Created, the Destroyer td-1

  Created, the Destroyer

  ( The Destroyer - 1 )

  Warren Murphy

  Sapir Richard

  When ex-New Jersey cop Remo Williams is electrocuted for the murder of a dope-dealing goon, CURE, a super-secret government agency that doesn't really exist, schemes to resurrect Remo as the ultimate killing machine that will carry out most of its dirty plans. Under the direction of expert assassin Master Chiun, Remo is transformed into the Destroyer and launches a series of secret plots to dissolve the underworld.

  The Destroyer. 1. Created

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  (Editor's Note: When we decided to reissue this book, we were told by Chiun, the Master of Sinanju whose exploits are described in this series, that he would write the foreword. We could find nobody to tell him no, and we dared not do otherwise.)

  FOREWORD

  By Chiun, the Reigning Master of Sinanju.

  YOU READ LIES

  Do not believe what you read in this book. It is too late for them now to set things right and you should not encourage these people to try.

  This book is called a reissue which apparently is a new Pinnacle publishing word for a thin fabric of lies and distortions that is repeated at least once.

  Do you know that when this alleged book was originally printed, it lacked even my picture? So now they make amends. Hah! Quick. Turn back. Look at the cover again. See? The pale piece of pig's ear shown there looks indisputably like my disciple, Remo. Notice the lines of weakness about the eyes. Notice the slobbering lips showing the creature's sloth. Notice the big white nose, a standard of ugliness to civilized people everywhere.

  But, hold. Who is this Oriental on the cover? Who is that old man?

  I know what these people are up to. They are trying to deceive you into believing that that is the countenance of the Master in an effort to trick some people into buying this compendium of literary duck droppings.

  DO NOT BE FOOLED

  That is not my picture. The face they portray is a cruel, hard, evil face. Where is the love, the kindness, the general sweetness that is my countenance? (To Pinnacle editors: «countenance» means what someone looks like.-Chiun.)

  MORE LIES IN THIS BOOK

  I appear briefly in this shoddy manuscript. The scribbler, Murphy, describes me as a karate teacher. To call the art of Sinanju karate is to call the noontime sun a flashlight. So much for Murphy.

  I am going to tell you some things about this book. It is called Created, The Destroyer. Everyone knows its real title is Chiun Meets Pale Piece of Pig's Ear.

  And then they call the Masters of Sinanju killers. We are not killers but assassins. If America had competent assassins instead of amateur do-it-yourselfers, your civilization would be more orderly. But what can you expect of a country which would take off its beautiful daytime dreams to show fat men yelling about Gatewater? I will not forget them for that.

  And another… oh, why bother? Trying to correct a typical Murphy set of mistakes is like trying to scoop out the ocean with a spoon.

  CONGRATULATIONS

  Fortunately, through a clerical error on the part of the scribbler, I have established my own following who receive bits of countervailing truth to stem this vicious propaganda. If you are among them, you are very lucky. You have perceived the goodness of this series, which is me.

  But do not write to me at Pinnacle, for then you will expose yourself to all sorts of solicitation for various garbage which emanates from that publisher.

  When you have Chiun, you need nothing else.

  A FINAL DECEIT

  Pinnacle Books has offered Murphy a chance to correct some of the errors in this pile of trash. I have warned him that he had better not: his perfidy should stand untouched through the ages as a demonstration of how low some men will sink just to enrich themselves.

  Instead, out of the goodness of my heart, I offered to help set things straight with this foreword. He said they would print it as I wrote it I do not trust these people.

  Let them know now that I will read every word of these pages.

  You are reading an English translation of my remarks. It is not as good as real language, but it is better than nothing. When you are done with what I say, THROW THIS BOOK AWAY. It will do you no good.

  With moderate tolerance for you,

  I am forever,

  Chiun

  Master of Sinanju.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Everyone knew why Remo Williams was going to die. The chief of the Newark Police Department told his close friends Williams was a sacrifice to the civil rights groups.

  «Who ever heard of a cop going to the chair… and for killing a dope-pusher? Maybe a suspension… maybe even dismissal… but the chair? If that punk had been white, Williams wouldn't get the chair.»

  To the press, the chief said: «It is a tragic incident. Williams always had a good record as a policeman.»

  But the reporters weren't fooled. They knew why Williams had to die. «He was crazy. Christ, you couldn't let that lunatic out in the streets again. How did he ever get on the force in the first place? Beats a man to a pulp, leaves him to die in an alley, drops his badge for evidence, then expects to get away with it by hollering 'frame-up.' Damn fool.»

  The defense attorney knew why his client lost. «That damned badge. We couldn't get around that evidence. Why wouldn't he admit he beat up that bum? Even so, the judge never should have given him the chair.»

  The judge was quite certain why he sentenced Williams to die. It was very simple. He was told to.

  Not that he knew why he was told to. In certain circles, you don't ask questions about verdicts.

  Only one man had no conception of why the sentence was so severe and so swift. And his wondering would stop at 11:35 o'clock that night. It wouldn't make any difference after that.

