The Silent and the Damned aka The Vanished Hands

Chapter 25

Monday, 29th July 2002

Falcón explained the problem to Consuelo. She listened to him as if he was diagnosing a disease – comprehending without taking it in. He asked if she'd heard from her sister and the children. She said a police officer had turned up to look after them late morning. He kissed her and got back in the car. She closed her front door before he pulled away.

The Jefatura informed him that three more cars had been sent to the incident, which was in an apartment block on Calle Tabladilla at the intersection with Calle del Cardenal Ilundain. 'I don't want any cars parked in view of the incident, and no crowds,' said Falcón. 'All exits should be manned, including the underground garage, if there is one. No member of the public should be allowed into the building. Put two men on the roof and two in the stairwell above and below the incident. Evacuate everybody in the apartments above, below and opposite. All the occupants of the other apartments should be told to stay put. And get someone with binoculars into an apartment in the block opposite with a clear view of the incident.'

They confirmed his orders back to him and told him that the apartment did belong to Juez Calderón's sister and that she was currently away on holiday in Ibiza.

The advertising on Avenida de Kansas City flashed past as he headed back into the city. He had to get right across to the other side of town, but there was little traffic and in twenty minutes he'd been allowed through a police cordon and was parked on Calle Tabladilla, opposite a government building about fifty metres down from the incident. The street was empty apart from patrolmen sticking close to the shops underneath the long stretch of the development. One of the men told him that it was all quiet. He radioed through to his partner in the apartment block opposite looking for a view point. He was in apartment 403 overlooking Calle Tabladilla.

It was an oppressive night and the sweat gathered in Falcón's hair as he crossed the street to the grey, stone-clad apartment block with its chrome balconies. It was the kind of place where a young, well-off professional would buy. He took the lift up to the fourth floor and was let in by a young guy in a pair of shorts who had no interest in what was going on. A movie was showing on the television. He sat on the sofa with his girlfriend, drinking beer.

The patrolman was out on the balcony, his binoculars trained across the street. He handed them to Falcón. There was a lot of greenery overhanging the balconies of the apartments opposite, most of which were shuttered. The incident was easy enough to find. It was in the only apartment with any lighting. There were no internal blinds or curtains drawn. There was about 1.50 metres of wall between a large window and the sliding doors out on to the balcony. Calderón and Maddy Krugman were sitting side by side on the sofa. The judge held himself rigid, feet and knees together, arms folded tightly across his chest. Maddy Krugman was almost lying down on the sofa in an absurdly relaxed fashion. They were both dressed as if they were about to go out to dinner. Judging by the direction they were looking, Marty Krugman was standing in front of them with his back to the wall separating the window from the balcony. He came into view for a second. He had no jacket, there was a dark strip of sweat down the back of his creased shirt and he had a gun in his left hand.

The movie on the television finished and was replaced by ads. The young guy came to the doors out on to the balcony.

'What's going on over there?'

'Just a domestic situation that's got out of control,' said Falcón.

'We heard the gunshot – I thought it was on the movie.'

'What time?'

'Just after ten.'

It was now 10.40 p.m. Falcón surveyed the interior walls of the apartment. He found the bullet hole in the wall above Maddy Krugman's head. She obviously hadn't taken her husband seriously enough and had been reminded that this was neither a game nor a replica gun. He called Comisario Elvira and gave his report.

'What's Krugman's mental state been like in the interviews you've conducted?'

'He's an intellectual with an obsessive streak, prone to ranting but controllable. He listens. He's normally civilized and sophisticated, but he's become more disturbed over the past few days, probably as a result of his wife's liaison with Juez Calderón. If he's psychotic it's uncontrollable jealousy that's tipped him over the edge,' said Falcón. 'We've been getting on fine. There's mutual respect. I'd like to go in there and try to talk him down.'

'All right. Call him on the fixed line first. Tell him you're going to knock on the door. No surprises. Garcia, from the Antiterrorism squad, is coming down there and he's bringing a marksman with him. Wait until they arrive.'

'Krugman's not a terrorist.'

'I know that now, but I didn't know that then. I alerted Garcia when the information was imperfect. Anyway, he's got experience in these situations.'

Garcia made contact a few minutes later. Falcón sent the patrolman to bring him up. He came out on to the balcony with the marksman, who seemed satisfied with the angle and went back inside to assemble his gun.

