drums, heralded Hickock’s arrival. Accompanied by six guards and a prayer-murmuring chaplain,
he entered the death place handcuffed and wearing an ugly harness of leather straps that bound
his arms to his torso. At the foot of the gallows the warden read to him the official order of
execution, a two-page document; and as the warden read, Hickock’s eyes, enfeebled by half a
decade of cell shadows, roamed the little audience until, not seeing what he sought, he asked the
nearest guard, in a whisper, if any member of the Clutter family was present. When he was told
no, the prisoner seemed disappointed, as though he thought the protocol surrounding this ritual of
vengeance was not being properly observed.
As is customary, the warden, having finished his recitation, asked the condemned man whether
he had any last statement to make. Hickock nodded. «I just want to say I hold no hard feelings.
You people are sending me to a better world than this ever was»; then, as if to emphasize the
point, he shook hands with the four men mainly responsible for his capture and conviction, all of
whom had requested permission to attend the executions: K.B.I. Agents Roy Church, Clarence
Duntz, Harold Nye, and Dewey himself. «Nice to see you,» Hickock said with his most charming
smile; it was as if he were greeting guests at his own funeral.
The hangman coughed — impatiently lifted his cowboy hat and settled it again, a gesture somehow
reminiscent of a turkey buzzard huffing, then smoothing its neck feathers — and Hickock, nudged
by an attendant, mounted the scaffold steps. «The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. Blessed is
the name of the Lord,» the chaplain intoned, as the rain sound accelerated, as the noose was fitted, and as a delicate black mask was tied round the prisoner’s eyes. «May the Lord have mercy
on your soul.» The trapdoor opened, and Hickock hung for all to see a full twenty minutes before
the prison doctor at last said, «I pronounce this man dead.» A hearse, its blazing headlights
beaded with rain, drove into the warehouse, and the body, placed on a litter and shrouded under
a blanket, was carried to the hearse and out into the night. Staring after it, Roy Church shook his
head: «I never would have believed he had the guts. To take it like he did. I had him tagged a
coward.»
The man to whom he spoke, another detective, said, «Aw, Roy. The guy was a punk. A mean
bastard. He deserved it.» Church, with thoughtful eyes, continued to shake his head. While
waiting for the second execution, a reporter and a guard conversed. The reporter said, «This your
first hanging?»
«I seen Lee Andrews.»
«This here’s my first.»
«Yeah. How’d you like it?»
The reporter pursed his lips. «Nobody in our office wanted the assignment. Me either. But it wasn’t
as bad as I thought it would be. Just like jumping off a diving board. Only with a rope around your
neck.»
«They don’t feel nothing. Drop, snap, and that’s it. They don’t feel nothing.»
«Are you sure? I was standing right close. I could hear him gasping for breath.»
«Uh-huh, but he don’t feel nothing. Wouldn’t be humane if he did.»
«Well. And I suppose they feed them a lot of pills. Sedatives.»
«Hell, no. Against the rules. Here comes Smith.»
«Gosh, I didn’t know he was such a shrimp.»
‘Yeah, he’s little. But so is a tarantula.»
As he was brought into the warehouse, Smith recognized his old foe, Dewey; he stopped chewing
a hunk of Doublemint gum he had in his mouth, and grinned and winked at Dewey, jaunty and
mischievous. But after the warden asked if he had anything to say, his expression was sober. His
sensitive eyes gazed gravely at the surrounding faces, swerved up to the shadowy hangman,
then downward to his own manacled hands. He looked at his fingers, which were stained with ink
and paint, for he’d spent his final three years on Death Row painting self-portraits and pictures of
children, usually the children of inmates who supplied him with photographs of their seldom-seen
progeny. «I think,» he said, «it’s a helluva thing to take a life in this manner. I don’t believe in
capital punishment, morally or legally. Maybe I had something to contribute, something — » His
assurance faltered; shyness blurred his voice, lowered it to a just audible level. «It would be
meaningless to apologize for what I did. Even inappropriate. But I do. I apologize.»
Steps, noose, mask; but before the mask was adjusted, the prisoner spat his chewing gum into
the chaplain’s outstretched palm. Dewey shut his eyes; he kept them shut until he heard the thudsnap that announces a rope-broken neck. Like the majority of American law-enforcement officials,
Dewey is certain that capital punishment is a deterrent to violent crime, and he felt that if ever the
penalty had been earned, the present instance was it. The preceding execution had not disturbed
him, he had never had much use for Hickock, who seemed to him «a small-time chiseler who got
out of his depth, empty and worthless.» But Smith, though he was the true murderer, aroused
another response, for Perry possessed a quality, the aura of an exiled animal, a creature walking
wounded, that the detective could not disregard. He remembered his first meeting with Perry in
the interrogation room at Police Headquarters in Las Vegas — the dwarfish boy-man seated in the
metal chair, his small booted feet not quite brushing the floor. And when Dewey now opened his
eyes, that is what he saw: the same childish feet, tilted, dangling.
