pleadingly in a trembling voice.
"I'm sorry, John."
"You sorry?" John's face was distorted with hatred, his lips grew white and his eyes flashed in wild desperation. He clenched his fists and bumped on the table. "I don't want you to be sorry, Mr, I want you to help me! You've done nothing!"
"I swear, John, I did my best. But there's a limit to my capabilities. Circumstances turned out to be implacable, irresistible and invincible. "
John's covered his face with his palms.
Both men kept silence for a minute.
John placed his shaking hands on the table and looked at his lawyer point blank.
" So, all this is supposed to be viewed as the first degree murder, isn't it?" he said hesitatently.
"Most likely yes," Mr. Cunning coughed in his plump rosy fist. "I'd rather say definitely yes."
"Do they apply execution... or... are they going... no... I mean am I supposed to be sentenced to death?"
Mr. Cunning nodded.
"According to the law of the state yes."
" That means an execution by means of ...what?"
"By means of an electric chair."
A cramp sneaked over John's white face.
He tapped on his brow with his fist and screamed "Oh my god, I can't believe it! It's impossible! I don't want to die. Now listen, Mr. Cunning, you must do something! Please, do something!"
" Tell me sincerely have you ever killed anybody else? I mean except this last case."
"No, never."
"Pity."
"What the hell you mean pity?"
"If you make a voluntary statement about another murder commited long before the one in question it might be regarded as a voluntary cooperation with investigation and maybe, not likely, but maybe the people in court will take that into account. You might be regarded as a serial killer, maniac, and be subjected to a psychiatric expertise. That would give you a chance. Not to say that supplementary investigation usually takes a long time, so in the most adverse case you'd have additional time to live."
""I'm sorry, Mr. Canning," John said regretfully, "I never thought that additional killings would ever be useful to me."
"Never mind," said Mr. Canning. "Few people know that the more you killed the more inner respect you induce in court."
"What are you going to do, Mr. Cunning? What's your move?"
" I am going to offer you a fair chance to escape electric chair."
"How?" John stared at the lawer in awe. "Did I get it right that there's some way for me not to be sentenced?"
"You got it right, John," Mr. Cunning's lips grinned, his eye stayed focused and alarmed. "But that way is not quite kinda bonanza, it is risky but opens the possibility of favourable outcome."
"Could you be more specific in regards with this possibility? What all this is about?"
"All right, John," Mr. Canning frowned. "I will tell you everything in detail, but given that this stuff is not of a pleasant kind, I ask you to keep your composure and not interrupt me, okay?"
"Okay,Mr Cunning," John exclaimed with his eyes sparkling, "I'm all attention!"
"I bet you heard of the assassination of the president and the commission, the bunch of very tough guys who were assigned to investigate all details of that crime thoroughly. And they are doing their job very effectively and with ardour. All of them are professional nuts, the band of geniuses obsessed with their task; besides, they are given free hand, carte blanche, so to speak. As to the president's wound, they conducted a series of tests, loathsome experiments, you know, on inert skulls which they filled with gelatin substance and then coated with mild stuff resembling the soft tissues overlying the skull. Sniper shot them from the same spot, using the same rifle and the same cartridges, western bullets they call them. They seemed to come to a satisfactory conclusion as to the weapon and bullets in question, but one riddle, a thorn in their ass, so to speak, still remains: why the president's head jerked not forward and to the left but back and to the left given that the shot came from the back and slightly from the right? That is an invincible trump in the hands of the plotting theory adherents. Comission is up to settle this discrepancy. They are now busy seeking people condemned for murders and they are trying to entice them to take a part in the next experiment. The goal of the experiment is to determine whether the head of a man with a neck - throat wound is apt to be jerked back in the moment of receiving a bullet in the right lobe from the back or there might be an opposite or various directions of the victim's head motion. There are certain limitations as to the age of the participants which encompasses age from twenty two to forty seven. As far as I know they have already nine guys mostly in their forties, and they want to get a couple of young guys just in case. I had a conversation with the chief of the commision and he told me privately that they would begin the experiment with the guys of the president's age. Three of them with the spine problems, again, for the the sake of most possible approximation to the initial victim. They are supposed to go in the first party. And on receiving three affirmative results they will stop the experiment, and all the rest participants will be immediately released and all accusations whatever implacable they could be will be renounced. That's all I got to know and now you may ask questions."
