it with a little more heat than I meant. Maybe that’s why Kate kicked me.
“I don’t know anything about a damn wig. I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. And I didn’t shoot nobody. I did all my killing over there, protecting you pussies. And I didn’t have to use a damn rifle every time, either.”
Gatewood said he wore the coat a couple of days. Then, out of nowhere, “a bunch of mean cops threw me to the ground and kind of fucked me up.”
He pointed to the missing teeth.
“They’re goin’ to have to get me a partial plate,” he said. “And then I’m gonna sue their asses.”
He put his cuffed hands on the table. He looked like he wanted to rip them off and mess somebody up. I wasn’t sure he couldn’t do it.
“Get this straight,” he said. “I didn’t shoot anybody. Man left me a coat, and I was glad to get it. If I knew all the shit that was going to come out of this, I’d of run the bastard down and made him take his coat back.”
I asked Gatewood if he got a look at the man.
“Nah, just his back. He was just some guy.”
We talked some more, me mostly trying to get him to slip up and admit that he knew about the wig, but my heart wasn’t in it. If he was dumb enough to wear the same jacket he used for the shooting, in the damn shadow of the Prestwould, from Thursday to Monday, it seemed highly unlikely that he would be smart enough to pretend he didn’t know anything about the wig.
When I asked him how he got hold of the key, he seemed equally adamant about his ignorance.
“C’mon,” I said. “You know you took the key out of that vase and opened the door with it.”
“I don’t know anything about any fucking key, and I don’t know anything about any fucking vase. You people are crazy.”
We were winding up when he pointed to my finger.
“VCU grad?” he asked.
I told him that, yes, I was. An alumnus in good standing, good for twenty bucks a year to the mass comm school, come rain or shine.
“Me, too,” he said.
Raymond Gatewood then proceeded to tell us what I can only assume he hadn’t told the cops yet. He was class of ’05, majoring in history.
“But, then, you know, I thought it wasn’t right, not doing my part. I’d hear these big mouths, talking about how we ought to go over there and kick bin Laden’s ass and blast ’em all back to the stone ages, and it kind of made me sick. I thought, if you’re not going to do it, don’t talk about it. So I did it.”
I know what he means. We do have an overabundance of alligator mouths and hummingbird asses in the land of the free.
Gatewood rubbed his forehead. He looked tired.
Kate asked him if he was OK. He said he had a headache.
“Some days,” he said, “I’m good. Some days, I’m not. Just the way it is. They say they’re working on better drugs, but I tell you, all they do is make me sleep.”
On the way out, Kate asked me if I thought it was possible that Raymond Gatewood somehow got hold of a Winchester .30-30, slipped into the Prestwould, found Finlay Rand’s key, got into his unit and shot some guy in the park.
I told her that I thought just about anything was possible. I reminded her that Occam’s razor usually shaves pretty smooth and clean.
“Do you think he’s faking it?” she asked me. “Do you think he’s playing crazy?”
I told her, no, actually it seemed more like he was trying to play sane.
“Well, you might be right there. He’s lost it on a few occasions.”
She ticked off some of the highlights: three assaults, one malicious wounding, one indecent exposure when he decided to celebrate spring two years ago by running around naked in the park.
“But here’s the thing,” she said. “Not one of those involved anything more complicated than the shoe he used to beat some bum who tried to rob him.”
“Why isn’t he in jail now?” Our jail is full of people who didn’t do anything more violent than sell a narc a couple of ounces.
Kate laughed, but just
“I don’t know anything about a damn wig. I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. And I didn’t shoot nobody. I did all my killing over there, protecting you pussies. And I didn’t have to use a damn rifle every time, either.”
Gatewood said he wore the coat a couple of days. Then, out of nowhere, “a bunch of mean cops threw me to the ground and kind of fucked me up.”
He pointed to the missing teeth.
“They’re goin’ to have to get me a partial plate,” he said. “And then I’m gonna sue their asses.”
He put his cuffed hands on the table. He looked like he wanted to rip them off and mess somebody up. I wasn’t sure he couldn’t do it.
“Get this straight,” he said. “I didn’t shoot anybody. Man left me a coat, and I was glad to get it. If I knew all the shit that was going to come out of this, I’d of run the bastard down and made him take his coat back.”
I asked Gatewood if he got a look at the man.
“Nah, just his back. He was just some guy.”
We talked some more, me mostly trying to get him to slip up and admit that he knew about the wig, but my heart wasn’t in it. If he was dumb enough to wear the same jacket he used for the shooting, in the damn shadow of the Prestwould, from Thursday to Monday, it seemed highly unlikely that he would be smart enough to pretend he didn’t know anything about the wig.
When I asked him how he got hold of the key, he seemed equally adamant about his ignorance.
“C’mon,” I said. “You know you took the key out of that vase and opened the door with it.”
“I don’t know anything about any fucking key, and I don’t know anything about any fucking vase. You people are crazy.”
We were winding up when he pointed to my finger.
“VCU grad?” he asked.
I told him that, yes, I was. An alumnus in good standing, good for twenty bucks a year to the mass comm school, come rain or shine.
“Me, too,” he said.
Raymond Gatewood then proceeded to tell us what I can only assume he hadn’t told the cops yet. He was class of ’05, majoring in history.
“But, then, you know, I thought it wasn’t right, not doing my part. I’d hear these big mouths, talking about how we ought to go over there and kick bin Laden’s ass and blast ’em all back to the stone ages, and it kind of made me sick. I thought, if you’re not going to do it, don’t talk about it. So I did it.”
I know what he means. We do have an overabundance of alligator mouths and hummingbird asses in the land of the free.
Gatewood rubbed his forehead. He looked tired.
Kate asked him if he was OK. He said he had a headache.
“Some days,” he said, “I’m good. Some days, I’m not. Just the way it is. They say they’re working on better drugs, but I tell you, all they do is make me sleep.”
On the way out, Kate asked me if I thought it was possible that Raymond Gatewood somehow got hold of a Winchester .30-30, slipped into the Prestwould, found Finlay Rand’s key, got into his unit and shot some guy in the park.
I told her that I thought just about anything was possible. I reminded her that Occam’s razor usually shaves pretty smooth and clean.
“Do you think he’s faking it?” she asked me. “Do you think he’s playing crazy?”
I told her, no, actually it seemed more like he was trying to play sane.
“Well, you might be right there. He’s lost it on a few occasions.”
She ticked off some of the highlights: three assaults, one malicious wounding, one indecent exposure when he decided to celebrate spring two years ago by running around naked in the park.
“But here’s the thing,” she said. “Not one of those involved anything more complicated than the shoe he used to beat some bum who tried to rob him.”
“Why isn’t he in jail now?” Our jail is full of people who didn’t do anything more violent than sell a narc a couple of ounces.
Kate laughed, but just
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