Jan. 6, 2002: Three men named Darby, Scarpi and Olsen built a large coal fire on a hilltop in Pennsylvania. The youngest man, Olsen, seemed uneasy and frequently turned to look down the hill, as if he were expecting to see someone.
Time passed and the fire became a roaring cauldron.
“How much longer do we have to wait?” said Olsen. “Are you sure he’s coming?” He was staring down the hill and didn’t know that his two companions were closing in behind him.
They picked him up and threw him into the center of the flames. He gave a hideous scream and died.
The man named Scarpi took a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed at the coaldust on his hands. While he was cleaning himself, he absently glanced toward his right. Suddenly he yelled.
“Get that man.”
But there was no man. The hilltop was barren of shrubbery and so was the slope for a quarter-mile around them. Scarpi finally decided that what he had glimpsed was a mirage made by the heat of the fire. He couldn’t have seen a man crouching behind a small rock taking photographs of them. His eyes had been playing tricks on him.
Jan. 6, 2033: Two men named Scarpi and Darby rode in a black sedan on a deserted road in the mountains of New York. They picked up a hitchhiker along the way. An hour later, they rounded a bend in the road and braked to a quick stop in order to avoid crashing into a fallen tree. A man came walking out of the woods. He paused by the driver’s door, yanked it open and stuck a gun against Darby’s head.
“Get out,” he said. He waved the gun at Scarpi who sat in the back seat. “You, too.”
As the two climbed from the car, the stranger pasted a plastic seal on the windshield. It was a small replica of the figure of Justice, except that there was a difference. The figure had no blindfold across her eyes.
The hitchhiker hid behind trees and followed the three into the woods. He saw them climb a hill to where a large fire blazed. In horror he watched as the stranger calmly shot Darby and Scarpi in the leg, picked them up one at a time and threw them into the fire.
That same day, New York City Police Department, Fifth Precinct; delivered in the mail: photographs of Carl Scarpi and Jack Darby in the act of murdering a man who was later identified as Philip Olsen. The photography was clean, clear and professional. Included in the material was a note telling the police where they would find the corpses of the executed. The note was signed, “Mr. Justice.”
Feb. 15, 1997: In the basement of an abandoned tenement building in New York City, Charles “Little Boy” Keys had an argument with a man named Mace Lipton. The quarrel proceeded quietly with Keys doing most of the talking. All at once he began making threats.
“You can go to hell,” said Lipton and made as if to leave.
Keys took a gun from his pocket and shot him dead. Before he buried the body in a hole in the floor, he cut off the right hand. This was wrapped in tarpaper and mailed to Lipton’s address.
Feb. 15, 2033: A large carton wrapped in tarpaper was mailed to the address of Charles “Little Boy” Keys. In the carton was his body. He had been shot in the chest. New York City police received a folder in the day’s mail containing photographs of Keys shooting Lipton. Included in the folder was a plastic seal bearing the figure of Justice. She wore no blindfold.
Nov. 1, 2033, New York City: A man named Toby Rook was arrested and bound over for trial. Evidence indicated that he had committed several murders. The newspapers did not mention that “several” meant thirty. The police were aware that Rook had launched himself into his profession at the age of sixteen when he stabbed his girlfriend to death.
Rook had his trial. He was a man with friends. His impulsive character dictated that people either liked him or hated him. Most of those who had hated him were dead. During the trial, Rook showed the public the many faces of his personality. Handsome, hot-tempered, arrogant, he spoke long and earnestly of the various indignities he had suffered at the hands of the police. His friends came forward with two alibis for every charge brought against him. People already hostile toward the police began taking sides with him. They talked about justice. The jury listened, doubted. They looked at the handsome individual in the defendant’s chair and their doubts intensified.
Rook was acquitted for lack of evidence. As he walked from the courtroom, he thumbed his nose at the jury.
Nov. 5, 2033, New York City Police Department, Eighth Precinct; received in the day’s mail: photographs of Toby Rook in the act of killing twelve people: Included in the folder was a card signed by Mr. Justice. It told the police where they would find Rook’s body.
