Dorft stared up at them, startled, as Seames shook his head violently and said, ‘FBI agents are—’
‘Dedicated, professional, and generally damned good at what they do,’ Dan finished for him. ‘But even the best of us have the capacity for murder, Mr. Seames. Even those of us who appear to be the most dependable — or the most innocent, the gentlest. Believe me, I know. I know all about murder, about the murderers among us, the murderers within us. More than I want to know. Mothers murder their own children. Husbands get drunk and murder their wives, and sometimes they don’t have to be drunk, just suffering from indigestion, and sometimes it doesn’t even take indigestion. Ordinary secretaries murder their two-timing boyfriends. Last summer, right here in L.A., on the hottest day in July, an ordinary salesman murdered his next-door neighbor over an argument about a borrowed lawn mower. We’re a twisted species, Seames. We mean well, and we want to do good for each other, and we try, God knows we try, but there’s this darkness in us, this taint, and we’ve got to struggle against it every minute, struggle against letting the taint spread and overwhelm us, and we do struggle, but sometimes we lose. We murder for jealousy, greed, envy, pride … revenge. Political idealists go on murderous rampages and make life hell on earth for the very people whose lives they profess to want to make better. Even the best government, if it’s big enough, is riddled with idealists who’d open up extermination camps and feel righteous about it, if they were just given a chance. Religious zealots kill each other in the name of God. Housewives, ministers, businessmen, plumbers, pacifists, poets, doctors, lawyers, grandmothers, and teenagers — all have the capacity to murder, given the right moment and mood and motivation. And the ones you’ve got to mistrust the most are the ones who tell you they’re men and women of peace, the ones who tell you they’re absolutely nonviolent and safe, because they’re either lying and waiting for an advantage over you — or they’re dangerously naive and know nothing important about themselves. Now, you see, two people I care about — the two people I care about most in the world, it seems — are in danger of their lives, and I won’t entrust their care to anyone but me. Sorry. No way. Forget it. And anybody who tries to get in my way, tries to stop me from protecting the McCaffreys, is at least going to get his ass kicked up between his shoulder blades. Oh, at least. And anyone who tries to harm them, tries to lay a finger on them … well, hell, I’ll waste the son of a bitch, sure as hell. I have no doubts about that, Seames, because I have absolutely no illusions about my own capacity for murder.’
Shaking, he walked away, heading toward the door that opened on the parking lot beside the precinct house. As he went, he became aware that the room had fallen silent and that everyone was looking at him. He realized that he had been speaking not only angrily and passionately but at the top of his voice as well. He felt fevered. Sweat sheathed his face. People moved out of his way.
He had reached the door and put his hand on it by the time Michael Seames had recovered from that emotional outburst and had come after him. ‘Wait, Haldane, for Christ’s sake, it just can’t work that way. We can’t let you play the Lone Ranger. Think, man! There are eight people dead in two days, which makes this case just too damned big to—’
Dan stopped before opening the door, turned sharply to Seames, and interrupted him. ‘Eight? Is that what you said? Eight dead?’
Dylan McCaffrey, Willy Hoffritz, Cooper, Rink, and Scaldone. That made five. Not eight. Just five.
‘What’s happened since last night?’ Dan demanded. ‘Who else has been hit since Joseph Scaldone?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘Who else?’ Dan demanded.
‘Edwin Koliknikov.’
‘But he got out. He ran, went to Las Vegas.’
Seames was furious. ‘You knew about Koliknikov? You knew he was an associate of Hoffritz’s, in on this gray room business?’