" You mean, Mr. Cunning," John said in a slightly husky voice, " they are going to shoot alive men's heads?"
"Yes, look, they are all either sentenced to life imprisonment or sentenced to death. They have nothing to lose, besides, the families of the killed in the course of the experiment will get significant allowance."
"What if aforegoing guys fail to form commission's opinion in an irrefutable way?"
"In that case," Mr. Cunning sighed. "Then it will be your turn. But it is most unlikely to happen. Mind you, you have good odds."
"Where the experiment is going to be held?"
"Elm Street. Where else it could be held? Marksman's nest will be on the windowsill on the six floor of the Book Depository. All will be arranged with the most approximity to the real event."
"What guarantees that they will fulfil their promise to release the survivors?"
"That's the question to which I don't have strict answer. Just rely on my intuition. Look, the members of the commission are all men of honour, they are great guys, and as far as I could get infor none of them ever been mixed up in a foul play. If they told you something you may put it at the bank."
""May I think it over, say, for a couple of days?"
"No," Mr. Cunning's eye seemed to pierce John's head. "The guy from commision is behind the door. This is the last option they agreed to endorse the case. Either you agree or shy away but right now. The weather including the direction and velocity of the wind tomorrow is going to be exactly the same as on November 23, by the way, very rare occasion, so tomorrow in 11.30 A.M. they will start. Your answer, John?"
"If you were me, Mr. Cunning, what would you do?"
"I'd agree for sure."
"Okay, Mr. Cunning. I agree."
"Very wise decision, my boy." Mr. Cunning shouted: "Hey, man, let Mr. Guillotin come in."
"Who is Mr. Guillotin?" John asked.
"Old stump Jozeph? He is in charge of all this shit."
Tall man turned out in a black leather coat appeared out of the door aperture. His shrewd glance met those of Mr. Cunning. The latter nodded.
"Savvy boy," Mr. Guillotin said. "What we most like about you is that your name is John. "Sign this," with the amazing sleight of hand he produced a sheet of paper out of his sleeve and put it on the table."
John turned it over and exclaimed "There's nothing on it. Should I sign a blank sheet?" John adressed his barrister.
Mr. Cunning nodded.
John resignedly signed the paper which immediately disappeared in the Mr. Guillotin's sleeve.
" In such situation like this we are bound to be meticulous," he said. "Now stand up and hold out your hands."
With dexterity of a conjurer Mr. Guillotin handcuffed John and said "Follow me, boy."
John obeyed, and they walked slowly down the corridor painted in taupe. Five minutes later they were outside of the gloomy edifice made of grey stone. They got into a car , black Mercedes classic, where another man in black leather coat sat behind the wheel.
"What now?" he asked. " We need one more bloke?"
"That will do, Ken. Now to the base."
Ken turn the key in the ignition, and the car started up.
No sooner ten minutes elapsed than they arrived at the FBI headquarters, the white two storied edifice crowned with USA flag and encircled with numerous cameras.
"Secret base,eh?" John asked Mr. Guillotin.
"Listen to me, stripling," the man said severely," you signed the agreement, the first item of which says "no questions."
"I signed a blank paper," John retorted not without a tint of irritation.
"The second item of which says "Never argue. Or maybe you want be the first guy to launch our experiment?"
John shuddered, bit his lip and lowered his head.
They pulled up in front of the entrance and got out of car. The two guards in uniform saluted Mr. Guillotin who passed them without any sign of noticing. John walked behind him feeling a filthy breath of Ken.
A couple of minutes later John found himself in a small room with a bedstead, chair and a table. The sink and toilet were located in the corner.
"Don't open the window," Mr. Guillotin said nodding at the black velvet curtains and the thick steel door slammed.
John waited a minute and rushed to the opposite wall and pushed the curtains aside. There was no window behind them, just a banner on the wall with a sign written in big black letters "How dared you, shit on a stick, not to obey my command!"
(to be continued)