'You're going in?' asked Garcia.

'I know the gunman.'

'There'll be three of you and him on his own. He'll have to keep an eye on you, which will give me possibilities out here.'

'I think I can talk this man down. He's not crazy or on drugs.'

'That's good, but if he does lose control there's not much opportunity for a marksman from out here without endangering the lives of the hostages.'

'What are you saying?'

'It would be better to storm the apartment.'

'I don't think it'll come to that.'

They worked out some emergency signals for Falcón and he made the call to the apartment. Maddy answered the phone before Marty could exert his control over the development. Falcón asked to speak • to her husband.

'It's for you,' she said ironically and held out the phone to Marty.

'I still haven't spoken to the Russians,' said Krugman, chuckling. 'I'm busy.'

'I'm outside, Marty,' said Falcón, leaving the apartment and heading downstairs.

'I thought the shot might attract some attention,' he said. 'This was supposed to be a private thing, but Maddy can be headstrong and I just had to show her I wasn't playing games. Anyway, what can I do for you, Inspector Jefe?'

Falcón crossed the street and started going up the stairs to Calderón's sister's apartment.

'I want to come in and speak to you. I'm right outside the apartment door. Will you let me in?'

'I suppose you've got some kind of SWAT team out there with you?'

'No, it's just me.'

'The street is very quiet.'

'It's been cleared for everyone's safety, that's all,' said Falcón. 'We don't want anybody getting hurt, Marty.'

'People have already been hurt,' he said.

'I realize that -'

'No, I mean really hurt… physically,' said Marty. 'This isn't what you think it is.'

'Then what is it?'

'It's private. We're beyond any mediation.'

'I'm not here to mediate.'

'Then you must have come to bear witness to the destruction of people's lives.'

'No, I certainly haven't come for that,' said Falcón. 'I've just come to hear you out.'

'I told Maddy they don't make cops like you back home,' said Marty. 'They like people with square heads that fit neatly into vices. It's easier to narrow their minds that way. They don't see colour or any gradations, just black and white.'

'We only come into people's lives at the crisis points,' said Falcón. 'Sometimes we have to simplify, cut out the grey. I try not to do it, that's all. I'm going to ring the doorbell now and I'd like you to let me in.'

'OK, Inspector Jefe, you can come in. I need a fair man to listen to me. But you have to know something first,' he said. 'By coming in you only endanger yourself. You will not affect the outcome. That is already written. Fate dictated it some time ago.'

'I understand,' said Falcón, and rang the bell to keep the pressure on.

Calderón opened the door. He was sweating heavily and shivering in the chill of the apartment. He had the sunken, pleading eyes of a street beggar. Maddy Krugman stood behind him looking fierce and behind her Marty held the gun to the back of Calderón's head.

'In you come, Inspector Jefe. Close the door, double lock it and put the chain on.'

Krugman was calm. While Falcón dealt with the door, he got the other two to lie down in the hall, hands behind their heads. Krugman frisked Falcón's upper body and thighs and asked to see his ankles. They all went into the sitting room. Calderón and

Maddy resumed their seats. She was quite languid in her movements, as if none of this was her concern and it was just a tiresome family reunion she'd been forced to attend.

'I'll sit here,' said Falcón, choosing an armchair near the sliding doors so that Garcia had a clear view of him.

'Why not join us in the front row?' said Maddy.

'You're fine there,' said Marty.

'How did you get in to the apartment, Marty?' asked Falcón.

'Lovers like to go out to dinner.'

'We're not lovers,' said Maddy, irritated.

'I was waiting outside for them.'

'He thinks we're lovers,' said Maddy, trying to explain the absurdity of the notion to Falcón.

'If you're not, then what the fuck are you?' said Marty in English. 'What the fuck are you doing in this apartment, dressed like that, going out to fucking dinner – if you're not lovers?'

'Your wife is going to answer your questions, Marty,' said Falcón, 'but people get nervous when you wave a gun in their faces. They get defensive, angry -'

'Or totally fucking silent,' said Marty, twitching the barrel of the gun in Calderón's direction.

'You're accusing him of being your wife's lover. Maybe he thinks it's best to keep his mouth shut.'

'I can smell his fear.'

'That's a loaded gun.'

'If you're doing what he's doing, you have to be prepared for that.'