He hung from the yardarm of a derelict boat in the East River, his own knife in his heart.
March 30, 1999, New York: A man named Jacob Levy walked down the street and stopped to look in a store window. All at once he groaned and grabbed at his stomach. In a few minutes his groans became shrill screams. He died before the ambulance arrived. Poison had been dropped into the coffee he drank at a cafe a short time before.
March 30, 2034, the mountains of New York: A group of people met at a private inn to wine, dine and discuss business. Their numbers were twenty-three. Six of them had shrimp toast as an appetizer, the rest ate egg-roll. As the dessert was being served, one of the guests who had eaten shrimp toast began screaming in pain. The man beside him also screamed. Then another.
Six of the twenty-three died of poisoning.
In a coffee can in the kitchen the police found a packet of tapes. They played them and listened to the six poison victims conspiring to kill a man named Jacob Levy. Also in the can was a plastic seal left by Mr. Justice.
April 17, 1998, New York: Twelve men played poker in a garage. The door suddenly burst open. Several hooded men ran in and sprayed the room with machine-gun bullets.
March 31, 2034, a New York mountain retreat: A group of people met to wine, dine and discuss business. Their numbers were sixty-five. In the midst of dinner a stranger came walking into the room. Clasped in his hands was a machine gun. He stopped several yards away from the seated group and calmly opened fire with his weapon.
Fourteen of the group lived; not a hair of their heads was touched. The rest were dead. The survivors swore the stranger had left the way he came, through the open door. The lookouts swore just as vehemently that no one could have gotten past them.
Mr. Justice mailed material to the police: photographs of the mass killing of twelve men in a garage thirty-seven years before, plus tapes identifying forty-eight members of the group as having been involved in the conspiracy to kill. The five who had done the actual shooting were among the dead.
April 5, 2034, New York Times, front page, a letter:
Mr. Justice,
You are a sick man in need of medical treatment. I urge you to stop this insane vendetta of yours and surrender yourself to the authorities. I promise that you will not be harmed.
John F. Jenson Governor of New York
April 9, 2034, New York City, Fifth Precinct Police Station: An anonymous phone caller reported that a crime was being committed. The police arrived at the docks and found three men beating another man with chains. The attackers had guns. In the resulting shootout, two policemen were killed. The three criminals were taken to jail. The jail was new and was virtually impossible to escape from without assistance. Sometime during the night the three killers got away.
April 10, 2034: The police received an anonymous phone call. The bodies of the escaped killers were found in an apartment. They had been shot.
April 11, 2034, New York Times front page, a letter:
Mr. Justice,
In the name of decency and sanity, stop your killing and surrender yourself to the authorities. This country neither needs nor wants your kind of justice. We have a skilled force of people equipped to deal with criminals.
Any lawbreaker who is brought into an American court will receive full dues according to the law.
Clyde M. Sullivan President of the United States
April 14, 2034, New York City: A dwelling was broken into and its five residents were subjected to torture and death by persons unknown.
April 15, 2034, a New York City Police Station: Found on the front lawn, bound and gagged, two male and three female hippies along with photographs of them torturing and murdering five persons the day before.
Dec. 12, 2034, a New York court: The trial of the five hippies was completed; the verdict was guilty. Empowered by the Unusually Brutal Crime Amendment, the judge sentenced the defendants to death in the gas chamber on 1 July 2034.
The sentence was appealed. July 1 came and went. After the trial was reviewed, a new date of execution was set for 3 September. The sentence was appealed.
September 3 came and went. After the trial was reviewed, a new date of execution was set for January 5, 2035. The sentence was appealed.
On January 5, 2035 a prison guard in the women’s ward wheeled a cart bearing dinner trays into a cell. She found the three female hippies lying on the floor. In the men’s ward the two male hippies were also found on the floor. All were dead of cyanide gas. Somehow, someone had tampered with their cigarettes.
January 6, 2035, New York Times, front page, a letter:
Mr. Justice,
We apologize to the people of the world for your behavior. We do not apologize for our courts. The due process of law is often lengthy. We intend to improve this condition. Obviously you possess a distorted sense of justice. Perhaps you also have no patience. Would you care to try some?