  Remo Williams sat on the cot hi his cell chainsmoking cigarettes. His light brown hair was shaved close at the temples where the guards would place the electrodes.

  The gray trousers issued to all inmates at the State Prison already had been slit nearly to the knees. The white socks were fresh and clean with the exception of gray spots from ashes he dropped. He had stopped using the ash tray the day before.

  He simply threw the finished cigarette on the gray painted floor each time and watched its life burn out. It wouldn't even leave a mark, just burn out slowly, hardly noticeable.

  The guards would eventually open the cell door and have an inmate clean up the butts. They would wait outside the cell, Remo between them, while the inmate swept.

  And when Remo was returned, there would be no trace that he had ever smoked in there or that a cigarette had died on the floor.

  He could leave nothing in the death cell that would remain. The cot was steel and had no paint in which to even scratch his initials. The mattress would be replaced if he ripped it.

  He had no laces to tie anything anywhere. He couldn't even break the one light bulb above his head. It was protected by a steel-enmeshed glass plate.

  He could break the ashtray. That he could do, if he wanted. He could scratch something in the white enameled sink with no stopper and one faucet.

  But what would he inscribe? Advice? A note? To whom? For what? What would he tell them?

  That you do your job, you're promoted, and one dark night they find a dead dope-pusher in an alley on your beat, and he's got your badge in his hand, and they don't give you a medal, they fall for the frame-up, and you get the cha
ir.

  It's you who winds up in the death house-the place you wanted to send so many men to, so many hoods, punks, killers, the liars, the pushers, the scum that preyed on society. And then the people, the right and the good you sweated for and risked your neck for, rise in their majesty and turn on you.

  What do you do? All of a sudden, they're sending people to the chair-the judges who won't give death to the predators, but give it to the protectors.

  You can't write that in a sink. So you light another cigarette and throw the burning butt on the floor and watch it burn. The smoke curls up and disappears before rising three feet. And then the butt goes out. But by that time, you have another one ready to light and another one ready to throw.

  Remo Williams took the mentholated cigarette from his mouth, held it before his face where he could see the red ember feeding on that hint of mint, then tossed it on the floor.

  He took a fresh cigarette from one of two packs at his side on the brown, scratchy-wool blanket. He looked up at the two guards whose backs were to him. He hadn't spoken to them since he entered Death Row two days ago.

  They had never walked the morning hours on a beat looking at windows and waiting to be made detective. They had never been framed in an alley with a pusher, who as a corpse, didn't have the stuff on him.

  They went home at night and they left the prison and the law behind them. They waited for their pensions and the winterized cottage in their fifth year. They were the clerks of law enforcement.

  The law.

  Williams looked at the freshly-lit cigarette in his hand and suddenly hated the mentholated taste that was like eating Vicks. He tore the filter off and tossed it on the floor. Then he put the ragged end of the cigarette between his lips and drew deeply.

  He inhaled on the cigarette and lay back on the cot, blowing the smoke toward the seamless plaster ceiling that was as gray as the floor and the walls and the prospects of those guards out in the corridor.

  He had strong, sharp, features and deepset brown eyes that crinkled at the edges, but not from laughter. Remo rarely laughed.

  His body was hard, his chest deep, his hips perhaps a bit too wide for a man, but not too large for his powerful shoulders.

  He had been the brick of the line in high school and murder on defense. And all of it hadn't been worth the shower water that carried the sweat down the drain.

  So somebody scored.

  Suddenly, Remo's facial muscles tightened and he sat up again. His eyes, focussed at no particular range, suddenly detected every line in the floor. He saw the sink and for the first time really saw the solid gray metal of the bars. He crushed out the cigarette with his toe.

  Well, damn it, they didn't score… not through his slot. They never went through the middle of the line. And if he left only that, he left something.

  Slowly, he leaned forward and reached for the burned-out butts on the floor.

  One of the guards spoke. He was a tall man and his uniform was too tight around the shoulders. Remo vaguely remembered his name as Mike.

  «It'll be cleaned,» Mike said.

  «No, I'll do it,» Remo said. The words were slow in coming out. How long had it been since he had spoken?

  «Do you want something to eat…?» the guard's voice trailed off. He paused and looked down the corridor. «It's late, but we could get you something.»

  Remo shook his head. «I'll just finish cleaning up. How much time do I have?»

  «About a half hour.»

  Remo did not answer. He wiped the ashes together with his big, square hands. If he had a mop, it would go better.

  «Is there anything we can get you?» Mike asked.

  Remo shook his head. «No thanks.» He decided he liked the guard. «Want a cigarette?»

  «No. I can't smoke here.»

  «Oh. Well, would you like the pack? I've got two packs.»

  «Couldn't take it, but thanks anyway.»

  «It must be a tough job you have,» Remo lied.

  The guard shrugged. «It's a job. You know. Not like pounding a beat. But we have to watch it anyhow.»

  «Yeah,» Remo said and smiled. «A job's a job.»

  «Yeah,» the guard said. There was silence, all the louder for having been broken once.

