I would learn about the killer's next move some time after the case was finished....he had admitted everything.
Vito Lombardi was one of the richest men in Chicago. He was a Captain in the Lombardi Crime Family, serving only under his Father, Bruno Lombardi. Vito was next in line for head of the family...a position he highly anticipated.
It was one twenty-three in the morning when the killer struck. He walked up the front lawn at this ungodly hour. It was silent save for the sharp chirping of crickets. The killer felt the dew on his shoes slip through onto his skin. He finally approached Vito's front porch. A butler answered the door and a few quiet words were exchanged. Soon after the killer balled his hand into a fist and thrust it into the butler's stomach. He withdrew a Glock from his leather jacket and rammed it against the Butler's head. The mansion had a huge front room with a spiral staircase off the right. He took cover behind it swiftly and fired a shot to attract attention. He smiled wickedly to himself. He had planned it perfectly. All the men he wanted were in the mansion...all he had to do was pull the trigger. A loud bang was heard attracting two men to the front door towards the unconscious butler.
"Jeeze, what happened to him?" one of them asked, his Bronx accent thickening the words.
"Someone's broken in..." his voice trailed off as a circle of red widened underneath his white buttoned down shirt. He tore it apart to find a bullet hole. "Oh damn." he muttered, and he collapsed to the floor limply.
The man's comrade withdrew his gun and turned around, shouting, "WHO'S THERE?" into the large mansion. With the twitch of a finger a bullet spiraled through the air and sliced through the man, who staggered backwards and crashed to the floor. A pool of blood widened underneath him.
Meanwhile, Vito was filled with rage. "SOMEONE FIND OUT WHAT'S HAPPENING DOWN THERE!" he roared with lion-like fury. "SOMEONE'S DOWN THERE! TAKE HIM OUT!" Vito turned bowed his head and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. His three hundred pound figure shook with fear. He was an old man of fifty three; too old to fight for himself. Instead his seven bodyguards rushed down the steps.
The killer smiled to himself when he heard Vito's fear. He had bugged the room long ago for his own satisfaction. His lips curled up into a sinister smile when he heard the sound of the bodyguards rushing down the steps. He had timed it perfectly. The explosives were ready.
With the press of a button half the wall flew outward, taking most of the bodyguards with them. One was set ablaze and other soared through the air. Midst the confusion he fired three more shots to take out the remaining bodyguards.
With a mighty kick the Vito's door flung off it's hinges. Smoke from the explosion billowed into the room and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. Two of Vito's bodyguards withdrew guns. Not fast enough, however, as they were both shot before they could fire.
"YOU!" Vito cried. "I KNOW YOU!"
The killer pressed forward slowly. Vito backed away and the killer paced forward. "Yes you do," he hissed, "but I know you never thought I'd be capable of this."
At that point during the confession, he admitted that a certain part of that night was a blur. He was blinded by rage enough so that what happened next was a blur....the next thing the killer remembered was Vito waking up strapped to a chair. The fireplace crackled and danced providing the only light in the room. The killer sat on the other end of the room with a pen and notepad.
"What's going on...?" Vito slurred, half asleep.
The killer looked down at his notepad and jotted down notes. He looked up and coolly asked him "Tell me about your first killing." his eyes were like ice.
"I ain't answering nothing..." he slurred.
The killer's eye twitched. He began to noticeably shake. In one fluid motion he stood up and gripped a prong form the fireplace against Vito's forehead. A hissing of the burning was drowned out by Vito's cry of agony. The killer leaned in close and shouted at him. "I TOLD YOU...TELL ME ABOUT YOUR FIRST KILLING!"
As it turns out, Vito first killed a rat to the Lombardi family at the tender age of sixteen. He had done everything from petty Larsen to the killing of a family....and the killer took notes on everything. When he finished his interrogation he put a chunk of lead through Vito's brain.
The killer calmly paced out of the house making no noise...with the exception of a final gunshot to the Butler's head.

I pulled up to Vito's mansion the next day at ten in the morning. I cursed under my breath when I discovered that the media beat me there. Vito's younger brother Roberto had called in the murder earlier in the morning.
Media outlets from all across Chicago shoved past each other to get to the front of the gates for a look at the city's supposedly "Untouchable" mobster.
