This story is inspired by The Trouble With Being Born, a collection of aphorisms by the Romanian philosopher Emil Cioran (discussed more here), including the following aphorisms:
A stranger comes and tells me he has killed someone. He is not wanted by the police because no one suspects him. I am the only one who knows he is the killer. What am I to do? I lack the courage as well as the treachery (for he has entrusted me with a secret—and what a secret!) to turn him in. I feel I am his accomplice, and resign myself to being arrested and punished as such. At the same time, I tell myself this would be too ridiculous. Perhaps I shall go and denounce him all the same. And so on, until I wake up.
The interminable is the specialty of the indecisive. They cannot mark life out for their own, and still less their dreams, in which they perpetuate their hesitations, pusillanimities, scruples. They are ideally qualified for nightmare.
Here on the coast of Normandy, at this hour of the morning, I needed no one. The very gulls’ presence bothered me: I drove them off with stones. And hearing their supernatural shrieks, I realized that that was just what I wanted, that only the Sinister could soothe me, and that it was for such a confrontation that I had got up before dawn.
This morning while taking the LIRR to the city I performed first aid on a man who had been shot through the window of my carriage.
“Is he going to die?” his girlfriend asked me.
“We’re all going to die.”
A long pause. “I mean—is he going to die right now?”
“Probably not.” Probably he didn’t die. I got off at Jamaica Station while he stayed on (he was unconscious) so I don’t know. I didn’t want to be questioned at length as a witness since it was my day off.
I continued toward a barbershop I like. There wasn’t any reason for me to stay. A similar case of accidental gunfire into the train was in the news a while back. I guess also since it’s Saturday the workweek is over so it likely wasn’t any organized criminal act.
As I was passing Kew Gardens a stranger in a torn windbreaker pulled me suddenly aside.
“I have committed a terrible crime: a murder. No one suspects me. Only you know the truth. This is my name and address.” He pushed a small business card into the breast pocket of my coat and walked away.
Initially I supposed that I could turn him in to the police. A few reasons presented themselves immediately. First, it could be considered morally appropriate to denounce him to the authorities for the sake of justice. Second, a naïve interpretation suggested that he wanted me to turn him in, since otherwise he wouldn’t have confessed his crime to me. Third, a failure on my part to denounce him could present the possibility in the minds of concerned parties that I was his accomplice.
But walking through Forest Park with disregard for the operating hours of my barbershop, I considered the opposing evidence. First, I could be exposing myself to some kind of danger or unforeseen trap. Second, I might lack the conviction for treachery. This man entrusted me—and me alone—with such a secret. Already I walked among my fellow citizens with a newfound transgressive thrill. I resigned myself to the fate of my co-conspirator, whether arrest and punishment or criminal victory, the goal and outcome of which I knew nothing
Again and again I reversed my position for some hours. Such always has been the nightmare of my life with its interminable indecisiveness and hesitation. Very little new I discovered during this time, but only the relative importance of the different reasons shifted in my brain.
Halfway across the park I saw a little Pomeranian carrying a big stick, maybe five or six times his own length. It pleased him very much to carry it with him. But I pitied him for his ignorance because I knew that it would never fit through his doorway. His master was dressed for work and held a phone to his ear arguing about money. At length he exclaimed that he didn’t know why he even continued to work after the success he has had.
My new companion and I passed some chess hustlers seated behind their chessboards waiting for opponents. I don’t think they usually have chess hustlers at Forest Park. But there were three older men smoking cigarettes and occasionally defeating passersby and collecting small bills.
Our dog-walker was interested in a match but soured when he discovered that the hustlers didn’t want to bet on the outcome of the game. Instead they wanted to be paid $5 for a single round of speed chess regardless of outcome. It’s the same in Manhattan. But their would-be customer complained.
“If we pay you no matter what, what does it matter to you whether you play any good?” he protested.
The old man behind the chessboard only replied, “The same thing could be said about your life.” Profound!
With the dog-walker dismissed I realized a potential solution to my problem. The main obstacle in my mind was that I might be bound by some ethical rule that commands me to punish the evildoer who confessed to me, to correct for the harm he committed. So if, by some coincidence, I had saved the life of the very victim my accomplice shot, then I might be absolved of any guilt on my part if I choose not to denounce the criminal.
But then it wasn’t clear how to apply my discovery. If I discovered in the newspaper that my accomplice had been identified as the shooter, then he must have been discovered by the police. So it wouldn’t matter then whether I identify him. But then maybe it doesn’t matter in terms of ethical rules whether he is ultimately punished, only whether he is denounced by me in particular. But then if this were the case, then no knowledge would be gained for the purposes of my conundrum in the news at all. So I chose not to consult the newspapers.
If only I had looked out the window at the moment of the shooting, I might have been able to tell whether it was the same man I saw this morning. But at the time I took no interest in the case. In general I prefer to mind my own business.
At this point, I recalled that the criminal spoke more precisely—he confessed to a murder, not an attempted murder. So it could be that he knows that his victim died. This would rule out the possibility that I saved his victim’s life. (This detail means as well that if I discover that his victim was my fellow passenger, then he had lied in saying that he committed a murder, which according to ethical rules would free me of any responsibility toward him. Of course in this case there would be no need to denounce him, so the point is moot).
I realized that as usual I failed to consider the future and not just the past. If the confession was not of an isolated incident but rather only a single instance of a broader criminal habit then it reflected a dangerous character. To leave my crooked partner uncondemned would run the risk that future victims, otherwise unmolested, suffer whatever crime it is in which the stranger specializes.
But really it wouldn’t make sense for the stranger to be a serial criminal offender. His impulse to admit guilt to strangers was incompatible with a prolonged career in that industry. So I contented myself not to be concerned with any ethical rule regarding his incapacitation from future criminality.
Maybe there was some investigation I could have conducted to resolve my dilemma. By locating the victim—this requires the murder to have been unsuccessful—I could ask if he minded very much what had happened to him. If he said no then that would give me a good reason to avoid denouncing his attacker without violating any ethical rule. But then I’m not a detective so I don't know how I'd find the victim. If only I myself were the victim, then I would be spared the obstacle of detective work and could consult only myself. But then it’s very unlikely that I was the victim.
Maybe the stranger vetted me before his confession to make sure that I wasn’t a detective, but I don’t think so. More likely I was accosted at random.
With this the answer appeared to me. I strolled with easy footsteps toward the dog-walker. He turned and stepped over the stick as I approached. Suddenly my heart raced and eyes darted toward the nearest means of escape.
“I have committed a terrible crime: a murder. No one suspects me. Only you know the truth. This is my name and address.” I dropped the business card and slipped past him around the corner. I didn’t turn to see my partner’s face.
I walked beyond the park to the Long Island Sound and was alone again. The pigeons bothered me so I drove them away with stones. Their inhuman screeches provided me much-needed company now that I was alone again. I continued home by roundabout means and my pace slowed with each stranger I passed to give them ample time to crowd out my disordered thoughts with their confessions.