start crying all over again, but I don’t sleep. The scene on Nether Street, in the dark, in the rain, in the lights of my Voyager, keeps replaying in my head.
I try to remember the last time I cried, and I cannot; sometime when I was a child, I suppose. I’m not good at it, my throat and chest still ache, my head feels clogged.
I try not to move around in the bed, I try to do things that will help me get to sleep. I count to one hundred, then back to one. I try to bring up pleasant memories. I try to shut down entirely.
But I cannot sleep. And I keep seeing the event on Nether Street. And every time I turn my head, the clock-radio shows some later time, in red numbers, just there, to my right.
I must have been crazy, out of my mind. How could I have done these things? Herbert Everly. Edward Ricks, and his poor wife. And now Everett Dynes. He was like me, he should be my friend, my ally, we should work together against our common enemies. We shouldn’t claw each other, down here in the pit, fight each other for scraps, while they laugh up above. Or, even worse; while they don’t even bother to notice us, up above.
When the clock says 5:19, I come to my decision. It has to end now. I have to make a clean breast of everything, atone for what I’ve done, do no more.
I get out of bed. My exhaustion has left me, I’m awake and alert. I’m calm. I turn on the lights and look around for writing paper, but Dawson’s Motel does not equip its rooms with stationery, and I’ve brought no paper with me.
Paper lines the dresser drawers, white lengths of paper, in the old-fashioned dark wood dresser. I take out the paper from the bottom drawer, and find it stiff, rather thick, smoother on one side than the other. A very simple level of manufacture, this paper. (I could cry all over again, just for a second, when I notice myself noticing that detail.)
The rougher side is better for writing on. I sit at the table, I smooth the paper in front of me, I pick up my pen, and I write:
My name is Burke Devore. I am 51 years old and I live at 62 Pennery Woods Rd., Fairbourne, CT. I have been unemployed for close to 2 years, through no fault of my own. Since my army service, I have at all times been employed, until now.
This period of unemployment has had a very bad effect on me, and has made me do things I would never have thought possible. Through placing a false ad in a trade journal, I got the resumés of many other people who are unemployed, as I am, in my field of expertise. I then determined to kill those people who I feared were better qualified than I was for one certain job. I wanted that job, I wanted to be employed again, and that desire made me do crazy things.
I wish to confess now to four murders. The first was two weeks ago, on Thursday, May 8th. My victim was a man named Herbert C. Everly. I shot him in front of his house on Churchwarden Lane, in Fall City, CT.
My second victim was Edward G. Ricks. I only meant to kill him, but his wife mistook me for an older man who’d been having an affair with her young daughter, and in the confusion I had to kill her, too. I shot both of them last Thursday at their home in Longholme, MA.
My final victim was last night, in Lichgate, NY. His name was Everett Dynes, and I deliberately ran him down with my automobile.
I am truly sorry for these crimes. I don’t know how I could have done them. I feel so sorry for the families. I feel so sorry for the people I killed. I hate myself. I don’t know how I can go on. This is my confession.
My last resumé.
When I finish it, I sign it, but I don’t date it. There’s no need.
I’m not sure yet what I’ll do tomorrow. Either I’ll shoot myself with that Luger in my raincoat pocket hanging from the pipe rod in the closet over there, or I’ll drive back to Lichgate, find the police station, and show my confession to a policeman there.
I just don’t think I can kill myself. I think I have to atone. I think I have to pay for
I try to remember the last time I cried, and I cannot; sometime when I was a child, I suppose. I’m not good at it, my throat and chest still ache, my head feels clogged.
I try not to move around in the bed, I try to do things that will help me get to sleep. I count to one hundred, then back to one. I try to bring up pleasant memories. I try to shut down entirely.
But I cannot sleep. And I keep seeing the event on Nether Street. And every time I turn my head, the clock-radio shows some later time, in red numbers, just there, to my right.
I must have been crazy, out of my mind. How could I have done these things? Herbert Everly. Edward Ricks, and his poor wife. And now Everett Dynes. He was like me, he should be my friend, my ally, we should work together against our common enemies. We shouldn’t claw each other, down here in the pit, fight each other for scraps, while they laugh up above. Or, even worse; while they don’t even bother to notice us, up above.
When the clock says 5:19, I come to my decision. It has to end now. I have to make a clean breast of everything, atone for what I’ve done, do no more.
I get out of bed. My exhaustion has left me, I’m awake and alert. I’m calm. I turn on the lights and look around for writing paper, but Dawson’s Motel does not equip its rooms with stationery, and I’ve brought no paper with me.
Paper lines the dresser drawers, white lengths of paper, in the old-fashioned dark wood dresser. I take out the paper from the bottom drawer, and find it stiff, rather thick, smoother on one side than the other. A very simple level of manufacture, this paper. (I could cry all over again, just for a second, when I notice myself noticing that detail.)
The rougher side is better for writing on. I sit at the table, I smooth the paper in front of me, I pick up my pen, and I write:
My name is Burke Devore. I am 51 years old and I live at 62 Pennery Woods Rd., Fairbourne, CT. I have been unemployed for close to 2 years, through no fault of my own. Since my army service, I have at all times been employed, until now.
This period of unemployment has had a very bad effect on me, and has made me do things I would never have thought possible. Through placing a false ad in a trade journal, I got the resumés of many other people who are unemployed, as I am, in my field of expertise. I then determined to kill those people who I feared were better qualified than I was for one certain job. I wanted that job, I wanted to be employed again, and that desire made me do crazy things.
I wish to confess now to four murders. The first was two weeks ago, on Thursday, May 8th. My victim was a man named Herbert C. Everly. I shot him in front of his house on Churchwarden Lane, in Fall City, CT.
My second victim was Edward G. Ricks. I only meant to kill him, but his wife mistook me for an older man who’d been having an affair with her young daughter, and in the confusion I had to kill her, too. I shot both of them last Thursday at their home in Longholme, MA.
My final victim was last night, in Lichgate, NY. His name was Everett Dynes, and I deliberately ran him down with my automobile.
I am truly sorry for these crimes. I don’t know how I could have done them. I feel so sorry for the families. I feel so sorry for the people I killed. I hate myself. I don’t know how I can go on. This is my confession.
My last resumé.
When I finish it, I sign it, but I don’t date it. There’s no need.
I’m not sure yet what I’ll do tomorrow. Either I’ll shoot myself with that Luger in my raincoat pocket hanging from the pipe rod in the closet over there, or I’ll drive back to Lichgate, find the police station, and show my confession to a policeman there.
I just don’t think I can kill myself. I think I have to atone. I think I have to pay for
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