With a slam my car door shut and I made my way to the gates. The media was on me within seconds.
"Chicago Citizens Newspaper, can I get a quote?" A lean reporter asked me.
"Laura McCay, evening news," said a young blonde
An older gentleman shoved past them "Thomas Bard, National--"
They buzzed around me like the insects they are, eager for a bite of any information.
"--Any motive?"
"Clear cut killer?"
I had enough. My hand balled into a fist and I shouted. “SHUT UP!” Silence swept through the crowd like a wave. They stared at me blankly. I thumbed backwards. “Get outta here!” I shouted, “This is a crime scene, idiots!” Still they stared at me with motionless, unblinking eyes. “WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?” I shouted, “SCRAM!” Finally they began to buzz and file out one by one. I knew my tantrum would do my public image little good, but at the time, I couldn't care less.
“Blood sucking parasites…” I mumbled. “Almost worse than lawyers”
With a creak the gates to Vito’s mansion gently slid open. I stepped forward cautiously. The crunch of leaves sounded underneath my feet. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Upon the horizon I noticed something almost more horrifying than the last murder.
Vito’s body had been strung up like a scarecrow…with a bullet through his head. “A brainless idiot,” I muttered. It was clear the killer had a twisted love for The Wizard of Oz.
When I moved closer to the body I noticed someone at Vito’s feet. A man about thirty, yet graying at the temples; Vito’s younger brother Roberto Lombardi was crouched in a fetal position at Vito’s feet. I knew he was a killer, but I couldn’t help but feel sorry before. Sure he and his family were untouchable by police, but he was obviously in shock from his brother’s death. I watched him take short rapid breaths like he was having trouble breathing. He was clearly in shock. I laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Roberto….are you okay?” I whispered.
He let out a small sniffle. “My brother….is dead.” he whispered. Then suddenly, with the fury of a madman he tore himself at me. I backed up cautiously “MY BROTHER IS DEAD!” he began to hyperventilate. “DO SOMETHING, YOU BASTARD!” he shouted, grabbing my coat. He clutched me frantically and slipped down back onto his knees. It was then that I noticed his hands, heavily stained with the blood of his kin.
“Fix this…” he mumbled, “fix this, please.”
A full grown gangster, blubbering at my feet. This was new. My gaze turned to the right to see a notepad fluttering in the breeze. It lay solemnly on the ground. I picked it up and without any surprise I found it contained a list of Vito’s crimes. The paper crackled when I crumpled it in my fist.
I placed my hand on Roberto’s shoulder, “I’ll fix this, Roberto,” I reassured him, “I’ll fix this...”

Weeks passed with no more murders. Some of us were relieved about it…others, like myself, presumed the worst. I had a gut feeling the killer was waiting to strike. I knew I had to act soon.
It was three weeks after Vito’s death when Mason called me and Brock in to discuss his theory on the murderer. I came in at eight o’clock and hung my jacket up on the rack. “So what’s the story?” I shouted across the room to Brock.
“Mason wants to brief us on who he thinks the killer is.” He called back.
I hung my hat up and proceeded towards the conference room. “Sounds great,” I shouted, “Meet us in conference room in five!”
I had the kid trained well…he was there with four seconds to spare. The table was about ten feet long with chairs along the sides. Mason stood tall at the end of the table opposite from us. “Thank you for meeting with me, gentlemen.” He said with his hands locked behind his back. “I’d like to share my findings with you.” he told us.
I took a quick sip of my coffee. “Cut to the chase,” I told him, “who’s the killer?” I went to take another gulp.
“Roberto Lombardi.”
I nearly choked on my coffee. “Boss,” I told him, “you didn’t see him there! He was in shock.”
“Here’s a hired killer, Jack.” Mason was quick to offer a rebuttal, making me uneasy. “He kills without remorse; I’m guessing he can control his emotions out there.”
I bit my lip and let him carry on.
“Now,” he said, taking the notepads from the crime scene and sliding them across the table. “The blood stain on the first notepad came up dry. Apparently it belonged to Louie Russo. No evidence on the second one.” He began to pace back and forth. “Now, since there was no forced entry, we can presume that Roberto could have slipped into their rooms without arousing suspicion, giving the perfect cover up to the killings.”
Brock raised his hand questioningly, “Boss,” he said, “what’s his motive?”
