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Authors: David R. Morrell
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glinting eyes of a leprechaun. His three
television spots had been so effective that he’d become a New York City celebrity. That was before he went back to prison
for burglarizing the home of his attorney.
When he had interviewed him at the height of his fame, Pittman had suspected that Sean would end up back in prison. In elaborate
detail, Sean had explained various ways to break into a house. Pittman’s enthusiasm for information had prompted Sean to elaborate
and dramatize. The interview had lasted two hours. At its end, Sean had presented Pittman with a gift—the tool knife he still
carried. “I give these to people who really understand what an art it is to be a burglar,” Sean had said. What made the knife
especially useful, he explained, was that at the end of the handle, past miniature pliers, screwdrivers, and wire cutters,
there were slots for two metal prongs: lock-picking tools. With glee, Sean had taught Pittman how to use them.
The lesson had stuck.
Now Pittman worked the prongs into the lock. It was sturdy—a dead bolt. It didn’t matter. One prong was used to free the pins
in the cylinder, Sean had explained. The other was used to apply leverage and pressure. Once you did it a couple of times,
the simple operation wasn’t hard to master. With practice and Sean watching, Pittman had learned how to enter a locked room
within fifteen seconds.
As he freed one pin and shoved the first prong farther into the cylinder to free the next, Pittman stared frantically through
the French door toward Millgate’s agonized struggle to breathe.
Pittman increased his concentration, working harder. He had worried that when he opened the door, he would trigger an alarm.
But his worry had vanished when he’d noticed a security-system number pad on the wall next to the opposite entrance to the
room. From his interview with the Bugmaster, Pittman remembered that owners of large homes often had their security company
install several number pads throughout their homes. These pads armed and disarmed the system, and it made sense to have a
pad not just at the front door but at all the principal exits from the dwelling.
But in this case, the security company had installed the pad in the wrong place—within view of anyone who might be trying
to break in through the French doors. From Pittman’s vantage point, as he freed another pin in the cylinder of the lock, he
could see that the illuminated indicator on the number pad said READY TO ARM . Because so many visitors had been coming and going, the system had not yet been activated.
Pittman felt the final pin disengage. Turning the second metal prong, he pivoted the cylinder, and the lock was released.
In a rush, he turned the latch and pulled the door open.
The opposite door was closed. No one could hear Pittman as he hurried into the dusky room. Millgate was losing strength, his
effort to breathe less strenuous. Pittman reached him and eased the prongs for the oxygen tube into Millgate’s nostrils.
The effect was almost magical. Within seconds, Millgate’s color had begun to be less flushed. His agitation lessened. A few
more seconds and the rise and fall of Millgate’s chest became more regular, less frenzied. Throughout, Pittman was in motion.
He grabbed the IV tubes that Millgate had inadvertently jerked from the needles in his arms. As Pittman inserted the tubes
back onto the base of each needle, he noticed that liquid from the tubes had trickled onto the floor. How would the nurse
account for that when she came back into the room? he wondered. Then he noticed the water tracks that he had brought in from
the rain, the moisture dripping off his overcoat.
I have to get out of here.
A final look at the monitors showed him that Millgate’s blood pressure, respiration rate, and heartbeat were becoming less
extreme. The old guy’s going to make it a while longer, Pittman thought. Relieved, anxious, he turned to
television spots had been so effective that he’d become a New York City celebrity. That was before he went back to prison
for burglarizing the home of his attorney.
When he had interviewed him at the height of his fame, Pittman had suspected that Sean would end up back in prison. In elaborate
detail, Sean had explained various ways to break into a house. Pittman’s enthusiasm for information had prompted Sean to elaborate
and dramatize. The interview had lasted two hours. At its end, Sean had presented Pittman with a gift—the tool knife he still
carried. “I give these to people who really understand what an art it is to be a burglar,” Sean had said. What made the knife
especially useful, he explained, was that at the end of the handle, past miniature pliers, screwdrivers, and wire cutters,
there were slots for two metal prongs: lock-picking tools. With glee, Sean had taught Pittman how to use them.
The lesson had stuck.
Now Pittman worked the prongs into the lock. It was sturdy—a dead bolt. It didn’t matter. One prong was used to free the pins
in the cylinder, Sean had explained. The other was used to apply leverage and pressure. Once you did it a couple of times,
the simple operation wasn’t hard to master. With practice and Sean watching, Pittman had learned how to enter a locked room
within fifteen seconds.
As he freed one pin and shoved the first prong farther into the cylinder to free the next, Pittman stared frantically through
the French door toward Millgate’s agonized struggle to breathe.
Pittman increased his concentration, working harder. He had worried that when he opened the door, he would trigger an alarm.
But his worry had vanished when he’d noticed a security-system number pad on the wall next to the opposite entrance to the
room. From his interview with the Bugmaster, Pittman remembered that owners of large homes often had their security company
install several number pads throughout their homes. These pads armed and disarmed the system, and it made sense to have a
pad not just at the front door but at all the principal exits from the dwelling.
But in this case, the security company had installed the pad in the wrong place—within view of anyone who might be trying
to break in through the French doors. From Pittman’s vantage point, as he freed another pin in the cylinder of the lock, he
could see that the illuminated indicator on the number pad said READY TO ARM . Because so many visitors had been coming and going, the system had not yet been activated.
Pittman felt the final pin disengage. Turning the second metal prong, he pivoted the cylinder, and the lock was released.
In a rush, he turned the latch and pulled the door open.
The opposite door was closed. No one could hear Pittman as he hurried into the dusky room. Millgate was losing strength, his
effort to breathe less strenuous. Pittman reached him and eased the prongs for the oxygen tube into Millgate’s nostrils.
The effect was almost magical. Within seconds, Millgate’s color had begun to be less flushed. His agitation lessened. A few
more seconds and the rise and fall of Millgate’s chest became more regular, less frenzied. Throughout, Pittman was in motion.
He grabbed the IV tubes that Millgate had inadvertently jerked from the needles in his arms. As Pittman inserted the tubes
back onto the base of each needle, he noticed that liquid from the tubes had trickled onto the floor. How would the nurse
account for that when she came back into the room? he wondered. Then he noticed the water tracks that he had brought in from
the rain, the moisture dripping off his overcoat.
I have to get out of here.
A final look at the monitors showed him that Millgate’s blood pressure, respiration rate, and heartbeat were becoming less
extreme. The old guy’s going to make it a while longer, Pittman thought. Relieved, anxious, he turned to
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