Dugan's Test

by Michael Givton

They shot Jamie Crane in a cornfield, somewhere way the hell past the outskirts of Clarkston and about fifteen minutes' walk off the nearest dirt road. Jamie had been struggling as they walked him there, of course; he knew what was coming. Zane just held his arms behind him and kept shoving him forward. McKay stopped when he figured they were far enough from the road.

"Let him go,"Zane told him roughly. McKay flashed him an inquisitive look, but released the kid's hands. Jamie bolted off instantly, straggly blond hair streaming wildly behind him.

Zane waited about fifteen seconds, raised his .33 and fired two slugs into the upper back of the receding figure. Jamie crumpled, fell and was still.

The two men stood there for a moment. A path of bent and broken corn stalks lay in front of them, tracing Jamie's frantic run. Zane holstered his pistol calmly. McKay pulled a pack of gum from his pocket and held out a piece."

"Gum?" he asked Zane. "Sugar free?" Zane rumbled.

"No." "N'thanks. Bad for you." Zane lit a cigarette instead.

"What did this kid do, anyway?" asked McKay. The sun was beating down hard, but McKay was just wearing a T-shirt and jogging pants, so he wasn't overheating. Zane's gaunt frame was sheathed in his usual black leather jacket. "Drug stuff?"

"Of course fuckin' drug stuff. It's always drug stuff. Maybe he killed somebody, maybe he squealed, maybe he stole... it's all drug stuff. There's nothing in this fuckin' town but drug stuff." Zane took a long pull off his cigarette. He looked up at the sun, squinting behind his sunglasses. The pockmarks on his face cast tiny shadows on themselves.

"Tell me something, Zane," McKay asked.

Zane looked at McKay in surprise and irritation. "What's that?"

"When you're gonna shoot a guy--you know, not in general, just on one ofDugan's jobs--why do you always let them run?"

"Seems a bit cruel, doesn't it? I figure I'm doing them a favour. They feel those hands let go their wrists, see the field in front of them... they think they're free to go. They think you've had a change of heart and you're just gonna let them run."

McKay snorted. "Yeah, and then you shoot them in the back."

"I figure, at least this way, the last thing they feel is hope."

"Seems pretty cowardly to me," responded McKay. Zane turned around, exasperated, and began walking towards Jamie's body. McKay followed. "Why do you think that is?" asked Zane.

"What is?" replied McKay, shocked that Zane would offer any comment. Zane seldom initiated conversation. Zane seldom initiated anything.

"Why do you think there's this stigma attached to shooting people in the back? Course, there's a stigma against shooting people in general..."

"Not to some people."

"Right, not to us, but in general. But anyway, why is it that my letting a man run and shooting him in the back is any more cowardly than your forcing him down and shooting him in the head? It's not like either one gives him a chance to defend himself."

McKay spat out his gum and pulled out another piece. "I just don't think you've got any right to be killing someone if you're not willing to get his blood on you." They reached Jamie's body.

McKay crouched down and searched the kid's pockets. Digging through his wallet, they found four five-dollar bills, two condoms, and a driver's license. McKay examined the license.

"Jesus. Look at this, Zane. Kid wasn't even eighteen."

Zane just nodded.

"Christ. My brother's just turned nineteen, you know that? He's got a jobat the Subway in town. You might've seen him."

"No. I never eat food I didn't grow myself."

"You're a vegetarian?"

"I've got a little farm 'bout three miles from here. I grow chickens, andpigs sometimes."

"Oh. Well, that's okay then." Gesturing to McKay to pick up the dead boy's head, Zane grabbed his feet and they proceeded to carry him back to the car.

After about five silent minutes, McKay spoke. "How long has it been since you came to Clarkston from the city, Zane?"

Zane was sweating hard under his leather jacket, and breathing a little heavier than the younger man. "'bout three years," he responded gruffly.

"And in those three years, how many people do you think you've killed? Or, you know, been involved in killing?"

"Um... I'd say about thirty, forty."

"Right." McKay almost tripped on a discarded plank hidden under the tall corn, but regained his balance without dropping Jamie's corpse. "All these were people from Clarkston?"