'I don't know what your problem is, Marty. You knew from day one when Esteban came round to our house that, like all the other guys, he wanted to get me into bed. You also knew that I wasn't interested. He's not my type.'

'I know you, Maddy. I know how your mind works – remember that. In here your public relations don't make any difference, because these two guys are not going to be able to help you… even if they do believe what you're saying.'

'What happened to you, Marty?' she asked, her face suddenly a mask of profound concern.

'I met you,' he said, his eyes wide and fierce.

'Now you see my problem,' she said, turning to Falcón. 'How is anybody supposed to live with this? I live with it all the time and I need some relief from it. It's too intense. So I go out with Esteban. He's charming. He flatters me

'Flatters you,' said Marty. 'Flattery! You're telling me you're doing this for a bit of flattery? Are you fucking crazy?'

'Keep calm, Marty,' said Falcón.

'Now the bitch wants a bit of flattery,' said Marty. 'She'll chuck nearly twelve years of marriage out of the window for a bit of flattery. I can do flattery. Flattery is a piece of cake. You make Man Ray look like a fucking amateur, honey. How's that? Your name will be spoken in the same breath as Lee fucking Miller. Any better?'

'Marty,' said Falcón, and Krugman's head whipped round. 'You deserve answers, and you'll get them, but this is a domestic situation. It does not merit the use of a gun. Give me the gun and let's…'

'Where I come from, everything merits the use of a gun. That's how we're brought up. It's in our constitution.'

'Leave it out, Marty,' said Maddy, bored stupid.

'You don't understand what this is about, Inspector Jefe,' said Marty, adjusting his grip on the gun. 'You don't know what I've done for her.'

'What, Marty? What?' said Maddy. 'What have you done for me?'

Marty faltered. All the logic seemed to break down in him. All his wiring, so carefully laid down, short- circuited. Part of him knew why he was there; there was a great breaking wave of certainty inside him. But there was another part of him which found it all a complete mystery. It was the usual thing. He wanted out but couldn't leave. He didn't want to be with her but could not resist her orbit.

'I'm here because of what I did for you,' he said. 'We are eternally joined by that act.'

'What did you do for her, Marty?' asked Falcón.

'It's a long story.'

'We've got time.'

'Be careful,' said Maddy. 'You've got no idea how much talk this guy has in him. You give him license and this could be the State of the Union address to the power of ten.'

'Let him speak,' said Calderón, through tight, white lips.

Silence. Marty blinked at the sweat in his eyes. Seconds passed, feeling like minutes.

'We were living in Connecticut,' he said, as if this was history. 'I was working in Manhattan. Maddy worked part time in the city. I worked long hours. I'd get home at the weekend and feel as if I'd been away on a trip, I'd seen so little of the house in daylight. One morning at work I fainted and hit my head on the desk. They sent me home. Maddy was supposed to be there, but when I arrived she was out. I went to bed, slept. I woke up and thought about how I'd allowed my life to get out of control. I decided it was time for a change. I'd take some time off. We'd go away, live in Europe. I was standing at the bedroom window, full of these possibilities, when I saw her coming back to the house. She was walking in a way that I'd never seen her walk before. It was more like skipping… like a girl skipping. And I realized that I was looking at a very happy person.

'I went down to meet her. As she came through the door, I was standing there and I saw her face fall. All her happiness and gaiety disappeared. The lead went back into her feet. She smiled at me as if I was a mentally ill relation. And I realized that somebody else was making her happy.

'I didn't tell her of my plans, I just told her about my accident. And I started watching her and I noticed all the things I hadn't seen before. There's nothing like suspicion to refresh your sight and tune up your hearing. I started delegating my work to juniors. I found time wherever I could. I spied on her and I discovered Reza Sangari.'

Marty used his gun arm to wipe his forehead. Just saying that name cost him something. He licked his lips.

'I'm a good spy, you know,' he said. 'Not such a good spy that the woman I was living with wouldn't ever find out, but good enough to pin Reza Sangari to the board. I got to know about the other women he was seeing pretty fast. He had them all operating to a timetable. Françoise on these days, Maddy on those, Helena on the others and a whole lot more in between. It was easy.'

'What was easy?' asked Maddy, no longer affecting boredom.

