1

It was on a clear morning in the middle of July that a march had been organized to fight for the rights of underprivileged workers in textile factories across the nation. From all over the coastal city people gathered their signs, posters, and banners demanding higher wages and better hours in an excess of colors and misspellings. In the city park men, women, and children united together behind the leadership of a portly, red-faced man who stood atop a makeshift stage of park benches and blocky garbage cans. We can no longer tolerate such deplorable work environments as these, he yelled out across the sea of upturned faces which roared their approval. They can no longer subject us to such dangers without even paying us enough for the necessities of life! The man brushed a lock of lank red hair out of his eyes as he gestured toward a glass-fronted high rise abutting the park. There are the leaders of the industry in their cool offices! Let them tremble in fear of the power of the people! Let their walls tremble with the force of our anger! The crowd roared as one with such a force that the great windows of the building did indeed rattle in their fittings. In an office near the top floor, a man in a dark blue suit surveyed the scene in the park laid out beneath him. He pushed a sleeve up to check the watch beneath then looked back down at the gathering. Below, the red-headed leader launched once more into a tirade against the elitist pigs but no one in the crowd could hear him so caught up they were in screaming at the building. After a few minutes, the noise of the crowd subsided enough for the man to be heard again. We are doing good here! he yelled. Truly with so- The mans head ruptured and exploded over his stage. A second of silence suddenly descended as his body crumpled into a garbage can then the crowd roared once more but this

time in terror. The march devolved into a mad rush for perceived safety from whatever force had killed the leader. In the office near the top floor, the man in the blue suit smirked before turning away from the window. Nearly a mile away, atop one of the tallest buildings in the city, a man chuckled to himself as he watched the panic through a high-powered scope. A brisk wind pulled at his short blonde hair. He took pride in the fact that the wind hadnt affected the shot. A cigarette rested between his thin lips and he took a long drag of the spiced smoke into his lungs. The looks of terror and the mindless tidal crush of unguided mob movement always reminded him why he liked audiences. He only wished he could hear their screams; the chorus of panic warmed his heart in a way few things could. He watched for only a few moments before flicking a small switch on the side of the rifle. He considered keeping the scope but decided against it. No evidence. After a few seconds, tiny thermite charges ignited throughout the rifle. Once they finished burning, the rifle had been reduced to an unrecognizable lump of melted metal. A shame. It was a good weapon. The man kicked listlessly at the cooling mass as he considered where he might go for lunch.

October tenth. Prisoner interview. Subject: Thomas Fisher. This is Doctor Martens. Say Hello Thomas. Hello. I would like to continue our conversation from last session. Have you ever killed a man? I believe you were telling me about your employers.

I asked you a question, doctor. No, I cant say that I have killed a man. Its not as hard as most people think. Sure theres always a bit of hesitation with the first one but if youre getting paid enough, thats not a problem. Really? Did you hesitate the first time you killed a man? I just said so, didnt I? I suppose you did. Have you ever killed a woman? Please dont insult my intelligence. You have the files on me. You know what Ive done. I want to hear your thoughts on the subject. Your files are my thoughts on the subject. Thats the point of a confession, isnt it?

Thomas walked slowly down the dark street. Most businesses on the street had closed for the night. A disheveled man in a torn and roughly patched brown overcoat slumped against a lamp post. An empty bottle had rolled away from his hand and dropped into the dry gutter. He snored lightly as Thomas walked up to him. Thomas slipped a hundred dollar bill into the hand that had dropped the bottle. Enjoy, bucko, he said as he continued to a bar further down the road. The old neon sign sputtered and sparked out the name Daves Pub even though Dave had died years ago. The inside of the bar reeked of cigarette smoke and spilled beer. Two steps through the door a meaty hand pushed against Thomass chest. Private party tonight, followed the gravelly voice of the bouncer. Sok, Marty, Im invited, Thomas replied.

Marty leaned forward a bit and took a closer look. Oh, sorry, Tommy. Didnt recognize you. No problem. Break your glasses again? Yeah, some dumb drunk got a lucky shot in. Thomas chuckled and patted the big bouncers bicep as he walked into the bar proper. Dont work too hard, Marty. Thomas lit a cigarette and looked around the barroom. It was completely empty of clientele except for a single man sitting at the bar. His dark blue suit looked black in the dim red lighting. He had a glass of some clear liquid in his hand. A full glass of beer was waiting on the bar next to him. Thomas walked to the empty seat and sat next to the man. Very well done, sir, the man said in a quiet voice. I must say that I found it difficult to believe what was said of you but I am convinced now. No one is brave enough to strike now. I dont care, Thomas said as he eyed the beer. You said you had another job. The man sniffed at the curt response and sipped his drink. Yes, he said, Ive got a job. I think that the nature of the job requires that I explain some of the situation surrounding it. Thomas pushed the beer to the side and rested his elbow on the bar as he turned to face the man. He blew a lungful of smoke into the side of the mans head. Does any part of this explanation include dangers or problems I might face on the job? Not exactly. He coughed quietly. Then, again, I dont care. Just give me the target and your first offer. The man turned to look at Thomas for the first time. His face narrowed from top to bottom coming to a point at his chin. His eyebrows were thin and dark. Thomas did not like the mans face. Fine. The targets name is Alice Cummings. He pulled a photograph out of the

