prepared to hear, and not what is said to us.
Johan was a tidy, clean man, with nothing particular standing out as
he walked through the doors of the library except a preternatural
calmness and palpable capability. He was, it seemed, an man who had
not only found his calling in life, but was remarkably good at it as
well. In this, he was quite unlike the bevy of authors who usually
found their way to the research desk of the university library at 3
am.
As he approached me, I became aware of his unwavering gaze bearing
uncomfortably down upon me, as though he could see inside the
blackness of my soul and was condemning me for my crimes. This idea
was so preposterous that I nearly laughed out loud. In fourty years,
no one had ever even raised my name in an investigation. I was
careful, methodical, and meticulous in my preparation. So far as I
knew, not once had any of my crimes even been linked to each other.
Still, he made me squirm inside.
"May I help you, . . sir?"
"Johan, please call me Johan."
"What can I help you with, Johan?"
"I'm here to write."
"Write what, a paper? Are you a student?"
"No, I'm a writer. I'm here to write you."
"An interview? At this hour? Oh, hell. It isn't like I've got
anything else to do. Go ahead."
Johan set his black leather attache case on the desk between us and
reached inside. He set a card on the desk for me then reached back
into the case.
At first, my mind couldn't make sense of what was written there.
Finally, I realized he wasn't a writer at all, but something very
different. The words fully registered in my mind as the first
silenced bullet entered my brain through my left eye.
Johan Sebastian Black
Righter of Wrongs
Delivering justice where it most belongs.
