Esther Haglund decides to call our killer Gumboy. During the meeting with the do-good council from Eleven, she draws on her notepad a quick “dead-or-alive” sketch in which Gumboy resembles a smaller, younger version of the clay figurine Gumby. Son of Gumby, I suppose.

She is trying to keep the mood light.

Esther does not sit on the council, but she is here for moral support while Johnny tells the council about our deaths at the hands of Gunboy, and she is also an eyewitness to his recent sighting of a boy who looks like our killer.

The council meets at the Sophie in what seems to be the principal’s office. We are seated around a rickety board table with cloudy plastic glasses of water set before us. Johnny, Esther, and I are on one side, and on the other sits the council: president Reginald Washington, vice president Elizabeth “Liz” McDougall, secretary Thelma Rudd, treasurer Arthur “Arty” Hollingshead, and reporter Simon Pivot. On the walls are taped posters from past elections of council members. The poster for the president reads, WASHINGTON = JUSTICE FOR ALL.

By chance, Reginald is talking about justice, but today he does not have his bullhorn to stress certain words. “In my humble opinion, our heaven is founded on justice,” he says, “the justice of providing a child who lived only thirteen years with a normal life span.” Reginald talks with his hands, like a boy making shadow puppets on a wall. His hands are piebald—brown with white spots. I would like to ask him about his vitiligo—does he believe it to be autoimmune?—but Thelma has instructed me not to bring it up. He is sensitive, she told me. People sometimes call him “the Dalmatian.”

“Heaven has never harbored a true murderer,” Reginald says. “Personally, I’m not convinced the boy you saw, Mr. Henzel, is your killer. The eyes can play tricks. But if you do discover your Gunboy lives here, we’ll need to take measures to ensure he doesn’t harm other townies. Our Zig isn’t infallible. If he’s mistakenly let through somebody who should have been barred entry, well, we may need to act ourselves to seek the justice you and Mr. Dalrymple deserve.”

“Do you have jails here?” I ask.

“We have the Gene Forrester,” Thelma replies. She is taking the minutes of the meeting on yellow foolscap and now slips her pencil behind her ear. “But few townies get locked up. You got to do something real bad to go to the Gene, like stab a kid or break somebody’s leg. If townies get caught stealing bikes, well, they just do community service.”

“What kind of service?” I ask.

“Mopping floors, cleaning toilets, chopping potatoes in the cafeteria.”

“That ain’t enough for Gunboy!” Johnny cries. He holds up his dead-or-alive poster for all to see. “He’s pure evil. You can’t just have him cleaning the can.”

“I understand your anger,” vice president Liz McDougall says. Zig prevents dental cavities but, sadly for Liz, does not correct buckteeth. “But our council doesn’t usually deal with offenses more serious than fistfights, bullying, and theft.”

Treasurer Arty Hollingshead speaks, and as he does, I wonder about the need for a treasurer in a heaven that adopts a coupon-and-barter system instead of money. Arty says the council may have to consider a very serious jail sentence if Gunboy is discovered. “Apart from Zig,” he says, “there’s nobody looking out for us up here, so we must look out for each other and decide what’s right and what’s wrong.”

As the council members talk, Johnny keeps running a hand up and down the basset hound decal on his T-shirt, which I found for him at a clothing warehouse. He strokes the decal in the same way he used to stroke the back of drooling Rover during his morning paper route.

To stop the conversation, Reginald holds up a hand as a traffic cop would. He suggests that Johnny and I go on a bicycle trip to the infirmaries located in the other zones of Town. Even though Johnny spotted the alleged Gunboy in our own zone, that person, Reginald points out, does not necessarily live nearby. “He may reside in Three, or as far away as Six,” Reginald says. As council president, Reginald will draw up an official letter allowing us to check infirmary records to see who was reborn on or around the same date I was. Perhaps we will find Gunboy or even another eighth grader who died in Gunboy’s attack. With assistance from local councils, we can interview any relevant child. Even if we do not locate an actual student from Helen Keller, we could come across a recent newbie from Illinois who might provide key information on our killer—a name perhaps, or a motive. After all, our killings must have made news headlines.

“To make things easier with the other councils and the infirmaries,” Thelma says, “why don’t I travel with you boys? As a gommer myself, I might be of service.”

“I may as well go too,” Esther says. “Because if you find Gumboy, you gommers will need somebody with a level head—so you don’t rip off his head.”

Reginald looks across the table at Johnny and me. He wants to know what we think of the road trip. I am game, not because I especially want to confront the mysterious Gunboy, but rather because I want to see more of heaven, to verify how things operate in the different zones.

When I answer Reginald, I look at Johnny. “I enjoy travel,” I say.

Johnny’s forehead is sweaty from nerves, but because I badgered him into showering this morning, at least he does not smell of fried onions. He nods at me. “If we catch Gunboy,” he says to the council, “me and Boo should be the ones deciding what punishment that pr*ck gets. Can you promise me that?”

The council members exchange glances.

“We can promise you,” Reginald says, “that the punishment will fit the crimes.”