Clyde M. Sullivan President of the United States
January 7, 2035, a New York City police station: A man, bound and gagged, was found lying on the front lawn. The officer who discovered him thought he looked familiar. To his horror he realized the man was Abner Teech.
The situation was embarrassing. Abner Teech was the Vice President. Tied to his neck was a folder containing enough evidence to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that he had committed extortion thirty years before when he was an obscure politician.
The police decided to leave it to the judge. One was quietly approached. The judge decided that New York hadn’t jurisdiction over Abner Teech because his crime of extortion had been committed while he was a resident of Washington, D.C. It was a technicality, to be sure, but Teech was no common man and the law must be exact. The judge quietly advised the Vice President to turn himself over to the authorities in Washington, then he was set free.
Teech didn’t go to the police in Washington. He went home. The New York police frowned, the judge who had handled the case frowned, everyone involved frowned.
January 10, 2036, Washington, D.C.: Abner Teech was delivered, bound and gagged, onto the front lawn of a police station. Tied about his neck was a folder which contained evidence showing that fifteen years earlier he had engaged in a conspiracy to pad construction contracts and had made a profit of $50,000.
It was an embarrassing situation. It was kept quiet. That same afternoon Abner Teech walked the streets a free man. The evidence against him had been misplaced and couldn’t be located.
That evening he was found bound and gagged on the front lawn of the Supreme Court building. Around his neck was tied a folder. Its contents revealed that five years ago he had financed eight loan shark companies and had cleaned up to the tune of a million dollars.
No one knew how it happened but the new evidence against the Vice President was misplaced. He was not detained.
January 12, 2036, a New York police station: Abner Teech walked in and asked to be placed under arrest. He confessed to the crime of extortion. No one but his lawyer learned immediately why he had given himself up. Later everyone heard about it.
According to Teech, he was having dinner alone in his home when a man walked in. This in itself was startling since the house and grounds were guarded by federal agents. Nevertheless the stranger came walking into the dining room and sat down beside the Vice President.
The man’s face had an odd shiny material on it that kept the features from coming into clear focus. Teech couldn’t describe him other than to say that he was tall and slender and had brown hair.
The stranger had spoken calmly and quietly for a few minutes. Then he had laid a small seal of Justice on the table, after which he stood up and left the room. The federal agents were alerted at once. They searched the house and grounds but found no one.
Teech had thought it over before deciding to place himself in the hands of the law. They at least knew what mercy meant. Mr. Justice didn’t. Teech was told that if he didn’t publicly confess to at least one of his major crimes he would be tried in some deserted spot by Mr. Justice, not for one of his crimes but for all of them. His punishment would be the maximum demanded by the law, imprisonment for the remainder of his life. Mr. Justice said he would imprison Teech, that he would do it personally, that the sentence would hold for as long as the Vice President lived and that he would never again see daylight as a free man.
Eventually Abner Teech was sentenced to seven years in a federal penitentiary. More than once he was asked to describe the visitor who had sent him running to the police. He tried, but there wasn’t much that he could say. Mr. Justice had sat in his dining room no more than four minutes. He had spoken as if he were reading a grocery list; he inflected no particular word or phrase. Though he had threatened, he had done it impassionately. He obviously knew how to disguise his personality.
How tall was Mr. Justice? About six feet. As for build, he was on the slender side, but Teech had already mentioned that. Yes, he had seen the hands. They were long and bony and the nails were trimmed and clean. His hair? It was ordinary brown hair, straight and dark, combed back, no sideburns to speak of. Why worry about the hands? No, they weren’t wrinkled, neither were they particularly smooth; they were just hands.
The clothes? A brown flannel suit, white shirt, gray tie, no pin, no handkerchief. Shoes? Teech hadn’t noticed.
The face? It had something on it, not a mask, something like gelatin or plastic. It was shiny and Mr. Justice kept moving his head so that the light bounced off it from different angles. It was impossible to describe the features.
What about the eyes? They were light blue. Lashes? Dark. Ears? Not large but not small enough to attract special notice.
Timbre of the voice? Pleasant, not high or scratch. . .
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