Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

Malone nodded. This was hurting him; this was tearing his heart out. “Yes, George,” he said. “A baby. You couldn’t stand it. You really loved Kathy, George. You practically lived for her. You felt you had to kill her, and the child too.”

For the space of ten heartbeats, George Weston’s eyes stayed locked with Malone’s — and then George looked away. His whole body seemed to slump. His head drooped.

“You know you can’t go through with it, George,” Malone said. “You thought you could, but you can’t.” George wet his lips, and how his face had gone slack and his eyes were sick again.

Malone stood very still, waiting.

“Yes,” George whispered. “Yes. That’s the way it was. I killed her... and I thought I could make it look like Les... but I can’t. The minute I knew Kathy was dead, I didn’t care about anything else. She’s dead.” His voice was slowly gaining strength. “And now I want to die, too. Do you hear? I want to.”

Malone nodded to the two men holding Les McJanet. “Let him go,” he said. McJanet took a step backward, gazing in stunned horror at his lifelong friend.

Out in the street, a car braked to a fast stop in front of the house.

“That would be the police,” Malone said.

“I want to die,” George Weston shouted. “I want to.”

“No, George,” Malone told him. “You do now, but time will change that. You wanted to die a long time ago, too, as I remember.” He looked away from George’s tortured face. “Don’t worry too much about dying. I’ve saved worse than you from the death house — and I can do it again. Things will be bad, George — but not that bad.”

There was a heavy knock on the door, a heavy, official knock.

Les McJanet suddenly found his voice. “But how — how’d you know Kathy was going to have a baby?”

“I saw her, McJanet. Her breasts, the slight swell of her stomach — not enough to show when she was dressed — but the signs were unmistakable. She was going to have a baby, all right.”

“But why should George...? I mean... what’s wrong with a baby? Why should he kill...?”

“George used to ride a motorcycle in a big cage with a carnival,” Malone said softly. “One day he had an accident. It was a bad accident, the way it can be when a motorcycle almost rips you down the middle.”

Malone whirled and jerked open the door for the police.

“You see,” Malone went on, “a father was one thing George Weston could never be.”