that family; I pray for them every night. But
I pray for Dick, too. And this boy Perry. It was wrong of me to hate him; I’ve got nothing but pity
for him now. And you know — I believe Mrs. Clutter would feel pity, too. Being the kind of woman
they say she was.»
Court had adjourned; the noises of the departing audience clattered in the corridor beyond the
lavatory door. Mrs. Hickock said she must go and meet her husband. «He’s dying. I don’t think he
minds any more.»
Many observers of the trial scene were baffled by the visitor from Boston, Donald Cullivan. They
could not quite understand why this staid young Catholic, a successful engineer who had taken
his degree at Harvard, a husband and the father of three children, should choose to befriend an
uneducated, homicidal half-breed whom he knew but slightly and had not seen for nine years.
Cullivan himself said, «My wife doesn’t understand it either. Coming out here was something I
couldn’t afford to do — it meant using a week of my vacation, and money we really need for other
things. On the other hand, it was something I couldn’t afford not to do. Perry’s lawyer wrote me
asking if I would be a character witness; the moment I read the letter I knew I had to do it.
Because I’d offered this man my friendship. And because — well, I believe in the life everlasting. All
souls can be saved for God.»
The salvation of a soul, namely Perry Smith’s, was an enterprise the deeply Catholic undersheriff
and his wife were eager to assist — although Mrs. Meier had been rebuffed by Perry when she had
suggested a consultation with Father Goubeaux, a local priest. (Perry said, «Priests and nuns
have had their chance with me. I’m still wearing the scars to prove it.») And so, during the
weekend recess, the Meiers invited Cullivan to eat Sunday dinner with the prisoner in his cell.
The opportunity to entertain his friend, play host as it were, delighted Perry, and the planning of
the menu — wild goose, stuffed and roasted, with gravy and creamed potatoes and string beans,
aspic salad, hot biscuits, cold milk, freshly baked cherry tarts, cheese, and coffee — seemed to

concern him more than the outcome of the trial (which, to be sure, he did not consider a
suspenseful matter: «Those prairiebillys, they’ll vote to hang fast as pigs eat slop. Look at their
eyes. I’ll be damned if I’m the only killer in the courtroom»). All Sunday morning he prepared to
receive his guest. The day was warm, a little windy, and leaf shadows, supple emanations from
the tree boughs that brushed the cell’s barred window, tantalized Perry’s tamed squirrel. Big Red
chased the swaying patterns while his master swept and dusted, scrubbed the floor and scoured
the toilet and cleared the desk of literary accumulations. The desk was to be the dining table, and
once Perry had finished setting it, it looked most inviting, for Mrs. Meier had donated a linen
tablecloth, starched napkins, and her best china and silver.
Cullivan was impressed — he whistled when the feast, arriving on trays, was placed upon the table

• and before sitting down, he asked the host if he might offer a blessing. The host, head unbowed,
  cracked his knuckles as Cullivan, with bowed head and palms together, intoned, «Bless us, O
  Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through the mercy of
  Christ, our Lord. Amen.» Perry murmuringly remarked that in his opinion any credit due belonged
  to Mrs. Meier. «She did all the work. Well,» he said, heaping his guest’s plate, «it’s good to see
  you, Don. You look just the same. Haven’t changed a bit.»
  Cullivan, in appearance a cautious bank clerk with depleted hair and a face rather difficult to
  recall, agreed that outwardly he hadn’t changed much. But his interior self, the invisible man, was
  another matter: «I was coasting along. Not knowing God is the only reality. Once you realize that,
  then everything falls into
  place. Life has meaning — and so does death. Boy, do you always eat like this?»
  Perry laughed. «She’s really a terrific cook, Mrs. Meier. You ought to taste her Spanish rice. I’ve
  gained fifteen pounds since I got here. Course I was on the thin side. I’d lost a lot of weight while
  Dick and me were out on the road riding all to hell and gone — hardly ever eating a square meal,
  hungry as hell most of the time. Mostly, we lived like animals. Dick was always stealing canned
  stuff out of grocery stores. Baked beans and canned spaghetti. We’d open it up in the car and
  gobble it cold. Animals. Dick loves to steal. It’s an emotional thing with him — a sickness. I’m a
  thief too, but only if I don’t have the money to pay. Dick, if he was carrying a hundred dollars in his
  pocket, he’d steal a stick of chewing gum.»