“I was getting to that,” Mason replied, masking his annoyance. I knew he was wrong. He had to be…he wasn’t there. He didn’t see the look in Roberto’s eyes.
“Roberto worked under his brother for years. Being younger meant he would have to wait until his brother died before he could be the head of the family.” He took a long sigh and continued. “It can be assumed that he grew tired of waiting, so he killed his brother and all the higher ups, giving him the rights the family once his Father passed away.”
Finally I had enough. “What’s your proof?” I questioned.
“Forensics put the time of deaths for Vito’s lackeys in accordance to their rank. They were killed in the order of how important they were; least to greatest.” He was quick with another rebuttal. I had to prove him wrong.
“But his Father’s still around,” I told him, “so why didn’t he whack the bastard yet?”
Mason slapped a newspaper down on the table and again slid it in our direction. I read the headline. “BRUNO ‘BOSS’ LOMBARDI FACES CRIMINAL CHARGES. TRIAL TODAY.”
“Exactly,” Mason told me, “He’s waiting until he’s out in the open, so he…”
I took a second glance at the paper. I noted the name of the article’s author…it sounded familiar yet I couldn’t quite place it. I stared blankly at it as all my surroundings became meaningless. All that mattered was that name….that name…Chris Nicolson…
“He’s the killer…” I whispered.
“Were you even listening?” Mason replied, slightly annoyed.
“No, look, Chris Nicolson! He's your killer!”
Brock shot me a confused look. “What makes you say that?
I paused for a moment to collect my thoughts. Everything fell into place. “I remember his name. Years ago he wrote a scathing article in the paper about the Lombardi family…his wife and kid were killed a few days later.” Memories flooded into my brain like a broken dam. “I was the one that found Louie Russo! I brought him in, but he was found innocent!”
Brock’s mouth dropped. “So you’re saying he did it?”
I licked my lips and continued, “That’s EXACTLY what I’m saying. Think about it. Why would Roberto kill a random hit man? He doesn’t benefit from that!” I shoved the paper in Brock’s face. “But he does.” I frantically leapt from my seat, eager to make my point. “I saw him again! A few weeks ago after the first murder!” I remembered the lean reporter with the press pass that rainy night. His photo rang clear in my head. “He was heading to the hotel when Louie Russo died!” I snapped my fingers frantically, “but how would he have known Russo was dead a few hours after he died? It hadn’t been released to the public yet!”
“HE KNEW!” Brock shouted.
“Exactly!” I pointed at him, “and the notepad? Nicolson carries one everywhere! I saw him with one outside Vito’s mansion with other reporters!” Eagerly I grabbed the notepads Mason had tossed to us and flipped through them. “The killing of his family…it’s on both notepads. We have a motive!” I shouted.
“That doesn’t explain how he would have been able to get in undetected.” Mason said.
“Simple,” I had a quick rebuttal, “The head of their family, Bruno Lombardi, was arrested, right?” I tossed Mason the newspaper. “He could easily have slipped in under the pretenses of interviewing them about their boss’ capture!”
I started to pace around the room frantically, and I eagerly hammered home my final point. “And why would he wait so long to kill Bruno?” I asked rhetorically. “Simple.” I answered for myself, “Bruno has his first court appearance today…the place is going to be swarming with reporters…where everyone expects him to be.”
Mason’s jaw dropped. “Brock! Jack! Get to your car and get over to the courthouse now!” He barked. “I’ll dig up what information I can on Nicolson and report back!”
We ran out as fast as our legs could take us. I couldn’t stop thinking. We found the killer. We know who he is…nobody else dies.
In the back of my mind, I knew I shouldn’t have become a cop in Chicago…it was going to be the death of me.

We drove down the road at top speed, kicking up dust as we sped along. The sirens blared, drowning out all other noises. Brock and I sat in the car saying nothing to each other.
Finally Brock looked over to me. “Can I ask you something?” His voice was uncertain, almost wavering.
I pressed the gas pedal down harder; the cruiser roared and picked up speed. “What is it, kid?”
Brock suddenly grew timid and shy, not the man I had become so used to. Finally he answered. “Why is it... that is, why do you think that it matters if a killer dies?”
