To Have A Conscience
By Michael Herman

The man was already dead. He just didn't know it yet. I adjusted the scarf that covered my face from the bitter Vermont wind, rang the bell, and shot him in the head when he answered the door . . . No one had even heard the twin barks of two silenced bullets leaving my gun. I dragged him inside his house so late walkers wouldn't notice his body. Fortunately, all the blood was inside and would be hidden when I closed the door.

When a person hires a man like me, that's what they pay for: a quick, easy, albeit expensive elimination of their enemies, without that annoying trail of evidence that normal assassins leave. The bastard I had just killed was not a fellow human being in my mind's eye, just another 250,000 dollars paid straight to my Swiss account.

My first mistake came when a picture on the kitchen counter seemed to jump out and caught my eye. It had him and a couple of kids standing with their faces stuck through the holes of one of those stupid wooden stand-ups of silicon stacked woman and steroid pumped men. I sighed, knowing the children would probably be the first to find his body.

At the time I didn't notice anything strange about my reaction. I had killed men with families many times before. After all, I can't refuse a job for such a trivial reason. I have a reputation to maintain. Any regret I had was gone by the time I was half a block away from the house, as I walked to the train station to get back to my native Boston and confirm that the quarter million had reached my account as agreed.

I got off the train at the Fleet Center, at around 9:00 in the morning. A dirty beggar was asleep right outside the entrance, covered with newspaper. A common misconception of assassins is that they are all heartless bastards. Let me tell you, it is quite definitely true. Every assassin I have ever known would have walked right by this beggar, and I know some who would have killed him there and then, for no reason but that he was there. I'm not an assassin, though. I'm a professional.

I straightened, having left a few twenties under his grimy hand, and made my second mistake. I wondered how this guy had ended up how he had. From there it was very little to wonder if my most recent victim's kids would end up like this: parentless, friendless, driven to the cold, hard streets, with nowhere else to go.

Such foolish thoughts were driven from my head as I saw my destination down the road. I continued on the street, unconsciously feeling to make sure my weapons were all in their proper places (it would not be the first time if this guy decided I knew too much and tried to kill me), arrived at the entrance and went inside.

I waved my faked security pass at the security guard, got in the elevator and rode it to the fifteenth floor. When it stopped, I got off and climbed the other three floors to get to his office. His secretary and mentally added her to the list of people who had seen me in this building, and thus to the list of people I might have to kill.

She saw me and pushed the button to unlock her boss' room, knowing my face as one that does not take waiting well. I walked in and him on his oversized armchair, facing the window, talking on the phone. Not wanting to waste my breath, I just pushed down on the receiver, effectively ending his conversation.

A moment passed as he figured out there was nothing on the other end of the line but a dial tone. He turned around, and I could see from his initial expression he was surprised to see me so soon, and was definitely not happy about it. Must have been arranging to have me killed, I had thought at the time. As I usually am, I was right.

I didn't even bother asking him if he had transferred the money yet. Instead I walked to his computer, logged onto my account, and noticed that I only had 600 thousand in it, my old balance. That just pissed me off.

"You know my rules. Where's my cash?" I was getting angry now.

He spat at me, the bastard. "Why the hell should I pay you? You'll be dea-" He didn't have time to finish, as my first shot took him right between the eyes and my second hit the goon coming out of the closet in the chest.

I sighed, hating to have to now waste time hiding the bodies or killing all those who had seen me enter. Instead, I locked the deadbolt on his door, and decided to make it look like a suicide, having not done that for a while. I turned the goon and his employer to face each other, and put guns in their hands.

Then it was time to get down to business. I walked over to the computer and hacked into his bank account. Three million, a respectable amount. It was the work of a moment to transfer it all to my account untraceably. Then, because I was feeling mean, I cracked into the company's payroll system and transferred all the money there (a good 45 million, it was, after all, only a small company) to Greenpeace. After that, it was not difficult to write a simple suicide note, saying he could not take the social stigma against bisexuality and all that, ending by saying he had, as his dying wish, given all the company's money to charity.