  Remo tried to think of something to say but couldn't.

  The guard spoke again. «The priest will be here in a while.» It was almost a question.

  Remo grimaced. «More power to him. I haven't been to church since I was an altar boy. Hell, every punk I arrest tells me he was an altar boy, even Protestants and Jews. Maybe they know something I don't. Maybe it helps. Yeah, I'll see the priest.»

  Remo stretched his legs and walked over to the bars where he rested his right hand. «It's a hell of a business, isn't it?»

  The guard nodded, but both men took a step back from the bars.

  The guard said: «I can get the priest now if you want.»

  «Sure,» Remo said. «But in a minute. Wait.»

  The guard lowered his eyes. «There isn't much time.»

  «We have a few minutes.»

  «Okay. He'll be here anyway without us calling.»

  «It's routine?» The final insult. They would try to save his mortal soul because it was spelled out in the state's penal code.

  «I don't know,» he answered. «I've only been here two years. We haven't had anyone in that time. Look, I'll go see if he's ready.»

  «No, don't.»

  «I'll be back. Just to the end of the corridor.»

  «Sure, go ahead,» Remo said. It wasn't worth arguing. «Take your time. I'm sorry.»

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was a legend in the state prison that condemned men usually ate a heartier meal on the night of an execution than Warden Matthew Wesley Johnson did. Tonight was no exception.

  The warden tried to concentrate on his evening paper. He propped it against the untouched dinner tray on his office desk. The air conditioner hummed. He would have to be at the electrocution. It was his job. Why the hell didn't the telephone ring?

  Johnson looked to the window. Night boats moved slowly up the narrow black river toward the hundreds of piers and docks that dotted the nearby sea coast, their lights blinking codes and warnings to receivers who were rarely there.

  He glanced at his watch. Only twenty-five minutes left. He went back to the Newark Evening News. The crime rate was rising, a front-page story warned. So what, he thought. It rises every year. Why keep putting it on the front page to get people worked up? Besides, we've got a solution to the crime problem now. We're going to execute all the cops. He thought of Remo Williams in the cell.

  Long ago, he had decided it was the smell that bothered him. Not from his frozen roast beef dinner, untouched before him, but from the anticipation of the night. Maybe if it were cleaner. But there was the smell. Even with the exhaust fan, there was the smell. Flesh burning.

  How many had it been in seventeen years? Seven men. Tonight would be eight. Johnson remembered every one of them. Why didn't the phone ring? Why didn't the governor call with a reprieve? Remo Williams was no thug. He was a cop, damn it, a cop.

  Johnson turned to the inside pages of the paper, looking for crime news. Man charged with murder. He read through the story looking for details. Negro knifing in Jersey City. He would probably get the man. A bar fight. That would be dropped to manslaughter. No death sentence there. Good.

  But here was Williams tonight. Johnson shook his head. What were the courts coming to? Were they panicked by these civil rights groups? Didn't they know that each sacrifice has to lead to a bigger sacrifice, until you have nothing left? Execute a cop for killing a punk? Was a decade of progress to be followed by a decade of vigilante law?

  It had been three years since the last execution. He had thought things were changing. But the swiftness of Williams' indictment and trial, the quick rejection of his appeal, and now this poor man waiting in the death house.

  Damn it. What did he need this job for? Johnson look
ed across his broad oak desk to a framed picture in the corner. Mary and the children. Where else could he get $24,000 a year? Served him right for backing political winners.

  Why didn't the bastard phone with a pardon? How many men did they expect him to fry for $24,000?

  The button lit up on his ivory telephone's private line. Relief spread across his broad Swedish features. He snatched the telephone to his ear. «Johnson here,» he said.

  «Good to catch you there, Matt,» came the familiar voice over the phone.

  Where the hell did you think I'd be, Johnson thought. He said: «Good to hear from you, Governor. You don't know how good.»

  «I'm sorry, Matt. There isn't going to be a pardon. Not even a stay.»

  «Oh,» Johnson said; his free hand crumpled the newspaper.

  «I'm calling for a favor, Matt.»

  «Sure, Governor, sure,» Johnson said. He pushed the newspaper from the edge of the desk toward the waste basket.

  «In a few minutes, a Capuchin monk and his escort will be at the prison. He may be on his way to your office now. Let him talk to this what's-his-name, Williams, the one who's going to die. Let the other man witness the execution from the control panel.»

  «But there's very little visibility from the control panel,» Johnson said.

  «What the hell. Let him stay there anyhow.»

  «It's against regulations to allow…»

  «Matt. C'mon. We're not kids anymore. Let him stay there.» The Governor was no longer asking; he was telling. Johnson's eyes strayed toward the picture of his wife and children.

  «And one more thing. This observer's from some kind of a private hospital. The State Department of Institutions has given them permission to have this Williams' body. Some kind of criminal-mind research, Doctor Frankenstein stuff. They'll have an ambulance there to pick it up. Leave word at the gate. They'll have written authorization from me.»

  Weariness settled over Warden Johnson.