'To call you into the city on a day that was not supposed to be yours. We had lunch, remember? And in the afternoon I knew you wouldn't be able to resist. It was a Tuesday, which was Helena's turn. I was there when she came out of the door and you took it like a slap in the face. You were standing in a doorway across the street. I could have offered you a cigarette and a light and you wouldn't have seen me, you were looking at his door so hard. I was there when you crossed the street to go up and scratch his eyes out and you ran into another one. I didn't know her name. She wasn't one of the regulars -'

'You were there?' said Maddy.

'I went back with you on the train. I saw you crawl into the house. I was with you all the way.'

'You're a sick fuck, Marty Krugman,' she said.

'You got your own back,' said Marty. 'I kept watching her, you see. Inspector Jefe. I got addicted to it. I found myself doing what she did in her photographs. Watching her in her unconscious moments. Hearing her when she thought she was alone.

'The crying. You've never heard anybody cry like that. She cried like a sick dog vomiting. She cried with her face to the bathroom floor, gagging against her lungs in her throat. Anybody ever cry for you like that, Inspector Jefe?'

Falcón shook his head.

'Have you ever seen someone you love cry for someone else like that? Cry themselves senseless, until their organs seized up?'

Falcón shook his head again.

'She didn't go back to him,' said Marty. 'You can't measure the pride that sits in that woman. It's fatter than a Buddah. And that's what she drew on next. Her pride turned to fury. She used to go up into the attic and scream. Scream until her larynx shredded.'

'Did you ever talk about any of this?' asked Falcón.

Marty shook his head.

'Then the writing started – and Maddy doesn't write,' said Marty. 'She's never kept a diary in her life. Her photographs are her diary. But a few weeks after she realized what sort of a man she'd fallen in love with, she started writing. And why do you think she started writing, Inspector Jefe?'

Falcón shrugged.

'Because she knew I was watching. She knew I'd be burning to see it. And I was. I had to see it. I had to know it. I'd put money into her pain and I wanted my dividend.

'She locked the notebooks away, but I got in there. I know you're interested in psychology, Inspector Jefe. And I'm sorry that those papers don't exist any more, because I doubt you've ever seen anything quite as horrific as the scribblings of Maddy Krugman. She didn't just want him dead, Inspector Jefe. She wanted him to die under prolonged, medically assisted torture. You know, I'm sure sex and torture are connected somewhere in the human brain. Maddy thought so – didn't you, honey?'

'I don't know what you're talking about, Marty,' she said. 'This is definitely your trip and it's a solo one.'

'You don't remember "the lover's tongue like an electrode on the nipple"? The touch of his penis "like a cattle prod in the vagina"? You wrote those things.'

'What did you do about it, Marty?' asked Falcón.

'I did what she wanted me to do. I planned it all out for a Saturday afternoon. It was autumn, the light was failing early and, at the weekend, Reza Sangari's part of town was almost silent. I went to see him. I introduced myself. He let me into his apartment and I listened to his apologies. He had a soft voice. It was as seductive as a torturer who doesn't need to find out anything but just wants to cause you pain. I stood amongst the expensive silk carpets where he'd fucked my wife and I was filled with rage by the ease with which he made his excuses. It was surprisingly easy to beat him to death. Did you hear that, Inspector Jefe? I, Marty Krugman, sophisticate, intellectual, aesthete, the man who finds the whole idea of a bullfight loathsome, I found it surprisingly easy to bludgeon a man to death. Something else I learnt: the violence that flowed through my veins at that moment – I haven't felt power like that, ever.

'I came home in the dark, the caveman with his club, and she was there to meet me in her apron. She cooked a special dinner and we ate it by candlelight. It was another of our wordless dinners, except that this one was different because at the end she took off her clothes and asked me to fuck her. And I, with this new blood in my veins, obliged. Now that, Inspector Jefe, was a fuck to remember. I'd finally found the thing that thrilled Maddy Krugman.'

'Don't flatter yourself, Marty,' she said, full of contempt.

'Anyway, the madness ceased in the house. We started living like human beings again. A few days later the news carried the story of Reza Sangari's murder and she was totally impassive. We smoked pot, ate marvellous food and drank expensive wine, and we had a lot of very violent sex.

'The FBI came during the next week sometime. They asked to speak to Maddy in private. I left them to talk. Then they wanted to interview me. She asked if she could talk to me first. We slipped into our roles without a word. She came into the kitchen and told me straight about Reza Sangari for the first time. My performance was flawless. I behaved as if I was stunned by the news, when, in fact, I was just stunned by the brilliance of our act.

