by Mark Nuzzi
Paul Whittaker had been collecting stamps for forty-seven years, each acquisition a small victory in his methodical pursuit of postal perfection.
His Manhattan penthouse reflected a life of disciplined success. Mahogany bookshelves lined with legal texts, framed commendations from three mayors, and walls displaying pristine stamp collections in museum-quality frames. The apartment held peculiar touches that spoke to his obsessive nature. Vintage magnifying glasses arranged on custom stands like scientific instruments, pens from significant legal victories displayed on his locked nightstand, and detailed journals cataloguing human behavior with the same precision he applied to philately.
Paul slid open the top drawer of his display cabinet and withdrew a pair of cotton gloves, the kind auction houses insisted upon. He fitted them finger by finger, then lifted a stamp with silver tongs as if it were a stray hair on a suit jacket.
Beneath the magnifier, the perforations resembled teeth.
Perfect.
Controlled.
He liked that. The way a thing could be handled without leaving anything behind. He replaced it precisely where its outline belonged.
Paul had joined McKay, Kelly & Associates straight from law school twenty-five years ago, quickly earning a reputation as their most meticulous prosecutor. His corner office overlooked the courthouse where he’d won countless cases, and colleagues respected his unwavering ethical standards. Always with a perfect haircut, identically trimmed sideburns and suit matching cufflinks, Paul was known for refusing questionable cases, ensuring fair representation for defendants, and personally reviewing every piece of evidence to prevent misconduct.
In the courtroom Paul’s demeanor was that of a skyscraper.
Intimidating.
Imposing.
Impossible to topple.
The Warren Montgomery case had been Paul’s most challenging prosecution. Montgomery, a serial killer who had claimed seven victims over three years, possessed an unsettling intelligence that made him formidable even from the defendant’s chair. Throughout the six-week trial, Montgomery sat calmly, occasionally scribbling notes in a leather journal with the same careful precision Paul used for his own case preparation. Some days Warren documented with his left hand. Others, the opposite.
The killer’s ambidextrousness intrigued Paul more than his nonchalance. More than his impeccable speech. It suggested adaptability.
Control.
During his closing argument, Paul stood before the jury with moral authority.
What convinced a jury, he had learned, mattered far more than what actually happened.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he declared, gesturing toward the defendant, “Warren Montgomery collected his victims with the same cold calculation others might use to collect… stamps. Each murder was planned, executed, and catalogued with obsessive attention to detail.”
Warren looked up sharply at the word—stamps—his eyes meeting Paul’s with unsettling recognition. During the recess, as bailiffs prepared to escort Warren back to his cell, the killer caught Paul’s attention.
“Stamps, you said?” Warren whispered, leaning forward, handcuffs jingling, with genuine interest. “Fascinating hobby. I collect them myself.” He gave a barracuda grin. “I have a rather exceptional 1918 Inverted Jenny.” His pupils widened. “Mr. Whittaker, perhaps when this unpleasantness is over, you’d appreciate seeing a real collector’s work.”
Paul dismissed the comment as psychological manipulation, but the killer had pierced through his brinksmanship. An Inverted Jenny was the holy grail of philatelic collecting, worth more than most people’s homes.
Five years later, Paul used his prosecutorial credentials to visit Warren in maximum security prison, ostensibly for a follow-up interview about potential accomplices. The prison’s visiting room was sterile and monitored. Warren entered in a red jumpsuit, genuinely pleased to see him, now with a beard longer than a restaurant menu. He gently sat and matched Paul’s gaze, never blinking.
“Paul! I wondered if you’d ever take me up on my offer.” His tongue flicked across his lips beneath the wild whiskers.
“You mentioned stamps during your trial,” Paul said casually.
Warren smiled warmly.
“Ah yes, my collection. Beautiful specimens, each one carefully selected, methodically acquired. The Inverted Jenny is particularly special. It’s at my attorney’s office with my other personal effects. Jeminsin…you know him.”
Later that afternoon, Paul found himself in Jeminsin’s cluttered law office. The elderly attorney led him to a back room where Warren’s belongings were stored in banker’s boxes.
