have liked to have handled the Ekleberg case myself, but with all the problems dragging on me, that just didn’t seem possible. I made a few phone calls, found that Jimmy Tobbler was available, and hired him to handle it.
With having skipped breakfast, my stomach was feeling as dried out as a prune pit. I was about to head out for some lunch when the phone rang.
It was Mary, but it also wasn’t, if you get me. At least, it wasn’t the little gal who had idolized me before. She was all business, and talked to me as if we had never laid eyes on each other. She not only wanted to know my progress, but also wanted a written report on everything I had done and everything I was planning to do. My heart dropped when she asked for that. She had lost faith in me quicker than anyone could have reasonably expected.
At this point, it would seem if I had any sense, I’d tell Mary about Rose, right? Well, there was only one small problem. And it wasn’t the way it would hit Rose. I mean, she was an adult and if she couldn’t accept the consequences of her actions that was just too bad. And Mary? I guess it would be a shame for her to feel badly towards me. I wouldn’t like it, but that still wouldn’t be any reason to be tripping all over myself. At least not if that was all there was to it. And of course it wasn’t.
* * * * *
Walt Murphy should’ve died the way I already explained. It should’ve happened that way because that’s how everyone believes it happened— my loyal readers, the police, the newspapers. Everyone, except maybe Rose. That version also makes a hell of a lot more sense than what really happened.
It’s kind of funny, but I still don’t understand why I did what I did. At least not entirely. Then again, I don’t spend much time thinking about it. It doesn’t do me any good and it’s much better for me to think about it the other way.
But the real way—Jesus! With that crazy bastard telling me how he knows his wife is cheating on him. And me sitting there wanting to puke my stomach out. I mean, the guy knows his wife is playing around and he doesn’t care. The son of a bitch just wants to make her stop. Thinking if I take pictures of her in the act he can use them to make her stop.
Listening to him was just so damn funny, so damn sad. I wanted to laugh, to reach out and strike his stupid idiotic face. I tried not to do anything. I tried to sit there and smile and nod my head. But I couldn’t. Before I knew it, the sickness was taking me over, suffocating me in a red haze of fury. When the sickness does that, there’s really nothing to do but let it happen. I took my gun from the desk drawer and pointed it at him and waited and . . . .
He did grab the gun away from me. That part was true; we fought over the gun. He was smaller than me and soft-looking and it didn’t look like I would have much trouble getting my gun back from him. I guess I knew a struggle wasn’t going to help him much, but it was sure going to help me.
Who would have believed me if there wasn’t any evidence of a struggle? And the bruises he gave me really didn’t matter for anything except they helped convince the cops that the way I explained it was the way it had to have been, as crazy as it sounded, because nothing else made a damn bit of sense.
At first the cops didn’t want to believe me. They kept asking questions, the same ones again and again. The one they were stuck on was why the coroner said that over an hour elapsed between the stomach and head wounds.
It was a pretty good question. If the shots were fired while we were fighting over the gun both wounds would’ve happened at about the same time. There wasn’t much I could say except that a mistake must have been made.
They didn’t like my answer. They’d probably still be grilling me if the coroner hadn’t admitted that there was a chance he was wrong. When there was this much blood, it can be difficult to narrow down exact times, he conceded.
With having skipped breakfast, my stomach was feeling as dried out as a prune pit. I was about to head out for some lunch when the phone rang.
It was Mary, but it also wasn’t, if you get me. At least, it wasn’t the little gal who had idolized me before. She was all business, and talked to me as if we had never laid eyes on each other. She not only wanted to know my progress, but also wanted a written report on everything I had done and everything I was planning to do. My heart dropped when she asked for that. She had lost faith in me quicker than anyone could have reasonably expected.
At this point, it would seem if I had any sense, I’d tell Mary about Rose, right? Well, there was only one small problem. And it wasn’t the way it would hit Rose. I mean, she was an adult and if she couldn’t accept the consequences of her actions that was just too bad. And Mary? I guess it would be a shame for her to feel badly towards me. I wouldn’t like it, but that still wouldn’t be any reason to be tripping all over myself. At least not if that was all there was to it. And of course it wasn’t.
* * * * *
Walt Murphy should’ve died the way I already explained. It should’ve happened that way because that’s how everyone believes it happened— my loyal readers, the police, the newspapers. Everyone, except maybe Rose. That version also makes a hell of a lot more sense than what really happened.
It’s kind of funny, but I still don’t understand why I did what I did. At least not entirely. Then again, I don’t spend much time thinking about it. It doesn’t do me any good and it’s much better for me to think about it the other way.
But the real way—Jesus! With that crazy bastard telling me how he knows his wife is cheating on him. And me sitting there wanting to puke my stomach out. I mean, the guy knows his wife is playing around and he doesn’t care. The son of a bitch just wants to make her stop. Thinking if I take pictures of her in the act he can use them to make her stop.
Listening to him was just so damn funny, so damn sad. I wanted to laugh, to reach out and strike his stupid idiotic face. I tried not to do anything. I tried to sit there and smile and nod my head. But I couldn’t. Before I knew it, the sickness was taking me over, suffocating me in a red haze of fury. When the sickness does that, there’s really nothing to do but let it happen. I took my gun from the desk drawer and pointed it at him and waited and . . . .
He did grab the gun away from me. That part was true; we fought over the gun. He was smaller than me and soft-looking and it didn’t look like I would have much trouble getting my gun back from him. I guess I knew a struggle wasn’t going to help him much, but it was sure going to help me.
Who would have believed me if there wasn’t any evidence of a struggle? And the bruises he gave me really didn’t matter for anything except they helped convince the cops that the way I explained it was the way it had to have been, as crazy as it sounded, because nothing else made a damn bit of sense.
At first the cops didn’t want to believe me. They kept asking questions, the same ones again and again. The one they were stuck on was why the coroner said that over an hour elapsed between the stomach and head wounds.
It was a pretty good question. If the shots were fired while we were fighting over the gun both wounds would’ve happened at about the same time. There wasn’t much I could say except that a mistake must have been made.
They didn’t like my answer. They’d probably still be grilling me if the coroner hadn’t admitted that there was a chance he was wrong. When there was this much blood, it can be difficult to narrow down exact times, he conceded.
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