'The cops went away, but they kept coming back. I had no alibi. I had a motive. I'd been seen going into the city on the Saturday, although I was pretty sure I hadn't been seen coming back. They came to see me at work. They built up the pressure on me.'

'And the only time you and Maddy spoke about Reza Sangari was when the FBI agents were in the house that first time?' asked Falcón.

'And we never spoke about it again,' said Marty. 'The murder inquiry was suddenly terminated. They found Sangari was heavily in debt due to a cocaine habit. They put it down to a drug killing. We came to Europe. My blood slowed down.'

Maddy Krugman was grunting with incredulity

'This is all in your head, Marty,' she said. 'Pure fantasy.'

'And now she's doing the same again with our friend the judge,' said Marty, swivelling the gun towards

Calderón. 'She wants me to kill you, Sr Calderón. Do you know why?'

Calderón's head wobbled on his shaky neck.

'Because she hates you. She hates what you represent – the roving, predatory male who sows his seed wherever he can. I know her now, like I've never known anybody in my life. That's how deep it goes when you do someone's killing for them. I'm telling you, Juez Calderón, she gets a sexual thrill from the idea of you dead. You lying there with your unseeing eyes open and a hole in your stony heart. It will make her feel brilliant.'

'Shut up, Marty!' she roared. 'Just shut the fuck up.'

'I discovered that unexpected bonus. It lasted for quite a while. It bound us together. It exhilarated our… sex life,' he said, as if puzzled by how little that meant now.

'Until…?' said Maddy, breathing heavily from her outburst.

'Until what?' said Marty.

'Until you started thinking again, you dumb fuck. Until you disappeared inside your fucking head. I was in love with Reza Sangari. He fooled around with other women. I stopped seeing him. And then you killed him – or did you, Marty? Maybe all that is in your head, too. Your weird little fantasy. I didn't set you up to murder him. If you did kill him, you did that all on your own. And once he was dead I needed you and you were there for me, and that's why we were drawn together. This shit you're talking about Esteban, I don't know where you -'

'There's something missing in this story,' said Falcón. 'There's a big gap between the FBI applying pressure and you appearing in Seville as a next-door neighbour to Rafael Vega.'

Three faces turned on Marty. He changed the gun to the other hand, wiped his palm on his trousers, changed it back to his left hand.

'What happened there, Marty?' asked Falcón. 'Homicide cops don't normally let people with an opportunity, no alibi and a strong motive off the hook. The FBI are no different. After years in the job we all have an instinct for murderers and we squeeze them until they crack. Why don't you tell us why they let you off the hook?'

Marty Krugman shrugged. What the hell.

'I met someone on a train,' he said.

Maddy sat up and frowned to herself.

'People don't talk much on commuter trains and they don't normally ask you how you feel about your country, but this guy for some reason wanted to know all the famous theories of Marty Krugman. He wanted to know how good an American I was. He wanted to know how strong my fear was, how ravenous my greed. I think, looking back on it, I qualified on the grounds of fear. I told him that I wanted America to remain the most powerful nation of earth because I know where I stand with them at the helm. We met again some days later and went for a walk in Bryant Park behind the New York Public Library. It was freezing cold. There's a good place to eat lunch there – the Bryant Grill. And it was there that this man revealed that he understood the nature of my problem and that he could solve it.'

'What was this man's name?' asked Falcón, looking at Maddy.

'Foley Macnamara,' said Marty, without missing a beat.

Maddy blinked, mouth open a crack.

'We became regulars at the Bryant Grill. Foley told me how important presentation was in the maintenance of control. How the ends justify the means, and how the means necessarily have to be outrageous and quite ruthlessly executed in order to remind those with delusions of power who they're up against. He said that this was a big part of the Agency's job: to maintain image, to hold loyalty to the brand.'

'The Agency?' said Maddy, incredulous. 'What agency, Marty?'

'That was when I asked him whether he was with the CIA, and he said he was not.'

'Oh, shit, Marty… no,' said Maddy. 'You've finally fucking flipped. The Agency. Jesus Christ.'

'He said he was a consultant and that he provided information for certain departments. He said that he only worked in the business and political arenas, never military.