“Strange request,” Jeminsin muttered, unlocking a filing cabinet, glasses balancing on the tip of his nose. “But Warren specifically said you would come asking about his stamps someday.”
Jeminsin pulled out a leather portfolio and opened it.
There it was. The 1918 Inverted Jenny, its upside-down biplane a testament to human error transformed into priceless treasure.
It was the most breathtaking thing Paul had ever seen.
“Warren wants fifty thousand for it,” Jeminsin said matter-of-factly. “He said to tell you it comes with a gentleman’s understanding. Satisfaction guaranteed, or your perspective returned. Said you’d know what it meant.”
Paul stared at the stamp, feeling its magnetic pull.
“I’ll take it.”
Back in his penthouse that evening, Paul performed his usual ritual.
Gin and tonic.
Curtains drawn.
Leather chair.
Soft lighting.
He removed the inverted Jenny from its sleeve.
He began to sweat.
His heart pounded as the rest of the world faded.
This was the most satisfying moment of his life.
The stamp felt warm between his fingers, almost alive with postal history. An irresistible compulsion came over him, something he’d never done with a stamp since childhood.
Without thinking, he brought it to his lips.
Paul extended his tongue.
And licked it.
He swirled the taste of century old glue in his mouth, savoring every flavor filled moment.
The world exploded into revelation. Paul found himself reliving moments he’d forgotten.
1986
Twenty-six-year-old Paul slouched in his sedan, binoculars trained on her window. The elderly widow had inherited her late husband’s stamp collection. Including a pristine Statue of Liberty Centennial stamp. Paul watched her routine for weeks. When she was away at the nail salon, he broke in. The stamp became his.
A heart-stopping beauty.
1999
Paul, now a seasoned prosecutor, sorted through Jamal Vega’s confiscated belongings while the small-time dealer awaited sentencing. A mint‑condition Bugs Bunny commemorative stamp caught his eye, stirring a faint, unwelcome echo of Saturday‑morning cartoons. It disappeared from evidence that day.
Its printed colors were resplendent to view with the natural eye.
2003
Paul slid an envelope containing a rare 1901 Pan-American Exposition stamp across a coffee shop table to witness Ruth Jepsen, buying her silence about inconsistencies in her testimony.
Then the vision shifted.
Paul found himself standing in a sterile room lined with glass cases containing crime scene photos, victim portraits, newspaper clippings. Warren Montgomery stood beside him, arranging his collection with identical reverence.
“Magnificent collection isn’t it,” Warren said. “Each piece carefully selected, methodically acquired. You understand the passion, don’t you, Paul?”
The parallel between them was undeniable.
“Every collector has a specialty,” Warren said as the vision dissipated.
Paul gasped, finding himself back in his study, the Inverted Jenny still clutched in his trembling hand. The stamp’s understanding had delivered exactly as promised. His perspective had fundamentally shifted.
The phone rang.
“Paul?” Jeminsin’s voice crackled through the speaker. “I’ve got three defense attorneys asking for referrals. Word’s getting around that you might be interested in switching sides.”
Paul stared at his collection, seeing it now through different eyes. Each stamp represented not just postal history, but his own moral compromises.
“Tell them I’m taking appointments,” Paul said quietly.
He removed the Inverted Jenny one last time, just long enough to confirm the corners are still sharp. He pressed it flat with his thumb, harder than necessary, then wiped the surface clean with a cloth.
When it went back into the sleeve, it looked untouched, as if it had always been this way.
Mark Nuzzi is enjoying middle age and everything that comes with it. When he’s not writing, he collects meteorites, keeps aquariums, and fills birdfeeders regularly—to be safe, just in case. He lives in New Jersey, which helps explain a lot. His work has appeared at FreedomFiction, The BloominOnion, and in anthologies from Mobius Blvd, The Literary Hatchet, and Wicked Shadow Press. He posts infrequently on Instagram and X at @mnuzzi74.
January House Literary Journal 
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