inner pocket of his suit jacket and set it on the bar next to Thomass hand. Well talk money after you accept the job. Thomas frowned at the man and picked up the picture. He drew in a breath of smoke as he flipped it over to look at the person pictured and just as quickly coughed it out again as the light caught the photo. Are you fucking serious? he said, slamming the picture down on the bar top. The man smiled thinly. I was told that no target was an issue for you, he said calmly. How much do you require for this job? Thomas looked down at the picture then back up at the man then back down at the picture. He said nothing for a minute. How do you want it done? he eventually asked in a subdued voice. The man looked into his glass as he replied, Public. Like the last one. Thomas shook his head slowly as he looked back up at the man once more. 100,000 dollars base plus expenses, he said barely louder than a whisper. The man clapped him amiably on the back. Capital! Ill wire the money to the same account, shall I? Yes. Good. Ill send you the deeper details tomorrow. The man stood up and began walking out the bar. Thomas caught his elbow as he passed. Pay in advance, he said quickly. A muscle in the mans jaw tightened. Of course, he said after a moment, brushing Thomass hand off his suit. A pleasure.

Thomas watched him leave then looked down at the picture. A little girl with brown pigtails looked back at him with a toothy smile. Thomas picked up the glass and gulped half of the dark beer in one go. Shit, he muttered.

October fifteenth. Prisoner interview. Subject: Thomas Fisher. This is Doctor Martens. Hello, doctor. Hello, Thomas. What would you like to talk about today, Thomas? I dont think we have enough in common to hold a conversation, doctor. Ask your questions. Alright. Perhaps you would like to tell me why you ended our interview so prematurely during our last session. Do you have a cigarette? I dont smoke. Shame. Tell me, doctor, why do you have these interviews with me? They are mandated by the state. I was assigned to you because your last name starts with an F. I am here to gauge your mental health and to get you to talk about your crimes. Thats very truthful, doctor. I find that lying only makes subjects less willing to talk. I see. I have answered your questions, now will you answer one of mine? Quid pro quo, is it? Alright, Ill bite. What do you want to know? How many people have you killed? More than Manson, less than Bundy.

Thats very vague. So is my memory.

Thomas sat on a cement bench across the street from Sunnyvale Elementary School. He watched the bright yellow buses pull into the schools parking lot and checked his watch. Ten minutes. A warm breeze puffed across the lush grass fields surrounding the school building, causing the swings in the playground to sway lazily. Thomas glanced up at a treehouse above him that some family had conveniently built before moving away. He turned his gaze back to the school. What are you doing? Thomas asked. No one was near him. Im doing my job, he answered himself. Youre going to kill a little girl? Seems that way. A child. Is money really so important? Its not just money. I have a reputation to maintain. As a maniac? As a professional. Thomas shook his head and stood up. He began pacing around the bench. Cars and minivans began to arrive in the school parking lot; people anticipating the imminent end of the school day. Thomas checked his watch again. Five minutes. Its not too late, he said. You can still walk away. Thomas snorted derisively. And have someone gunning for me within the week.

Thomas hopped the small fence around the vacant houses front lawn and climbed into the treehouse. An old camp chair and a new, short-barreled rifle resting on a bipod were sitting next to a crookedly cut window. A black silencer added some length to the barrel of the rifle. He considered the possibility of returning the clients money but realized that he did not know to where he would return the money. The man initiated all contact and was waiting for Thomas to finish the job. Just had to get the money in advance, he muttered. A bell rang clearly across the empty field and Thomas looked up in time to see a large set of double doors spring open and a tide of children come streaming out. He sat in the small camp chair and brought the rifle to his shoulder, looking through the cheap scope. His crosshairs flickered from face to face as he watched children run out across the field or toward the waiting vehicles in the parking lot. After what seemed like an impossible amount of children left the building, his gaze alighted upon the familiar features of Alice Cummings. She walked alone out into the field. Through a week of observation Thomas had learned that she lived within walking distance and made the walk without friends every day. He took a deep breath to steady himself then clicked the safety off as he lined up the shot. No, he said, I cant do this. He flicked the safety back on and leaned away from the gun. He frowned, angered at his own indecision. Once more, he took the safety off and leaned back down over the rifle. Again, he took a deep breath to steady his aim and slowly rested the pad of his index finger on the trigger. Alice stopped halfway across the field and seemed to look directly through the scope at Thomas. Im sorry, Alice, he said as he gently squeezed the trigger. The chorus of screams was unusually high pitched and brought Thomas no joy.

* * * October twentieth. Prisoner interview. Subject: Thomas Fisher. This is Doctor Martens. Doctor. Hello, Thomas. This will be our last session. Thats what they tell me. I have been informed that the time of your execution has been set for tomorrow at noon. They tell me that, too, doctor. What exactly do you hope to accomplish here? I was just wondering if you had anything you would like to get off your chest. They already sent me a priest, doctor. Confessions do nothing for the soul. Well then would you answer one final question for me? Not including that one? Sure. Do you regret any of your murders? Ive only murdered one person, doctor. My records show- Your records show that Ive completed twenty-eight jobs. Only one of them was murder. I see. And do you regret it? Everyone regrets murder, doctor.