'He liked my profile: I'd never worked for the government, I had a well-documented career as an architect, I already spoke near-perfect Spanish. All they wanted me to do was go to Seville, make contact with an estate agency and they would put us next to Rafael Vega.'

'For a start, Marty, we did not intend to go to Seville. If you remember, we took a small house in Provence. That was where we were going to spend a year, to try and live the life of that stupid fucking book - if you remember.'

'But we went to Barcelona to see my old pal Gaudi and we ended up in Seville, Maddy,' he said. 'All I had to do was to keep up the flow of information about Vega, his situation, what he was thinking and any plans he might have. In return, the thrust of the Reza Sangari Investigation would be redirected. We would be free to leave the country and restart our lives. No admission of guilt was implied.'

'This is crazy,' said Maddy, burying her face in her hands. 'You can't tell these people this stuff.'

'Did you know who you were spying on?' asked Falcón.

'I only found that out as things started to develop in Rafael Vega's life. The theory being that, the less I knew, the more convincing I could be.'

'Who was your contact here in Seville?'

'His code name was "Romany". I used to meet him down by the river, between the bridges.'

'Did he give you Rafael Vega's real identity?'

'Don't tell me you believe this stuff, Inspector Jefe?' said Maddy. 'Because I can tell you… I mean, this proves that we are dealing with an insane person here.'

'I learnt everything about him myself,' said Marty, ignoring her. 'Which meant I learnt nothing for months. We discussed all sorts of things, but he never talked about himself. He was completely watertight until the end of last year when for the first time he got really drunk in my company and started to talk about his "other life". I didn't learn everything in one go. I had to piece it together from a series of discussions, but what was causing his distress was that he'd been married before, to a woman who'd died some years ago in Cartagena in Colombia. They'd had a daughter, who had subsequently married and had children herself. He'd kept in touch with his daughter and the news he'd received at the end of last year was that she, her husband and the children had been killed when a truck had forced their car off the road. It was a- devastating blow and, of course, he had no one to talk to except me.'

'Did he believe it was a genuine accident?' asked Falcón.

'In his confused and stricken state the real paranoia of the man came out,' said Marty. 'He didn't know whether it was his enemies coming back at him or just divine retribution.'

'So he told you what he'd been doing in his "other life"?' asked Falcón. 'Why he'd had to cut himself off from his wife and daughter?'

'Not exactly,' said Marty. 'He told me he'd started seeing faces from his past.'

Maddy spread her hands as if this was proof of the man's complete delusion.

'In dreams?' asked Falcón.

'I think they started as dreams and then dream and reality began to merge and that's what was frightening him. While they were dream faces he found himself intrigued by why his mind had marked them out. Once he started to see these same faces on living people, he thought he was going mad. He wouldn't go and see anybody about it. He said that he'd started taking something for his anxiety. But the faces kept coming at him in parks, shops, cafes, and still he couldn't work out who they were.

'It came out that he'd been in the military,' said Marty. 'And using some very simple powers of deduction I reasoned that he'd been involved in the Chilean military take-over of 1973. I put it to him that some very unpleasant things happened in the process of the Pinochet revolution and that perhaps these faces were from people who'd suffered at the hands of the new regime. And as I was saying this I knew I'd hit home. He retreated into his head and spoke to himself and I heard him say: "They were the ones who didn't ask for their mothers." I think that they were people he'd tortured.'

'Was that why you killed him, Marty?' asked Falcón.

'I understand your need to tidy things up, Inspector Jefe,' said Marty. 'So pin the killing on me if you must. But this was a man who was going to do the job himself.'

'What about the Agency?' said Maddy, more provocatively this time.

'They didn't want him dead,' said Marty. 'They still hadn't found out what they wanted to know.'

'And what was that?' asked Falcón.

'They didn't know. They were just sure he had something that could be damaging to them or their interests.'

'Do you think these people are going to believe that bullshit?' said Maddy, hitting high, screechy notes. 'My husband is a CIA undercover agent? You're pathetic, Marty Krugman. You are fucking pathetic and always have been.'

'And now, gentlemen,' said Marty. 'This is over.'

The bullet entered her chest to the right of her left breast. Marty slid to the floor with his back against the wall. He put the barrel of the gun into his mouth. Falcón threw himself at Marty, trying to knock the gun away, but everything had been calculated. Marty pulled the trigger and the white wall spattered red behind him.