A long moment of silence ensued, to my surprise, I could think of only one answer. “Life is sacred, kid. It doesn’t matter who the guy is, if he dies, his death will affect someone.” I paused for a moment and took a gulp, “I don’t want that to ever happen again.” I added at almost a mumble.
“Again?” Brock questioned.
I cursed myself under my breath. My stomach sank. I knew I should have thought before I spoke. Images of Sarah –who you don’t need to know about- flashed through my head. Finally I answered, “Nothing, never mind.”
“It happened to you, didn’t it?” Brock replied. “You lost someone you loved, didn’t you? That’s why you do what you do—.”
“SHUT UP, KID!” The car screeched to a halt. “We’re here. Get out.”
We drew our guns and badges out, brandishing them for everyone to see. We marched up the marble steps. Brock took care of Bruno while I searched the crowd for Nicolson. One by one I weaved through looking at identification.
Brock reached Bruno and pulled him aside, briskly walking toward the car. “What’s going on?” the old man said, his voice cracking, “What’s happening?"
“We believe someone is about to make an attempt on your life.” Brock told him swiftly, while shoving him into the car. I had never seen him this official.
Finally I had checked the entire crowd. “He's not here," I said, more to myself than anybody else. "Nicolson isn't here," I yelled.
“Get over here," Brock shouted. "Radio."
I rushed over and picked up the radio. Mason’s voice called out through the static. “Jack, we got a problem.” He told me.
“He’s not here, Mason.” I told him.
“I know.” Mason said through the radio. “It turns out Bruno Lombardi had nothing to do with the murders of Nicolson’s family…Roberto was the man who did the killing…” he paused. “It gets worse…security cameras picked up Chris in Roberto’s penthouse apartment.”
I was doing seventy miles by the time I hit the next block.
I could feel my heart race. It beat like a drum in my ears. I had to get there in time. I repeated to myself. I had to get there in time.
“What’s Chris doing?” I radioed to Mason.
“He hasn’t killed anyone…he’s not bothering with it. He’s going to kill Roberto and walk out.”
I floored it.
“He got in through interview, just like you said.”
Determination flashed through my eyes. Within minutes I had arrived there and screeched to a halt. “Stay in the car, Brock.” I warned.
“But—.”
“Do. As. I. Say!”
I brandished my badge and gun and I darted inside. I made my way to the elevator first. I must have pressed the button fifty times before I decided to take the stairs.
I climbed five flights in record time. With a thrust I broke Roberto’s door down. My gun was raised in seconds.
Blood stained tiles showed that Roberto put up a fight. His Glock lay on the floor, giving me the assumption the cops tipped him off. Chris stood over an unconscious Roberto with a hatchet in hand. He wore thick square glasses atop his head and had bushy brown hair. He wore a trenchcoat for what I assumed was to hide weapons.
“I saved this for you, you bastard.” He said.
With a bang lead flew through the air and pierced Chris’ flesh. He cried out in agony and clutched his bleeding hand. From underneath his trenchcoat he withdrew a knife and tossed it through the air. It sheared my flesh and made me drop my gun. A great pain spread throughout my hand. If he wanted a good fist fight, he’d get one!
I bowled him over, yet he flipped backwards and regained his balance. He was wiry yet strong and had age on his side…I only had size as an advantage.
“You can’t understand why I’m doing this!” Chris shouted. His fist scraped against my left cheek. I felt the wind knocked out of me from a blow to my ribs. “You can’t understand how long I’ve trained for this."
His blood spattered against the window from my blows. We traded punches for what seemed like hours. He was agile, too. He weaved his way in and out of my punches. BAM! He had me on my back. Another blow crushed my face and broke my nose. “Trust me, kid,” I told him, “I know all too well.” I rolled to the side and swiftly rose to my feet. Two blows connected to him. After what seemed like an eternity of beating I finally blocked a punch and threw a blow to his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. “I’ve trained for years! Don’t take this away from me!” he shouted. With the power of a metal baseball bat he swung his legs knocking me to the ground.
I felt dazed…dizzy. His words were drowned out by a throbbing pain in my head. I felt cold fingers squeeze around my throat. No air escaped my lungs, and none entered. Slowly the fingers tightened and the blackness threatened to envelope me.