  Later, over cigarettes and coffee, Perry returned to the subject of thievery. «My friend Willie-Jay
  used to talk about it. He used to say that all crimes were only varieties of theft.’ Murder included.
  When you kill a man you steal his life. I guess that makes me a pretty big thief. See, Don — I did
  kill them. Down there in court, old Dewey made it sound like I was prevaricating — on account of
  Dick’s mother. Well, I wasn’t. Dick helped me, he held the flashlight and picked up the shells. And
  it was his idea, too. But Dick didn’t shoot them, he never could’ve — though he’s damn quick when
  it comes to running down an old dog. I wonder why I did it.» He scowled, as though the problem
  was new to him, a newly unearthed stone of surprising, unclassified color. «I don’t know why,» he
  said, as if holding it to the light, and angling it now here, now there. «I was sore at Dick. The tough
  brass boy. But it wasn’t Dick. Or the fear of being identified. I was willing to take that gamble. And
  it wasn’t because of anything the Clutters did. They never hurt me. Like other people. Like people
  have all my life. Maybe it’s just that the Clutters were the ones who had to pay for it.»
  Cullivan probed, trying to gauge the depth of what he assumed would be Perry’s contrition. Surely
  he must be experiencing a remorse sufficiently profound to summon a desire for God’s mercy and
  forgiveness? Perry said, «Am I sorry? If that’s what
  you mean — I’m not. I don’t feel anything about it. I wish I did. But nothing about it bothers me a bit.
  Half an hour after it happened, Dick was making jokes and I was laughing at them. Maybe we’re
  not human. I’m human enough to feel sorry for myself. Sorry I can’t walk out of here when you
  walk out. But that’s all.» Cullivan could scarcely credit so detached an attitude; Perry was
  confused, mistaken, it was not possible for any man to be that devoid of conscience or
  compassion. Perry said, «Why? Soldiers don’t lose much sleep. They murder, and get medals for
  doing it. The good people of Kansas want to murder me — and some hang-man will be glad to get
  the work. It’s easy to kill — a lot easier than passing a bad check. Just remember: I only knew the
  Clutters maybe an hour. If I’d really known them, I guess I’d feel different. I don’t think I could live
  with myself. But the way it was, it was like picking off targets in a shooting gallery.»
  Cullivan was silent, and his silence upset Perry, who seemed to interpret it as implying
  disapproval. «Hell, Don, don’t make me act the hypocrite with you. Throw a load of bull — how sorry I am, how all I want to do now is crawl on my knees and pray. That stuff don’t ring with me. I
  can’t accept overnight what I’ve always denied. The truth is, you’ve done more for me than any
  what you call God ever has. Or ever will. By writing to me, by signing yourself ‘friend.’ When I had
  no friends. Except Joe James.» Joe James, he explained to Cullivan, was a young Indian logger
  with whom he had once lived in a forest near Bellingham, Washington. «That’s a long way from
  Garden City. A good two thousand miles. I sent word to Joe about the trouble I’m in. Joe’s a poor
  guy, he’s got seven kids to feed, but he promised to come here if he had to walk. He hasn’t
  shown up yet, and maybe he won’t, only I think he will. Joe always liked me. Do you, Don?»
  «Yes. I like you.»
  Cullivan’s softly emphatic answer pleased and rather flustered Perry. He smiled and said, «Then
  you must be some kind of nut. «Suddenly rising, he crossed the cell and picked up a broom. «I
  don’t know why I should die among strangers. Let a bunch of prairiebillys stand around and watch
  me strangle. Shit. I ought to kill myself first.» He lifted the broom and pressed the bristles against
  the light bulb that burned in the ceiling. «Just unscrew the bulb and smash it and cut my wrists.
  That’s what I ought to do. While you’re still here. Somebody who cares about me a little bit.»
  The trial resumed on Monday morning at ten o’clock. Ninety minutes later the court adjourned, the
  case for the defense having been completed in that brief time. The defendants declined to testify
  in their own behalf, and therefore the question of whether Hickock or Smith had been the actual
  executioner of the Clutter family did not arise.
  Of the five witnesses who did appear, the first was the hollow-eyed Mr. Hickock. Though he
  spoke with a dignified and mournful clarity, he had but one contribution to make that was relevant
  to a claim of temporary insanity. His son, he said, had suffered head