Sure, Larry Connaught saved mylife—but it was how he did itthat forced me to murder him!
Illustrated by MEL HUNTER
I am sitting on the edge ofwhat passes for a bed. It ismade of loosely woven stripsof steel, and there is no mattress,only an extra blanket of thinolive-drab. It isn't comfortable;but of course they expect to makeme still more uncomfortable.
They expect to take me out ofthis precinct jail to the Districtprison and eventually to thedeath house.
Sure, there will be a trial first,but that is only a formality. Notonly did they catch me with thesmoking gun in my hand andConnaught bubbling to deaththrough the hole in his throat,but I admitted it.
I—knowing what I was doing,with, as they say, malice aforethought—deliberatelyshot todeath Laurence Connaught.
They execute murderers. Sothey mean to execute me.
Especially because LaurenceConnaught had saved my life.
Well, there are extenuating circumstances.I do not think theywould convince a jury.
Connaught and I were closefriends for years. We lost touchduring the war. We met againin Washington, a few years afterthe war was over. We had, tosome extent, grown apart; he hadbecome a man with a mission. Hewas working very hard on somethingand he did not choose todiscuss his work and there wasnothing else in his life on whichto form a basis for communication.And—well, I had my ownlife, too. It wasn't scientific researchin my case—I flunked outof med school, while he went on.I'm not ashamed of it; it is nothingto be ashamed of. I simplywas not able to cope with themessy business of carving corpses.I didn't like it, I didn't want todo it, and when I was forced todo it, I did it badly. So—I left.
Thus I have no string of degrees,but you don't need themin order to be a Senate guard.
Does that sound like a terriblyimpressive career to you?Of course not; but I liked it. TheSenators are relaxed and friendlywhen the guards are around, andyou learn wonderful things aboutwhat goes on behind the scenesof government. And a Senateguard is in a position to do favors—fornewspapermen, who finda lead to a story useful; for governmentofficials, who sometimesbase a whole campaign on onecareless, repeated remark; andfor just about anyone who wouldlike to be in the visitors' galleryduring a hot debate.
Larry Connaught, for instance.I ran into him on the street oneday, and we chatted for a moment,and he asked if it was possibleto get him in to see theupcoming foreign relations debate.It was; I called him thenext day and told him I hadarranged for a pass. And he wasthere, watching eagerly with hismoist little eyes, when the Secretarygot up to speak and therewas that sudden unexpected yell,and the handful of CentralAmerican fanatics dragged outtheir weapons and began tryingto change American policy withgunpowder.
You remember the story, Isuppose. There were only threeof them, two with guns, one witha hand grenade. The pistol menmanaged to wound two Senatorsand a guard. I was right there,talking to Connaught. I spottedthe little fellow with the handgrenade and tackled him. Iknocked him down, but the grenadewent flying, pin pulled,seconds ticking away. I lungedfor it. Larry Connaught wasahead of me.
The newspaper stories madeheroes out of both of us. Theysaid it was miraculous thatLarry, who had fallen right ontop of the grenade, had managedto get it away from himself andso placed that when it explodedno one was hurt.
F