I'm not only a professional. I'm also an artist.

* * *

Later that day, I was on my way to my late employer's home to kill his family. It is not like I was being unfair. I tell all those who hire me about the consequences of different offenses. Being late with payment means the price is doubled. Trying to kill me means death- for the assassin, the fool who hired him, and the fool's family. I usually only kill immediate family, but if the person isn't married or has no kids, I kill off parents, siblings, occasionally close friends if they are unattached.

This time, it was different. This time I made the mistake of thinking.

Oh, I still figured out what time his family would be home, and set up a sniper position from which I had a clear shot through the front window, as I always did. I still listened to Beethoven's Sixth while patiently waiting for all the members of my late former employer's family to arrive. I loaded the bolt operated Enfield sniper rifle as I always do. I got as far as calculating the time it would take to blow a hole in each member's head giving time to chamber another round between each shot. I even aimed at the head of his youngest daughter before I froze.

* * *

CLICK "WHY THE HELL CAN'T YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT??? THIS IS A 'C' FOR GOD FUCKING SAKES!" WHACK! " WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?" WHACK! "YOUR FUCKING (WHACK!) INCOMPETENCE IS GOING (WHACK!) TO GET YOU (WHACK!) NOWHERE (WHACK!) IN (WHACK!) THIS (WHACK!) LIFE!"

The teen stood there, taking the brunt of his father's wrath, in the hope that it would spare his mother when she got home. The man slapped him again for good measure, and something within the son snapped. He attacked the bastard standing there, punching and kicking with every ounce of skill growing up in Lynn had given him.

When his mother walked in the door, she saw her son screaming obscenities, and beating the living shit out of his father. The father was on the ground, trying vainly to ward off the attacks and not succeeding. His nose was mashed, streaming blood, blood came from his mouth, where many teeth were now missing. His shirt was bloody, as were his pants. She ran to her son and dragged him away from what was left of her husband. He kicked his father in the kidney one last time, and collapsed against her, crying.

"I didn't do it I didn't want to do it he kept on hitting me and I didn't mean to do it and I didn't do it" any other words being lost in sobs. She hugged him, whispering soothingly.

By then the father had managed to get to his feet. "I want that kid out of the house before I kill him," he was trying to sound threatening, but failing miserably. However, the .38 in his hand more than made up for it. The son turned, kicked him hard in the groin and picked up the gun.

"Why did you have to be this way?" The gun spat flame in to the father's chest "Why?"

CLICK

* * *

I shook my head, whispering "why?" until I realized my father was not here; I had escaped him long years ago. That had been the first time I tried to kill someone. I don't even know if he had lived; I took the gun and ran. I had not spoken to my mother since then either. The clicks, I realized, was first my thumb unlocking the safety, and second relocking it.

I stared at the family through the window. I couldn't shoot them, whatever my reputation. I could recognize an abused family, and this was one if I had ever seen one. I removed the clip and slung the rifle over my shoulder. Instead of killing them, I wrote a note.

Dear Madam,

You do not know me and I do not know you. I am afraid it must stay that way. I write to tell you that your husband will never be coming home again. I am not sure whether you will be happy about this or angry or what, but he will not torture you or your children ever again. I am sorry.

Signed,

A Killer

It was the sum of my mistakes. In my own defense, I was only half-sane at the time. It sealed my downfall.

* * *

You might wonder how I got my jobs. In a nutshell, I hear from friends of friends of guys who want someone dead whatever the price. It was more or less a spiderweb of drug dealers, punks, and occasionally the mob. I say "was" because the next day, the cops made a desperate attempt at cleaning up the drug situation. To make a long story short, they caught some of my key contacts. I was cut off from the market of possible jobs.

I spent a week after the failed murders in my apartment in Boston. I more or less spent the whole time drinking, eating pizza and making phone calls to guys I dimly remember being mentioned to me by people who were now in jail. That and wondering if I could ever finish a job again.

It never once occurred to me I didn't need any more jobs, I had 3 and a half million in the bank. Hey, some people fix cars, some fly planes, and I, at that time, killed people. It was more than the money, it was all I knew how to do.

