Max Collins - Butcher's dozen

The heavy steel door-marked: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY-swung open and the sheriff strode in. He was a big fat man with a head as square as Dolezal's; his khaki shirt was soaked with sweat. He was bareheaded and had a rubber hose in one hand. Another big man, a deputy named McFarlin, who'd been in here before, trailed after him.

Dolezal's eyes squeezed shut as he willed this sight to go away, knowing it would not. Knowing that the time for beatings had come.

"Frank," the sheriff said with an awful yellow smile, beating the rubber hose casually in a big fat open palm, "you weren't supposed to get outa that chair, now, were you?"

Dolezal swallowed. "No, sir."

The sheriff moved quickly-amazingly so for a man his size-and smashed the top of the chair with the rubber hose; some wood chips flew.

"Sit, Frank," the sheriff said, as if to a dog.

And much like an obedient dog, Dolezal sat.

"You want a smoke, Frank?" Now the sheriff's voice seemed friendly.

Dolezal nodded eagerly.

The sheriff nodded to his deputy, who dug out a pack of Camels and gave one to Dolezal, lit a match for him. Dolezal, shaky as he was, managed to lean in and get the light, then sucked the smoke in like a drowning man gasping for breath; he could taste the smoke so sharply, so cleanly. But a cigarette without a drink was like wearing one shoe when the world was a hot asphalt road.

If he could only have a drink, life would be good again.

"You should talk to us, Frank," the sheriff said.

"I talk plenty," Dolezal said. His voice sounded like a whine in his ears and he hated it; he wished he could sound strong. He wished he could stand up to these men.

"You should get it off your chest," Deputy McFarlin said. He was standing back, away from the light, a voice out of darkness. "You'll feel better about it."

"We'll give you a meal," the sheriff said, "and let you get a good night's sleep."

"Give me a drink, Dolezal said, and sucked in more smoke. "Drink make me relax. Make me remember."

"First, remember," the sheriff said, lifting a finger gently, the rubber hose limp in his other hand, "then you get your drink."

Dolezal shook his head helplessly. "I no can remember."

The sheriff swung the hose and it made a swooshing sound before it landed with a whump against Dolezal's left rib cage.

Dolezal howled and fell out of the chair, landing hard. The cigarette went flying, sparking into the gloom. He hugged himself, like a fetus, and rolled out of the bright light. McFarlin hauled him off the floor and out of the darkness and back into brightness and the chair.

The sheriff raised the hose again.

"I tell you," Dolezal said, weeping, "I tell you."

The sheriff smiled. "Good. Get it off your chest, Frank."

Dolezal looked at the floor. "I… I make sex with boys."

The sheriff whacked Dolezal's chest with the rubber hose. "Christ, you old faggot! We know that!"

"You… you do?"

"You think we didn't check up on you before we arrested you? Everybody in the Third precinct knows you're one of the Brown family!"

Being "one of the Brown family," as Dolezal in his shame knew all too well, was how the sin of his sex drive was described on the street. He had not wanted to admit his bent to the sheriff, knowing he would be sentenced for pederasty; he had a career to consider, after all.

"Frank," Deputy McFarlin said reasonably, brushing off the shoulders of Dolezal's workshirt, "you've already admitted you knew Ed Andrassy. You've already admitted you knew Flo Polillo. Why not give us the rest?"

Dolezal swallowed and rubbed away some moisture from his stubbly face; he was tapping the floor with one foot. "What rest?"

The sheriff smacked him in the left rib cage with the hose. Dolezal howled again, but did not fall out of the chair.

"Tell us how you killed Flo Polillo, Frank."

Dolezal felt himself begin to shake. Is that why they brought him here?

The sheriff grabbed him by the back of the hair and made him stare up into the blinding white light.

"Tell us, Frank!"

He shut his eyes. "I kill Flo?"

The sheriff let go of Dolezal's hair, and the man's head flopped forward.

"Are you askin', Frank, or tellin'?"

"I… I know somebody chop Flo up."

"How do you know that?"

"People talk. Cops around, asking questions."

"Was it you, Frank?"

"Me?"

"Did you kill Flo?"

"No! No. I no remember…"

"If you don't remember, how can you say no?"

"I drink," he said pathetically, "and no remember."

"Tell us what you do remember about Flo, Frank."

He tried to think. "I not see her since January."

The sheriff and the deputy glanced at each other.

"That's when she was killed, Frank," the sheriff said.

"I hear that," Dolezal said.

"When exactly did you see her last?" the sheriff asked.

He'd seen her ghost the night before; but he knew the sheriff didn't mean that.

"We was in my room drinking," he told them. "A Friday night. We drink sometimes. She stay my place sometimes."

"I thought you liked boys, Frank."

"She was friend. We drink together. She got mad sometimes when she drink."

"Really, Frank?"

"She was dressed up to go out. She want some money."

"Go on."

He shrugged. "She grab for ten dollars I had in my pocket. I didn't want to give her. She tried to take my money before."

"What happened then, Frank?"

"We… had fight."

"You had a fight?"

He shrugged again. "I have this butcher knife."

"Go on, Frank."

"In drawer at my place, this butcher knife. She went and got it. She came at me with it."

"Tried to stab you? Tried to kill you?"

"I don't know. She had it. She wanted ten dollars. But she was too drunk, I take knife away. I hit her."

"With the knife, Frank?"

"My fist. I hit with my fist."

"Is that when you killed her?"

"I didn't kill her. I didn't kill nobody."

"Tell us the rest."

"I can't remember."

"Did she hit you back?"

"No. I knock her down."

"Did she get up?"

"Can't remember. I drink some more."

The sheriff and the deputy looked at each other and shrugged with their faces.

"I tell you enough now? You give me drink?"

"Frank, the sheriff said, "you're going to have to tell us about it."

"About what?"

"About killing Flo Polillo. About cutting her up, Frank, with that butcher knife."

"No!" Had he done that? Had he killed her?

"You heard about it. You said so. Heard about her body turning up, all cut up, in pieces. Some of her we haven't found yet. Like her head. Maybe you can tell us where her head is, Frank."

"No! No!" Had he? Had he done it? Could he do such a thing? People told him, sometimes, of awful things he did when he was drunk-getting violent, fighting with strangers, beating up on people. He awaited such reports with dread. But had he done this? Was he a monster? Was he this Butcher they wanted?

And those other killings-were they something he had done while blacked out with drink?

"You worked in a slaughterhouse, Frank," the sheriff said. He was leaning a hand on the chair just behind Dolezal's shoulder; the rubber hose was hidden behind his back.

"Yes. But that not make me butcher of men."

"Deputy McFarlin's been asking about you, at your rooming house. Deputy, tell Frank what you've learned, from his neighbors."

The deputy said, "They say Flo Polillo wasn't the only visitor you had at your room. You knew a colored woman name of Rose Wallace, too."

He nodded. "Yes. Not see her in long time."

"She's dead, Frank," the sheriff said pleasantly. "She was just identified as one of the Butcher's victims."

"No… no…"

"And," the deputy went on, "your landlady reports seeing a sailor go up with you to your room. A heavily tattooed sailor."