Zane nodded. "Or thereabouts. All local stuff though, yeah."

"And you've always worked for Dugan?" Zane nodded again. "Three years always. Yeah."

"Right." Both men were sweating now, under the August sun, and they agreed to stop for a break. Zane lit another cigarette, after once more denying McKay's offer of gum.

"Zane," McKay asked after a while, "How big would you say Clarkston is? How many people?"

"Last I heard, it was around fifteen hundred or so. Couldn't tell you exactly."

"Doesn't it seem kinda... I don't know, strange... that there's so many people gettin' killed in such a nothing little town?"

Zane looked up at McKay suddenly, sharply, and McKay thought he could almost see

Zane's vibrant blue eyes shining through those impenetrable shades. "I just do what Dugan tells me."

"Dugan gives you these jobs, and you just..."

"I just do what he tells me. You heard me the first time. Look, McKay, would you just stop asking questions? You're only here because Dugan wants you trained. I don't need your help, and I sure as hell don't need your conversation. So shut the fuck up."

Zane extinguished his cigarette by spitting on it, and the two men carried the body back to the truck.

The truck was sitting in the middle of the cornfield, just as they had left it. Tire-track lines on crushed corn extended back behind the truck. Zane and McKay wrapped Jamie in tarps and loaded him onto the back of the truck. Zane was tying the body down to the bed of the truck, his back facing McKay, when he felt his arms yanked behind him and cuffed in warm steel. He instantly spun around, to be met by McKay's fist driving squarely into his nose. Zane fell backwards in a squirt of blood, cracking his head on the pickup's tailgate on the way down. McKay pulled him back up, chanting: "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Zane sputtered through a mouthful of bloody phlegm.

"I'm a federal officer, Zane. We've been keeping an eye on you."

Suddenly Zane screamed "Dugan!"

McKay grabbed Zane's jaw and brought his face much too close. "Listen, you sick piece of shit. There is no Dugan. You're Dugan. You're just another wackowho likes to kill people according to a neat, laid-out profile. Some of you are into necrophelia. Some of you are into cannibalism. And some of you like to think your own personal gangster is giving you assignments, and you're just carrying them out. Let me tell you something. There's hundreds of quote-unquote psycho killers rotting in jail because the devil made them do it. You're no different. It's just that, in your case, Dugan is the devil."

"I don't believe you," Zane whispered hoarsely.

"You don't have to believe me. You just have to sit down and let the goodfolks on the jury convict you of thirty-one counts of murder."

"You know why I don't believe you?" "I told you, I don't care..." "I don't believe you," Zane interrupted, "because you let me kill Jamie Crane. I don't care who you are, nobody in the FBI will let a suspect kill someone just to get confirmation that he's their man. I also don't believe you because..." McKay paused and stepped back.

"Because why, Zane?" Zane looked at his feet, watching drops of blood plummet from his nose to his shoes.

"Because I recognized your voice," he mumbled. "I didn't hear you, Zane. He spoke louder.

"I recognized your voice... Dugan." McKay sheathed his pistol. "When? Have you known all day?" Zane shook his head.

"Just now. Just a minute ago, when you were talking.Is that your real voice, or is the one I hear on the phone?"

"This is my voice. I use a distorter when I call you. I guess it didn't work as well as I thought."

"What's your name? Are you McKay or Dugan?" "Neither. You know I can't tell you my name, Zane. After today you'll probably never see me again. You'll be hearing from me again, though. You'll be getting a lot of calls."

McKay uncuffed Zane and put an arm around his shoulders. "You passed, Zane. You're a good man. I know I can trust you. I'm glad you came through for me. Can you drive?"

"I think so."

"Right. Let's get into town, dump the body, and get some ice for that nose." He looked Zane in the eye. "You're a good man. Remember that."

They got into the cab of the truck and drove away. Two days later, after the boy's body had been found by the local sheriff,a team of FBI investigators stood in the same cornfield. In addition to tire-tracks, footprints were found in the soft earth underneath the trampled corn. The footprints confirmed that two people had been in the cornfield on the day of the murder. One of them was Jamie Crane.

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Last Updated: March 9, 1997