Lieutenant of Detectives Al Weatherbee glared unseeingly at the stack of departmental reports that occupied the exact center of his desk, chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip for a moment, then surged up out of the chair and directed his 200-odd pounds in the general direction of the closed door. He paused in midstride, returned to the desk, pawed through the reports, and extracted a single sheet, reread it, grunted, returned it to the stack, then continued the interrupted journey to the door. He opened it, caught the eye of a dark-skinned man who sat just outside, and said, "Bring in that soldier now, Jack." He left the door ajar and went back to his chair, behind the desk. He had lit a cigarette and was staring again at the imposing stack of papers at desk-center when a uniformed officer entered with another uniformed man beside him. Weatherbee glanced at the tall figure and grimaced, a twisting of the lips and cheeks that could be construed as a smile.
"You want me to stay, Lieutenant?" the policeman asked.
Weatherbee shook his head in a terse negative and rose with hand outstretched toward the tall man in the U.S. Army uniform. "I'm Lieutenant Weatherbee," he said. "Sit down, Sergeant Bolan."
The tall man shook hands, then dropped into a plain wooden chair that was placed against the side of the desk, and leaned forward tensely with hands clasped atop his legs, peering intently into the detective's eyes. Weatherbee waited for the door to close, then he smiled engagingly and said, "That's an interesting collection of fruit salad." He leaned forward to study the military decoration on the soldier's breast. "I recognize the Purple Heart and the marksman's medal-and, yeah, the Bronze Star-the rest of 'em are out of my era, I guess. How many weapons have you qualified as expert on?"
Bolan met the suddenly penetrating gaze. "Just about all the personal weapons," he replied.
"Are you expert enough to get off five shots in less than five seconds, with a perfect score at better than a hundred yards?"
"Depends on the weapon," Bolan said easily. "I've done it."
"With a lever-action piece?"
"We don't use lever-actions in the Army," Bolan replied soberly.
"Uh- huh." Weatherbee took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled noisily. "I've had a couple of Telex conversations with a friend of mine in Saigon. You know a Major Harrington?"
Bolan shook his head negative.
"Military Police in Saigon. Knew each other back when. Told me something interesting about you, Sergeant." The detective's face hardened somewhat. He dropped the cigarette into an ashtray and raised probing eyes to the soldier's face. "Said they have a nickname for you back there, in your old outfit Said they call you The Executioner.' Why would they call you something like that, Sergeant?"
Bolan shifted his weight in the chair and let his eyes wander about the police officer's face for a brief moment. Then, "If you're playing games with me, sir, shouldn't I at least be told the name of the game?"
"The name of the game is homicide," Weatherbee snapped.
"Every man I killed in Vietnam was in the line of duty," Bolan replied lightly.
"This isn't Vietnam!" Weatherbee said. "And a sniper cannot walk the streets of this city deciding who should live and who should not!"
Bolan shrugged. If you're trying to connect me with that shooting the other night-just because I'm an expert marksman..."
"Not just because!" the policeman retorted. "Now look, Bolan-you were in here the other day raising hell with Captain Howard over this Triangle outfit, claiming they were responsible for your old man going berserk! You-"
"Aren't you the one who headed up that investigation?" Bolan broke in. "I mean, the deaths of my family?"
Weatherbee opened his mouth, then closed it and gave his head a curt affirmative nod.
"Then you saw," the soldier said simply. "And you know why it happened. And nobody made a move against the leeches. Until last night. Somebody finally made a move. So who's to complain? The papers call it a gangland tiff. Who cares who did it, so long as it got done?"
Weatherbee glared at him through a long silence. Then he crushed out his cigarette, lit another, sighed, and said softly, "I care, Bolan. Justice isn't perfect in this country, but by God it's the best justice under the law that can be found anywhere. We can't have self-appointed judges and juries walking the streets with guns in their hands. Hell, man, this isn't Vietnam!"
"If I am being accused of a crime, isn't there a formality to be observed?" Bolan said, his features rigid in a set smile.
"You aren't being charged," the lieutenant replied. "Not yet. But I know exactly what happened, Bolan. You understand that. I know. I know that some one broke into The Hunt Shop on August 18th, took a shiny new.444 calibre Marlin lever-action rifle and a powerful scope. I know that he took the rifle out to the old quarry to sight it in. We know that somebody was out there for two hours on the morning of August 19th, firing methodically in bursts of five along three precise ranges-one of a hundred yards, another a hundred and ten, and one a hundred and twenty yards. The caretaker didn't think much about it until he saw the papers yesterday morning, and I won't insult your intelligence by trying to make you think he got close enough to identify anybody. Just so you'll know I'm not playing games with you, Sarge.
