shot, one apparently drowned, one disappeared on the AT and one fell under a train. And, of course, there’s Les, who has not been exactly immune to violence of late.
I have asked Ed Chenowith, our remaining researcher at the paper, to please try and find Joaquin Velasquez, whose last known whereabouts was south Florida. He said he’d see what he could do.
I slept from three to eight, awakened by Kate, who informed me that I could interview Raymond Gatewood today at ten.
“You’re going to behave,” she says, not asking.
“Yes, ma’am. I won’t be packing.”
“Hah. Well, I’m taking you at your word. Gatewood doesn’t know that you’re Les’s, uh, whatever.”
“Almost stepson.”
“Yeah. Well, he doesn’t know, or I doubt he’d be interested in talking to you.”
We agree that I will not try to pinch Raymond Gatewood’s head off and shit down his neck.
I get Andi to agree to take Peggy and Awesome over to the hospital if I’ll pick them up later.
At the city jail, they checked me for lethal weapons. Kate was waiting for me.
“When you see this guy,” she said, “you’ll see what I mean. He’s not competent enough to find his ass with both hands.”
We were taken back to a room where Kate and I sat on one side of a desk, with Gatewood, manacled, on the other.
I have to say, he’s a somewhat scary-looking dude. He’s about six two, with brownish hair that resembles a rat’s nest. He looks amazingly fit for someone who obviously hasn’t been keeping up his health-club dues, but his skin has that dark, leathery appearance you get from living outdoors in the winter. When he looks at you, he doesn’t seem to be really looking at you, but at something a few feet behind your head, like you’re not there, or he doesn’t differentiate between chairs and human beings.
Kate had filled me in a little on his numerous trips to Iraq and Afghanistan and his discharge after he tried to strangle a captain who apparently offended him in some way.
“I think,” Kate said, “that he was basically over there to kill people.”
I observed that that’s kind of what soldiers do in wartime.
“No,” she said. “I mean up close and personal, and maybe not armed combatants, just people somebody thought might be thinking bad thoughts about the United States.”
Well, somebody’s got to do it. But he’s definitely a candidate for a little post-traumatic stress, and I know how diligent the VA has been in getting these guys help, so I was thinking, yeah, this definitely is a son of a bitch who’d shoot somebody from the ninth-floor window. For him, it’d be a fucking nostalgia trip.
But I promised Kate I’d hear the guy out, have the hanging after the trial.
“Why won’t they believe me?” he asked my ex-wife.
I was thinking, why would they? You still were wearing the same dumb-ass jacket you had on when you shot Les.
“Tell him about the coat,” Kate said.
He didn’t seem to know at first what she was talking about. And then he did.
“Oh. Yeah. Like I’m lying there on my bench, tryin’ to catch some rays, get out of the wind, you know? And I feel something hit my legs. I figure it’s those damn college kids, fucking with me again. One of these days… ”
“The coat,” Kate said, interrupting.
“Oh. Well, I look down and there’s this package balled up there at my feet. Some guy’s walking away. I yell for him to come back, that he’s dropped something, but he’s moving pretty fast.
“Then I unwrap the package, and there’s this coat. It was a little small for me, but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers.”
When he smiled, I could see that he was missing a couple of front teeth.
“So,” I asked him, seeing Kate’s look of annoyance at my breaking in, “what did you do with the wig? Why not wear that, too? It’d keep your head warm, maybe.”
He looks at me like I’m speaking Swahili.
“Wig?”
“Wig. The one you wore when you shot Les Hacker.”
Maybe I said
I have asked Ed Chenowith, our remaining researcher at the paper, to please try and find Joaquin Velasquez, whose last known whereabouts was south Florida. He said he’d see what he could do.
I slept from three to eight, awakened by Kate, who informed me that I could interview Raymond Gatewood today at ten.
“You’re going to behave,” she says, not asking.
“Yes, ma’am. I won’t be packing.”
“Hah. Well, I’m taking you at your word. Gatewood doesn’t know that you’re Les’s, uh, whatever.”
“Almost stepson.”
“Yeah. Well, he doesn’t know, or I doubt he’d be interested in talking to you.”
We agree that I will not try to pinch Raymond Gatewood’s head off and shit down his neck.
I get Andi to agree to take Peggy and Awesome over to the hospital if I’ll pick them up later.
At the city jail, they checked me for lethal weapons. Kate was waiting for me.
“When you see this guy,” she said, “you’ll see what I mean. He’s not competent enough to find his ass with both hands.”
We were taken back to a room where Kate and I sat on one side of a desk, with Gatewood, manacled, on the other.
I have to say, he’s a somewhat scary-looking dude. He’s about six two, with brownish hair that resembles a rat’s nest. He looks amazingly fit for someone who obviously hasn’t been keeping up his health-club dues, but his skin has that dark, leathery appearance you get from living outdoors in the winter. When he looks at you, he doesn’t seem to be really looking at you, but at something a few feet behind your head, like you’re not there, or he doesn’t differentiate between chairs and human beings.
Kate had filled me in a little on his numerous trips to Iraq and Afghanistan and his discharge after he tried to strangle a captain who apparently offended him in some way.
“I think,” Kate said, “that he was basically over there to kill people.”
I observed that that’s kind of what soldiers do in wartime.
“No,” she said. “I mean up close and personal, and maybe not armed combatants, just people somebody thought might be thinking bad thoughts about the United States.”
Well, somebody’s got to do it. But he’s definitely a candidate for a little post-traumatic stress, and I know how diligent the VA has been in getting these guys help, so I was thinking, yeah, this definitely is a son of a bitch who’d shoot somebody from the ninth-floor window. For him, it’d be a fucking nostalgia trip.
But I promised Kate I’d hear the guy out, have the hanging after the trial.
“Why won’t they believe me?” he asked my ex-wife.
I was thinking, why would they? You still were wearing the same dumb-ass jacket you had on when you shot Les.
“Tell him about the coat,” Kate said.
He didn’t seem to know at first what she was talking about. And then he did.
“Oh. Yeah. Like I’m lying there on my bench, tryin’ to catch some rays, get out of the wind, you know? And I feel something hit my legs. I figure it’s those damn college kids, fucking with me again. One of these days… ”
“The coat,” Kate said, interrupting.
“Oh. Well, I look down and there’s this package balled up there at my feet. Some guy’s walking away. I yell for him to come back, that he’s dropped something, but he’s moving pretty fast.
“Then I unwrap the package, and there’s this coat. It was a little small for me, but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers.”
When he smiled, I could see that he was missing a couple of front teeth.
“So,” I asked him, seeing Kate’s look of annoyance at my breaking in, “what did you do with the wig? Why not wear that, too? It’d keep your head warm, maybe.”
He looks at me like I’m speaking Swahili.
“Wig?”
“Wig. The one you wore when you shot Les Hacker.”
Maybe I said
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