For what it's worth

For what it’s worth

By Stephen Patrick





You know what a life is worth? $65.17. That’s it. At least it’s what James Murray’s life was worth. That’s what it cost me to take it.

I might be fudging the numbers a bit, but fifty dollars had bought me a mottled gray Saturday night special at the corner of 5th and Welshire. It might have been stolen, I don’t know. I didn’t really care, because the price was right. Another five got me a box of bullets. It seemed like overkill, really, so I took six and left the rest with the clerk. That gave me enough bullets to fill all six of the steel chambers. It wasn’t like I needed any more bullets anyway.

I know, I know, what about the remaining $12.17? I grabbed a sodas from a cooler near the door and two candy bars from a tray beside the cash register. A pina colada air freshener shaped like a Dallas Cowboys helmet filled out the receipt in my pocket. They always get me with those damn impulse buys.

If I pull out the receipt and look at it, I know I had gotten my money’s worth. Then again, resale might be a problem, who would want a stolen gun that had been involved in a murder.

You’ll probably read the more mundane details of my life in a biography someday, so I’ll spare you my hat sizes and favorite television shows. I’m sure my uncle, the one with the comb-over and halitosis, will take care of any chronicles that are necessary. Instead, I probably should explain to you why I’m standing over two dead men in a gas station parking lot with a dozen police officers yelling at me to get on the ground.

I never meant to be a murderer, I doubt anyone ever does. I really thought of myself as a vigilante, a protector. When Matt was ….taken…and violated…I expected to go through all the emotions you read about in cheap psychology magazines. But I never really got past rage. It just clicked and it made sense. Rage was who I was; who I had become. When my boy wiped his tears on my shirt sleeve, my mission in life was as clear as it had ever been.

Thirty years earlier, I had wanted to be a Green Beret, charging hills like John Wayne and Rambo, with a knife between my teeth, fire in my eyes and rage in my heart. Now, nearly retired from my job as a CPA for a local law firm, I was returning to that youthful simplicity. Rage was easy. It was simple. It was me.

I bet most of you would have done it more secretively, thinking of what you had to lose. Not me. I wanted James Murray to see it coming. That’s why I walked up to him while he was pumping gas. I wanted him and the whole world to know that I had repaid my son’s violation in full.

Matt would forgive me, I’m sure he would. They’re big on forgiveness in heaven. Even though he took his own life, only a cruel and vicious god would deny him that one sin in exchange for his pain. I wasn’t looking for that salvation myself. Either way, it didn’t work out the way I expected.

While I stood proudly over James Murray’s body, prancing like a lion around a fresh kill, the police officers moved quickly around me, sealing off the parking lot. They kept screaming for me to “drop the gun”; to “get on the ground.”

I recognized one officer in the growing swell of blue and black. I had seen him in the television accounts of my son’s ordeal. Officer Princett. That’s a funny name. I wonder what nationality that is? He seemed sincere enough on TV. I can tell he enjoys his job.

He joined the others in asking me to put down the gun, but none of them seem to recognize the service I have done for my son and for society. I studied his lips and noticed that he was saying something completely different than the others. No longer shouting about the gun, I focus on his voice and hear something that I’ll never forget.

“Mr. Andrews. Don’t do this. We’ve found the man who kidnapped Matthew. It wasn’t James Murray.”

Isn’t that a pisser? I did all that work, all that planning. Hell, I even said hello to that fat lady in line at the store, just so she’d hurry up and buy a damn lottery ticket. James Murray’s life had cost me $65.17. The six bullets had cost me another five bucks.

I put the pistol up to my mouth and pulled the trigger. If you're reading this, then you can guess the ending. Fuck. I should have kept those other bullets. James Murray’s life could be measured on the receipt in my pocket. My life would be measured in the advertising dollars related to the nightly news.

A quick flick of my wrist turned the gun toward Officer Princett. He seemed like a nice guy. He took pity on me and did what his training told him to do.

$65.17. In the end, I’m not quite sure it was worth it. I hope somebody can resell the gun.