Henry and Harvey Patterson were twin brothers, twenty-seven years of age, and were proof of whatever social theory a criminologist might hold. Their father had been a professional, if not especially proficient, criminal for all of his abbreviated life – which had ended at age thirty-two when a liquor-store owner had shot him with a 12-gauge double at the range of eleven feet. That was important to adherents of the behavioral school, generally populated by political conservatives. They were also products of a one-parent household, poor schooling, adverse peer-group pressure, and an economically depressed neighborhood. Those factors were important to the environmental school of behavior, whose adherents are generally political liberals.
Whatever the reason for their behavior, they were career criminals who enjoyed their life-style and didn’t give much of a damn whether their brains were preprogrammed into it or they had actually learned it in childhood. They were not stupid. Had intelligence tests not been biased toward the literate, their IQs would have tested slightly above average. They had animal cunning sufficient to make their apprehension by police a demanding enterprise, and a street-smart knowledge of law that had allowed them to manipulate the legal system with remarkable success. They also had principles. The Patterson brothers were drinkers – each was already a borderline alcoholic – but not drug users. This marked them as a little odd, but since neither brother cared a great deal for law, the discontinuity with normal criminal profiles didn’t trouble them either.
Together, they had robbed, burglarized, and assaulted their way across southern Alabama since their mid-teens. They were treated by their peers with considerable respect. Several people had crossed one or both – since they were identical twins, crossing one inevitably meant crossing both – and turned up dead. Dead by blunt trauma (a club), or dead by penetrating trauma (knife or gun). The police suspected them of five murders. The problem was, which one of them? The fact that they were identical twins was a technical complication to every case which their lawyer – a good one they had identified quite early in their careers – had used to great effect. Whenever the victim of a Patterson was killed, the police could bet their salaries on the fact that one of the brothers – generally the one who had the motive to kill the victim – would be ostentatiously present somewhere miles away. In addition, their victims were never honest citizens, but members of their own criminal community, which fact invariably cooled the ardor of the police.
But not this time.
It had taken fourteen years since their first officially recorded brush with the law, but Henry and Harvey had finally fucked up big-time, cops all over the state learned from their watch commanders: the police had finally gotten them on a major felony rap and, they noted with no small degree of pleasure, it was because of another pair of identical twins. Two whores, lovely ones of eighteen years, had smitten the hearts of the Patterson brothers. For the past five weeks Henry and Harvey had not been able to get enough of Noreen and Doreen Grayson, and as the patrol officers in the neighborhood had watched the romance blossom, the general speculation in the station was how the hell they kept one another straight – the behavioralist cops pronounced that it wouldn’t actually matter, which observation was dismissed by the environmentalist cops as pseudoscientific bullshit, not to mention sexually perverse, but both sides of the argument found it roundly entertaining speculation. In either case, true love had been the downfall of the Patterson brothers.
Henry and Harvey had decided to liberate the Grayson sisters from their drug-dealing pimp, a very disreputable but even more formidable man with a long history of violence, and a suspect in the disappearance of several of his girls. What had brought it to a head was a savage beating to the sisters for not turning over some presents – jewelry given them by the Pattersons as one-month anniversary presents. Noreen’s jaw had been broken, and Doreen had lost six teeth, plus other indignities that had enraged the Pattersons and put both girls in the University of South Alabama Medical Center. The twin brothers were not people to bear offense lightly, and one week later, from the unlit shadows of an alley, the two of them had used identical Smith & Wesson revolvers to end the life of Elrod McIlvane. It was their misfortune that a police radio car had been half a block away at the time. Even the cops thought that, in this case, the Pattersons had rendered a public service to the city of Mobile.
The police lieutenant had both of them in an interrogation room. Their customary defiance was a wilted flower. The guns had been recovered less than fifty yards from the crime scene. Though there had been no usable fingerprints on either – firearms do not always lend themselves to this purpose – the four rounds recovered from McIlvane’s body did match up with both; the Pattersons had been apprehended four blocks away; their hands bore powder signatures from having fired guns of some sort; and their motive for eliminating the pimp was well known. Criminal cases didn’t get much better than that. The only thing the police didn’t have was a confession. The twins’ luck had finally run out. Even their lawyer had told them that. There was no hope of a plea-bargain – the local prosecutor hated them even more than the police did – and while they stood to do hard time for murder, the good news was that they probably wouldn’t get the chair, since the jurors probably would not want to execute people for killing a drug-dealing pimp who’d put two of his whores in the hospital and probably killed a few more. This was arguably a crime of passion, and under American law such motives are generally seen as mitigating circumstances.
In identical prison garb, the Pattersons sat across the table from the senior police officer. The lieutenant couldn’t even tell them apart, and didn’t bother asking which was which, because they would probably have lied about it out of pure spite.
“Where’s our lawyer?” Henry or Harvey asked.
“Yeah,” Harvey or Henry emphasized.
“We don’t really need him here for this. How’d you boys like to do a little favor for us?” the lieutenant asked. “You do us a little favor and maybe we can do you a little favor.” That settled the problem of legal counsel.
“Bullshit!” one of the twins observed, just as a bargaining position, of course. They were at the straw-grasping stage. Prison beckoned, and while neither had ever served a serious stretch, they’d done enough county time to know that it wouldn’t be fun.
“How do you like the idea of life imprisonment?” the lieutenant asked, unmoved by the show of strength. “You know how it works, seven or eight years before you’re rehabilitated and they let you out. If you’re lucky, that is. Awful long time, eight years. Like that idea, boys?”
“We’re not fools. Watchu here for?” the other Patterson asked, indicating that he was ready to discuss terms.
“You do a job for us, and, well, something nice might happen.”
“What job’s that?” Already both brothers were amenable to the arrangement.
“You seen Ramón and Jesús?”
“The pirates?” one asked. “Shit.” In the criminal community as with any other, there is a hierarchy of status. The abusers of women and children are at the bottom. The Pattersons were violent criminals, but had never abused women. They only assaulted men – men much smaller than themselves for the most part, but men nonetheless. That was important to their collective self-image.
“Yeah, we seen the fucks,” the other said to emphasize his brother’s more succinct observation. “Actin’ like king shit last cupla days. Fuckin’ spics. Hey, man, we bad dudes, but we ain’t never raped no little girl, ain’t never killed no little girl neither – and they be gettin’ off, they say? Shit! We waste a fuckin’ pimp likes to beat on his ladies, and we lookin’ at life. What kinda justice you call that, mister policeman? Shit!”
“If something were to happen to Ramón and Jesús, something really serious,” the lieutenant said quietly, “maybe something else might happen. Something beneficial to you boys.”
“Like what?”
“Like you get to see Noreen and Doreen on a very regular basis. Maybe even settle down.”
“Shit!” Henry or Harvey said.
“That’s the best deal in town, boys,” the lieutenant told them.
“You want us to kill the motherfuckers?” It was Harvey who asked this question, disappointing his brother, who thought of himself as the smart one.
The lieutenant just stared at them.
“We hear you,” Henry said. “How we know you keep your word?”
“What word is that?” The lieutenant paused. “Ramón and Jesús killed a family of four, raped the wife and the little girl first, of course, and they probably had a hand in the murder of a Mobile police officer and his wife. But something went wrong with the case against them, and the most they’ll get is twenty years, walk in seven or eight, max. For killing six people. Hardly seems fair, does it?”