There is a moment in Double Indemnity, the great Billy Wilder noir based on the novel by James M. Cain, when Phyllis, played by Barbara Stanwyck, looks at Walter, played by Fred MacMurray. The moment comes when Phyllis's husband unwittingly signs an insurance form, thereby sealing his fate. His untimely death, by certain means, would now produce an insurance settlement that was twice the normal payoff. A double indemnity.
There is no great music cue, no dialogue. Just a look. Phyllis looks at Walter with a secret knowledge-and no small measure of sexual tension-and they know they have just crossed a line. They have reached a point of no return, after which they will be murderers.
I am a murderer.
There is no denying or escaping that now. No matter how long I live, or what I do with the rest of my life, this will be my epitaph.
I am Francis Dolarhyde. I am Cody Jarrett. I am Michael Corleone.
And I have much to do.
Will any of them see me coming?
Perhaps.
Those who accept their guilt, yet refuse their penance, might feel me approach, like an icy breath on the nape of their necks. And it is for this reason I must be careful. It is for this reason I must move through the city like a ghost. The city might think that what I am doing is random. It is anything but.
"It's right here," she says.
I slow the car.
"It's kind of a mess inside," she adds.
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," I say, knowing full well that it will soon get messier. "You should see my place."
She smiles as we pull into her driveway. I glance around. No one is watching.
"Well, here we are," she says. "Ready?"
I smile back, turn off the engine, touch the bag on the seat. The camera is inside, batteries charged.
Ready.