The Stickmen by Edward Lee Page A

suitcase.
    “Somehow, I don’t think it’s Jack the
Ripper’s medical bag…”
    The damn place didn’t even have an overhead
light; Garrett’s puny flashlight would have to do. He knelt at the
case, noticed that it was scuffed, crackled, and very old.
    When he flipped open the top, he pointed the
flashlight in, and—
     
    ««—»»
     
    The sign on his desk was an impressive one;
the engraved brass plate read: “The Honorable Willard G. Farrell,
U.S. Court of Appeals.”
    The job, though, wasn’t nearly as impressive
as the sign.
    It was ten o’clock at night, and Judge
Farrell was still in his chambers. Taking the world of the
judiciary by storm? Balancing the scales of justice? Making the
country a better, fairer place for the citizens protected by the
Constitution?
    Hardly.
    Interlocutory reviews and assessments, one
right after another. The Federal Trade Commission, the National
Labor Relations Board, the Securities and Exchange Commission, plus
discretionary territorial-court-reviews for more trademark and
copyright appeals than he could shake his gavel at.
    GodDAMN, this is dull, the judge
thought behind the wide, cluttered desk. Dull, yes, but the
pressure was on; it always was. If Judge Farrell made even the most
minute oversight, the case could be taken to the Supreme Court, and
those were twelve curmudgeons he definitely  didn’t want
quoting him in a reversal that might go down in history.
    Behind him, in the window, Washington, D.C.,
glittered below a smear of stars. Farrell hoped the sun wasn’t
rising when he finally finished up.
    He was wearily rubbing his eyes when his
door opened.
    “Another long day, huh, sir?” a beefy U.S.
Marshal named Willy asked. The Marshals provided security for the
building; Willy was the captain of the night watch…
    “You got that right, Willy. Sometimes I
think the federal offenders do this
    to me on purpose because they know I don’t
get overtime.”
    Willy made a modest chuckle. He looked
around the dark office. “You’re the only one here tonight,
sir?”
    “Yep. Just me and my lonesome, the judge
regretted. “My secretary and research assistants are long gone,
because they do get overtime. The GOP’s gonna cut the
federal budget, all right, and it looks like they’re starting with
my staff.”
    “But look at the bright side, Your Honor.
They’ll have more to pump into the Graffiti-Artists Rehabilitation
Program.”
    Farrell laughed, because there actually was  such a federal spending program.
    “You look pretty tired, sir. You want me to
send one of my men across the street for coffee?”
    “No, thanks, Willy. I’ve got a pot
cooking.”
    “Okay. I’ll tell the lobby guard you’re
still here.”
    “Thanks. With any luck I’ll be out of here
in a few more hours.”
    “Goodnight, Your Honor.”
    Willy left, leaving Farrell to make more
notations behind the opened legal tomes on his desk. At least the
U.S. Marshals in the building let him feel safe, not that there was
any danger in this blasé office. If he were a federal
prosecutor on RICCO case, that would be different. But there were
no Gottis or Giancanas in this building.
    Judge Farrell didn’t see the shadow slide
like a pool of ink from out of the book cove. And he didn’t hear
the tiny pop! of the CZ83’s chamber-silenced .380 round.
    The Honorable Willard G. Farrell was dead
before the modest bullet had time to exit his skull. The judge
slumped forward, his face landing on a sheet of review criteria
outlining the functions of the Sherman Antitrust Act.
    The clandestine field operative, sometimes
known as QJ/WYN, sometimes known as John Sanders and an array of
other aliases, emerged from the shadowed book cove.
    He cast a passing glance toward the window,
noticed the U.S. Capitol dressed in spotlights. Next, he removed a
small black notepad from his jacket pocket. He flipped it open to
reveal a simple list of names.
    The first name on the list was URSLIG, J.,
and it had a red X