It was then that I noticed it. Roberto’s Glock. Not my style but I’d take what I could get. I mustered up enough strength to send a blow to his face. It cracked his glasses and dazed him enough for me to grab the Glock and shoot him in the shoulder. I exploited the wound and took him down. I slammed him to the ground.
“Chris Nicolson….” I said between gasps of sweet air, “you have the right…to remain silent…..”

We drove down the road at top speed, kicking up dust as we sped along. The sirens blared, drowning out all other noises. Brock and I sat in the car saying nothing to each other.
Finally Brock looked over to me. “Can I ask you something?” His voice was uncertain, almost wavering.
I pressed the gas pedal down harder; the cruiser roared and picked up speed. “What is it, kid?”
Usually outgoing, Brock had suddenly become timid and shy, not the man I had become so used to during this investigation. Finally he answered. “Why is it... that is, why do you think that it matters if a killer dies?”
A long moment of silence ensued, to my surprise, I could think of only one answer. “Life is sacred, kid. It doesn’t matter who the guy is, if he dies, his death will affect someone.” I paused for a moment and took a gulp, “I don’t want that to ever happen again.” I added at almost a mumble.
“Again?” Brock questioned.
I cursed myself under my breath. My stomach sank. I knew I should have thought before I spoke. Images of Sarah –who you don’t need to know about- flashed through my head. Finally I answered, “Nothing, never mind.”
“It happened to you, didn’t it?” Brock replied. “You lost someone you loved, didn’t you? That’s why you do what you do—.”
“SHUT UP, KID!” The car screeched to a halt. “We’re here. Get out.”
We drew our guns and badges out, brandishing them for everyone to see. We marched up the marble steps. Brock took care of Bruno while I searched the crowd for Nicolson. One by one I weaved through looking at identification.
Brock reached Bruno and pulled him aside, briskly walking toward the car. “What’s going on?” the old man said, his voice cracking, “What’s happening?"
“We believe someone is about to make an attempt on your life.” Brock told him swiftly, while shoving him into the car. I had never seen him this official.
Finally I had checked the entire crowd. “He's not here," I said, more to myself than anybody else. "Nicolson isn't here," I yelled.
“Get over here," Brock shouted. "Radio."
I rushed over and picked up the radio. Mason’s voice called out through the static. “Jack, we got a problem.” He told me.
“He’s not here, Mason.” I told him.
“I know.” Mason said through the radio. “It turns out Bruno Lombardi had nothing to do with the murders of Nicolson’s family…Roberto was the man who did the killing…” he paused. “It gets worse…security cameras picked up Chris in Roberto’s penthouse apartment.”
I was doing seventy miles by the time I hit the next block.
I could feel my heart race. It beat like a drum in my ears. I had to get there in time. I repeated to myself. I had to get there in time.
“What’s Chris doing?” I radioed to Mason.
“He hasn’t killed anyone…he’s not bothering with it. He’s going to kill Roberto and walk out.”
I floored it.
“He got in through interview, just like you said.”
Determination flashed through my eyes. Within minutes I had arrived there and screeched to a halt. “Stay in the car, Brock.” I warned. “Make sure ol’ Bruno here doesn’t try anything.”
“But—.”
“Do. As. I. Say!”
I brandished my badge and gun and I darted inside. I made my way to the elevator first. I must have pressed the button fifty times before I decided to take the stairs.
I climbed five flights in record time. I arrived at Roberto’s room in seconds. The door was slightly ajar and I opened it further. My gun was raised in seconds.
Blood stained tiles showed that Roberto put up a fight. His Glock lay on the floor, giving me the assumption the cops tipped him off. Chris stood over an unconscious Roberto with a hatchet in hand. He wore thick square glasses atop his head and had bushy brown hair. He wore a trenchcoat for what I assumed was to hide weapons.
“I saved this for you, you bastard.” He said, while raising the hatchet high above his head.
With a bang lead flew through the air and pierced Chris’ flesh. He cried out in agony and clutched his bleeding hand. From underneath his trenchcoat he withdrew a knife and tossed it through the air. It sheared my flesh and made me drop my gun. A great pain spread throughout my hand. If he wanted a good fist fight, he’d get one!
I bowled him over, yet he flipped backwards and regained his balance. He was wiry yet strong and had age on his side…I only had size as an advantage.