A person can only take so much pizza, even with onions, green pepper and mushrooms, at one time. By Saturday, 6 days after killing the Vermont man for my late employer, I had to get out. I was going insane. Or perhaps I already was.

I got out my old flak jacket, a Bruins hat and slicked my hair back. A few minutes on the computer transferred a thousand to my local bank account from my Swiss account. I opened the door, and kicked the weeks worth of Boston Globes inside. At the bottom of the pile, a front page caught my attention. I grabbed the paper, shoved it in my jacket pocket, locked my three deadbolts and walked in to a cold Boston evening. It was my fifth mistake that I didn't read the paper first.

No one knew my face as that of a killer, so I was safe. Or so I thought.

I figured I'd go to this Chinese place I like. Wicked good food, not too much MSG, decent price. Plus, there was an ATM right on the way, so I could pad my wallet. It was on the way out of the ATM that it happened. I've been held up before, but I don't really like killing muggers. I mean, not only am I not paid, most of the time they had no real chance to be someone else. Yeah, I guess it's the same with some of my jobs, but they should know better than to make such powerful enemies.

"FREEZE MUTHUH-FUKUH! DROP YO' WALLAT ON DA FLOOH!" I felt the pressure of something round pushing up against my back. Dammit, I had thought at the time, why'd ya have to go and do that, man?

I turned, twisted his gun out of his hand and drew my own. I faced him now with a .38 revolver in one hand and my own 9mm in the other. It took me a minute to realize whom it was I was about to kill.

It was my best, and probably only, real friend.

"Hey, mind not splattin' my guts out onna sidewalk, man?"

I apologized, and handed him back his piece. We did the whole old-friends-meet-up jig. I asked him how he'd been, he said fine, he asked me how business was going.

"Bad, man. Wicked bad. The cops screwed with my friends, so I'll not be getting any more jobs for a time. Plus, my last employer and I had a very painful breaking up . . ." I pointed my finger at him, like kids playing cowboys and Indians, and said, bang. He laughed, and I laughed.

My stomach growled. I told him I was going to get a bite to eat, would he like to come. He said, what the hell, why not.

I didn't notice anything strange about the way he was acting. But then, if there was someone better at lying, conning and just plain acting, I don't know him. He shoulda been an actor at most, a lawyer at worst, a used car salesman at least.

We got to the Chinese place. It was crowded, as usual for a Saturday night. I walked over to the kitchen, open the door and waved to the cook. He waved back, and got the manager. When you eat at a place as often as I eat here, you get special privileges. I told him I'd like my regular booth by the back door. He looked over at the couple who was there, and said, Fi' minutes.

The manager was as good as his word. He walked up to them, got in a little conversation, and a few minutes later they were running out the door. I had no idea what he said, but I was glad of it. We helped clear off the plates, sat down and ordered.

I asked him what he was doing back in Boston, hadn't he gotten a real job out in Seattle? He said yeah, that was what he was doing here. I've got a job for you, he said. I said I didn't want anymore jobs, I had killed my last man. I will never be sure whether I would take those words back, if I could.

Four guys turned from their meal and aimed guns at my head. My friend said he was sorry, they'd have jailed him if he hadn't done it, pulled a tape recorder out of his pocket. The cops cuffed me, frisked me and read me my rights. I didn't care enough to resist.

Afterwards

The letter was what got me. The wife turned it in to the cops. They analyzed the writing. It was linked to the suicide note I had written. Through some bizarre connections, they had found my phone number in the office. I didn't care enough to pay much attention. Apparently, they had somehow linked me with a couple of my kills using that information. They'd traced down my friend, and made a deal. From there, it was just a matter of getting a confession on tape, and I had cooperated nicely.

As it turns out, the newspaper I had taken that night had a front page story saying something like, police have linked the closet case suicides to a bunch of murders. I shoulda known to look at that damn paper immediately.

I didn't care. I don't care. I had escaped what I had become, what my father had made me. I wasn't a failure. I had a conscience.

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