"Will you tell me again just what happened?" Derwin asked.
"I was sitting with her when he came in." The old man had a red face and neck, with a border of white just above the collar line. "He hadn't knocked. At least I didn't hear him. Just all at once he was standing by the bed, smiling. I was going to say something, but he looked at my sister, then at me, and he seemed so young, and kind of fresh-looking, that I just smiled back. Then he sat on the bed alongside Louise, and put his hand on her chest, and she closed her eyes, and her moaning stopped—for the first time in almost a week. I didn't know until after he'd gone that she was dead."
"How did it happen you didn't report her death to my office? We only learned about it from the doctor."
The old man's attention seemed absorbed by something on the roof of a neighboring house. He stood for several minutes, then slowly looked down at his hand in mild surprise. He had been gripping, and twisting an iron shoe in his hand so hard that a corner had cut a ragged gash in the meaty forepart of his thumb. Blood flowed from the cut down the end of the shoe and dripped sluggishly to the ground.
Irritably the old man tossed the shoe aside and took a handkerchief from a rear pocket of his trousers and wrapped it around the injured thumb. "I was glad she died," he said half-defiantly.
Derwin's eyebrows raised questioningly.
"That may sound heartless." The old man's voice was mild now. "But it isn't. My sister had cancer—had it bad. She was dying from it. And she was suffering horribly. Even drugs gave her no relief toward the last. During her periods of consciousness she begged the doctor to give her something so she could die, but he wouldn't. I asked him to put her out of her misery, too. But he wouldn't listen to me either.
"Mr. Derwin...." The old man brought his face closer to Derwin's. "Every human being should have the right to die. When the time comes that medicine can't help them any more, and they have nothing to look forward to, except suffering, they should be allowed to die if they want to." Abruptly he turned his back and walked into the house.
Dusk was edging into darkness when Derwin reached the home of the boy's third victim. The family lived in an upper duplex apartment. A large wreath hung on the apartment door. The woman who answered his knock was middle-aged, with dark hair and dark eyes, and quick, nervous hands. "Come in," she invited listlessly, as she recognized the sheriff.