Dewey had imagined that with the deaths of Smith and Hickock, he would experience a sense of
climax, release, of a design justly completed. Instead, he discovered himself recalling an incident
of almost a year ago, a casual encounter in Valley View Cemetery, which, in retrospect, had
somehow for him more or less ended the Clutter case.
The pioneers who founded Garden City were necessarily a Spartan people, but when the time
came to establish a formal cemetery, they were determined, despite arid soil and the troubles of
transporting water, to create a rich contrast to the dusty streets, the austere plains. The result,
which they named Valley View, is situated above the town on a plateau of modest altitude. Seen
today, it is a dark island lapped by the undulating surf of surrounding wheat fields — a good refuge
from a hot day, for there are many cool paths unbrokenly shaded by trees planted generations
ago.
One afternoon the previous May, a month when the fields blaze with the green-gold fire of halfgrown wheat, Dewey had spent several hours at Valley View weeding his father’s grave, an
obligation he had too long neglected. Dewey was fifty-one, four years older than when he had
supervised the Clutter investigation; but he was still lean and agile, and still the K.B.I.’s principal
agent in western Kansas; only a week earlier he had caught a pair of cattle rustlers. The dream of
settling on his farm had not come true, for his wife’s fear of living in that sort of isolation had never
lessened. Instead, the Deweys had built a new house in town; they were proud of it, and proud,
too, of both their sons, who were deep-voiced now and as tall as their father. The older boy was
headed for college in the autumn.
When he had finished weeding, Dewey strolled along the quiet paths. He stopped at a tombstone
marked with a recently carved name: Tate. Judge Tate had died of pneumonia the past
November; wreaths, brown roses, and rain-faded ribbons still lay upon the raw earth. Close by,
fresher petals spilled across a newer mound — the grave of Bonnie Jean Ashida, the Ashidas’
elder daughter, who while visiting Garden City had been killed in a car collision. Deaths, births,
marriages — why, just the other day he’d heard that Nancy Clutter’s boy friend, young Bobby
Rupp, had gone and got married.
The graves of the Clutter family, four graves gathered under a single gray stone, lie in a far corner
of the cemetery — beyond the trees, out in the sun, almost at the wheat field’s bright edge. As
Dewey approached them, he saw that another visitor was already there: a willowy girl with whitegloved hands, a smooth cap of dark-honey hair, and long, elegant legs. She smiled at him, and
he wondered who she was.
«Have you forgotten me, Mr. Dewey? Susan Kidwell.» He laughed; she joined him. «Sue Kidwell.
I’ll be darned.» He hadn’t seen her since the trial; she had been a child then. «How are you?
How’s your mother?»
«Fine, thank you. She’s still teaching music at the Holcomb School.»
«Haven’t been that way lately. Any changes?»
«Oh, there’s some talk about paving the streets. But you know Holcomb. Actually, I don’t spend
much time there. This is my junior year at K.U.,» she said, meaning the University of Kansas. «I’m
just home for a few days.»
«That’s wonderful, Sue. What are you studying?»
«Everything. Art, mostly. I love it. I’m really happy.» She glanced across the prairie. «Nancy and I
planned to go to college together. We were going to be roommates. I think about it sometimes.
Suddenly, when I’m very happy, I think of all the plans we made.»
Dewey looked at the gray stone inscribed with four names, and the date of their death: November
15, 1959. «Do you come here often?»
«Once in a while. Gosh, the sun’s strong.» She covered her eyes with tinted glasses. «Remember
Bobby Rupp? He married a beautiful girl.»
«So I heard.»
«Colleen Whitehurst. She’s really beautiful. And very nice, too.»
«Good for Bobby.» And to tease her, Dewey added, «But how about you? You must have a lot of
beaus.»
«Well. Nothing serious. But that reminds me. Do you have the time? Oh,» she cried, when he told
her it was past four, «I’ve gotta run! But it was nice to have seen you, Mr. Dewey.»
«And nice to have seen you, Sue. Good luck,» he called after her as she disappeared down the
path, a pretty girl in