"Then two days ago our marksman went up to the fourth floor of the Delsey Building. He sat in an open window of an empty office. He smoked four Pall Malls- your brand, I see-and he used a Coke bottle for an ash tray. At almost exactly six o'clock he levered five soft-nosed slugs into the street below, with the punch of a bear-gun, and the Triangle Industrial Finance Company suddenly went temporarily out of business... And vengeance is mine, saith The Executioner."
The lanky sergeant shifted his weight, causing the chair to creak beneath him. If you know so much," he said softly, "why aren't you charging me?"
"Would you like to make a statement?"
"Not unless I'm under arrest."
"You know you're not under arrest."
"Then I have no statement," Bolan said, smiling tightly.
"What sort of screwy ideas you got in that noodle of yours, Sarge?"
Bolan held his hands up, palms out "No screws whatsoever," he replied.
"When are you due back in Vietnam?"
"I'm not due back." Bolan grinned engagingly. "New orders came yesterday. Humanitarian reassignment."
"Reassignment where?" Weatherbee asked quickly.
"To the ROTC Unit at Franklin High, right here in Pittsfield."
"Aw shit! the policeman exploded.
"Because of the kid brother," Bolan added meekly. "I'm his only kin."
Weatherbee charged to his feet and paced the floor between the desk and the door, working furiously at a sudden charge of static energy. "Well, this just complicates the hell out of things," he said presently. I thought you'd be tucked securely away in those jungles and out of my hair." He stabbed a finger to punctuate each word as he added, The front lines of Vietnam would be the most humanitarian assignment you could get!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Bolan said uneasily.
"Sure you do, you know what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the Mafia, an organization that can't afford to forgive and forget. I'm talking about a guy known as 'The Executioner,' who may or may not have executed five of their number-and those guys don't give anybody the benefit of any doubts the way the law does. I'm talking about the streets of my city becoming a shooting gallery, and of my inability to do anything but sit on the sidelines and watch like a spectator because I don't have any physical evidence to take into a court of law.
"I'm levelling with you, Sarge. Understand this! You're up the creek whether you're guilty or not! You look guilty as sin-maybe not guilty enough for a court of law, but guilty sure as hell enough for the law of the Mafia! They may not get to you today, or even tomorrow, but believe me they will get to you. And I'm sidelined. Understand? I can't do a thing to help you-even saying I wanted to. So what becomes of the kid brother now, eh? What becomes of the kid brother with your blood filling my gutters, Bolan?"
"What would be your suggestion?" Bolan asked, eyeing the other sharply.
"Give me a statement. A confession. It's the only way you can get the protection of the law."
Bolan laughed tartly. "Some protection. All the way to the electric chair, eh? And then what becomes of the lad brother, eh, Weatherbee?"
"I don't think it'd be that rough. There are circumstances."
"Sure. Sure, there are." Bolan got to his feet. "You're playing games with me, Lieutenant. If I'm free to go..."
"Look, soldier, I don't have a case on you," the policeman fumed. "Am I being honest? How much more honest can a cop get? I can't take a war hero into court on nothing more than a hunch and a couple of suspicions. I don't have enough evidence to get an indictment. But I can't forget that a guy like you is prowling my streets, 'The Executioner' for Christ's sake, with a hard-on for the mob. And don't think for one small second that they can forget it, either."
"Well- thanks for the honesty," Bolan said. He smiled. "See you around." He opened the door and walked out, nodded his head at the uniformed officer, and made for the open doorway at the other end of the large room. Pausing as he rounded the corner, he tossed a glance over his shoulder. The big plainclothesman was leaning against his doorjamb, hands thrust deeply into pockets, gazing disconsolately after him. A sudden chill shot down Bolan's spine, and he knew a moment of self-doubt.
Was he overestimating his own capabilities? Could he really expect to wage any sort of an effective one-man war on an organization that even the collective talents and technologies of the world's police were helpless against? Bolan shrugged and went on down the stairs. There was no turning back. The war was already on. And The Executioner had an afternoon appointment with some of the inner circle. The law had made its point. But The Executioner wasn't buying it.