“You can’t understand why I’m doing this!” Chris shouted. His fist scraped against my left cheek. I felt the wind knocked out of me from a blow to my ribs. “You can’t understand how long I’ve trained for this."
His blood spattered against the window from my blows. We traded punches for what seemed like hours. He was agile, too. He weaved his way in and out of my punches. BAM! He had me on my back. Another blow crushed my face and broke my nose. “Trust me, kid,” I told him, “I know all too well.” I rolled to the side and swiftly rose to my feet. Two blows connected to him. After what seemed like an eternity of beating I finally blocked a punch and threw a blow to his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. “I’ve trained for years! Don’t take this away from me!” he shouted. With the power of a metal baseball bat he swung his legs knocking me to the ground.
I felt dazed…dizzy. His words were drowned out by a throbbing pain in my head. I felt cold fingers squeeze around my throat. No air escaped my lungs, and none entered. Slowly the fingers tightened and the blackness threatened to envelope me.
It was then that I noticed it. Roberto’s Glock. Not my style but I’d take what I could get. I mustered up enough strength to send a blow to his face. It cracked his glasses and dazed him enough for me to grab the Glock and shoot him in the shoulder. I exploited the wound and took him down. I slammed him to the ground.
“Chris Nicolson….” I said between gasps of sweet air, “you have the right….to remain silent…..”

I walked down the long corridors, noting the thick layer of grime on the walls. The guards led me down while they tightly gripped their guns.
Finally we arrived at room 89776. With a clang the door flew open. The cell had a layer of dirt and grime similar to the ones on the wall. Rats scurried from the sudden light, breaking the darkness in the room. Chris sat on a bench in his cell, making no movement, not even looking up. Across from him was a bench identical to his own. I sat down on it and with another clang the door snapped shut. Chris sat in the same position, still making no movement or social effort.
“Hello.” I said, “I came to talk.”
In a sudden motion he thrust his arms forward, displaying his handcuffs. I had no idea what he wanted.
“I want to know why.” I stated.
Finally he looked up. Bumps and bruises adorned his face. A quarter of his face was wrapped in blood soaked bandages. He wore the same broken glasses from when we fought. “Heh….why?” he asked. “What is this, a comic book? Kid's show? I’m not the villain that reveals his grand scheme at the end.” He looked away. “Besides...you wouldn’t understand.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I think I’d understand more than you think.”
“Nice scars.” he said, smiling wickedly.
My voice grew stern. “Don’t change the subject, just tell me why.” I told him.
He shot me an evil glare. “Do you really want to know why?” in one fluid motion he rocketed up from his chair and stopped an inch from my face. “Those bastards killed my wife and kid.” He said with unnerving coldness. Saliva spewed on my face, yet I was careful not to show emotion. “Vito ordered the hit…Russo stood watch…and Roberto…” he repeated his voice with malice dripping from his lips. “Roberto, Roberto, Roberto…he was the one who actually did the deed.” He shot me and evil glare. “And you ruined my revenge.” He sank back down onto his bench and leaned against the wall. “But….I can understand why you would bring me in.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t chilled by his words. I gulped. “Why The Wizard of Oz?”
“It fascinated me as a kid,” he whispered, suddenly fully interested, “I was mocked as a child….that book was my escape. I wanted to introduce my son to the book, but they took him away weeks before I was ready….what better punishment?” he shifted slightly in his seat, “And again, I can understand why you’d want to bring me in. A murder is a murder….you wanted to end the suffering, didn’t you?” I began to grow uncomfortable. “You lost someone, too. Didn’t you?”
I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it quickly.
“I know you did…I can see it in your eyes.”
“That’s the difference between you and me.” I told him. “You broke the law…I decided to enforce it.”
He leaned back again, “which brings us to the ultimate question…what justifies a killing?”
“Nothing.” I stated.
“Really? You must be anti war.”
I gave him a puzzled look. “I don’t follow.”
“A soldier kills the enemy, he’s rewarded. A citizen kills the enemy, he’s punished.”
With that the doors swung open.”Times, up, Mr. Crier.” They told me. I picked myself up and stopped at the door. “You’ll be happy to know that Roberto Lombardi is facing criminal charges.”
I slammed the door shut.
To this day I still cannot answer the ultimate question. What justifies a killing, indeed?