Dave Zeltserman: Fast Lane

“I hope so,” I said. “I’m going to look into this and see if I can come up with anything. I owe Marge-Margo at least that.”

We both stood up, and shook hands. Eddie nodded to me. “Don’t worry, Johnny. We’ll get him. I got a hunch it’s only a matter of time.”

I watched him leave, feeling sort of bad for him. He was wasting his time. He’d never find out what Marge was doing in Bert Debbles’ room because it just didn’t make any sense. None at all. And even if he found out who the old man was, it wouldn’t help him any. He’d still have to find out why Bert Debbles came to Denver, and I’d already taken care of that.

So there he was, face up against a stone wall and too damn stupid to know it. It was a hundred miles high and a million miles across and there was no way in hell around it. All he was going to get out of butting his head against it was to knock himself silly. I almost wanted to tell him, to save him the embarrassment, but something he said stuck in my craw. Something I don’t think I could ever forgive him for.

“Whoever did that enjoyed it . . . .”

Maybe I did with Bert Debbles, because after all, it was like a second chance with my poppa-but he should’ve known better than to say that about Marge. No one felt worse about it than me. And I’m sure if Marge could, she’d back me up on that.

I put Marge’s picture away and made myself some coffee. Bringing both the coffee and the last two days’ newspapers over to the sofa, I settled back. Marge’s murder was on the front page, and they’d stuck in a photo of her from the Miss Rocky Mountains contest. In the photo, she’s wearing a one-piece bathing suit and waving and smiling like she’s the only one who knows the joke. Of course she was twelve years younger and a few cases of booze drier, but she didn’t look all that much different. Maybe a little fresher. Maybe a little happier.

I read the article carefully, finding out things about her she never told me. Like what college she went to. And that her daddy died only a few years back. And that she was a regular churchgoer. And that she’d been fired recently from her job as a Sales Manager. I knew she’d been fired, but I didn’t know from what. It’s funny, but you spend as much time with someone as I did with Marge and you find out there’s so little about the person you really knew.

I finished the article and started searching the paper for a story about Mary. I was more than a little surprised there was nothing on the front page. Murder-suicides are a big deal, and this one would be played up for all it was worth. A young pretty thing like Mary messing around with a married middle-aged son of a bitch like Bry. Shooting him dead in his own home. It should have been on the front page. I went through both papers carefully and found nothing. Not a damn single thing.

I went through both papers again, and again after that, and well, after a while I lost count of how many times I went through them. Eventually, though, I understood why there was no mention of Mary or Bry. There was only one way to explain it. Their bodies hadn’t been found yet.

They should have been. Both of them.

Where I left Mary, she was in plain sight from the road. Plenty of folks must have passed her by now. You’d think one of them would have wondered why she was slumped over the way she was. You’d think one of them would have stopped to see if she was okay. You’d think there would be at least one of them who wasn’t a heartless son of a bitch. You’d think so, but I guess that’s expecting too much.

Bry should’ve been found too, as soon as his wife returned home. His stinking corpse was left in the middle of the living room-he should’ve been the first thing she saw. And if she didn’t see him, she should’ve at least tripped over him. She should’ve called the police by now. Unless . . . .

Unless she never returned home. Maybe she finally figured he was cheating on her and left for good. Or maybe she did come back home and panicked when she found the body. Or had a heart attack and dropped dead herself. Or . . . .

Or the hell with it. It wasn’t worth worrying about. Eventually both bodies were going to be found, and when they were, the police would make the connection. They’d find that Mary’s gun was used on Bry. They’d have to figure it was a murder-suicide. As long as they didn’t screw up. As long as it didn’t take them too long to find Bry’s body, because if it took too long there was a chance they’d miss the connection. And that would mean Mary’s suicide wouldn’t make a damn bit of sense.

I started panicking. If the suicide couldn’t be explained, the police wouldn’t be satisfied with it. Maybe they’d start poking around and come up with something crazy. Maybe if they had reason to dig deep enough, they’d find something. I had planned on it being an open and shut case, and because of that I wasn’t as careful as I could have been. There were things they could find out. That I hitchhiked down the mountain. Or that I’d been seen near the convenience store. Or a dozen other things I hadn’t thought of and didn’t bother planning for.

Looking back at it now, I know I was making a mountain out of what wasn’t even half a molehill. But when you’re on edge and things don’t work out as expected your mind starts acting up. Instead of looking at things straight on, you see them from angles that don’t even exist. Before long, you’re talking yourself into possibilities that make no sense at all. And the crazier the idea, the more you start believing it.

That was what was going through my mind. I almost picked up the phone and called the police, thinking I’d leave an anonymous tip about Bry. I almost called them, and brother, if I had it would have been suicide. It would’ve tipped the cops off that it wasn’t the way it appeared.

Well, I had too much sense to call them-even in the condition I was in. But I was too fidgety-too nervous to sit still. I headed off to my office.

I guess none of you had forgotten about Marge’s letter, the one I took from her purse. Well, I hadn’t forgotten about it either. I had it out on my desk, kind of playing with it, trying to decide what to do. Part of me wanted to throw it away, but I figured if Marge was going to spend the time and effort to write it, the least I could do was read what she had to say. Except there were those red smudges all over the envelope, and I just didn’t know if it would do me any good to read it, and . . . .

I opened it. The letter read:

Johnny,

I cried for two days straight when I realized what you did to me. At first, I wanted to tell you to go to hell, but Johnny, I can’t. I don’t want to. I hurt so bad without you. I’m typing this because when I think about it, I start shaking and I don’t want you laughing at my handwriting.

I don’t care why you did it, Johnny. That’s what I decided. It doesn’t matter. Whatever the reason, I forgive you. I know deep down you didn’t want to hurt me. I know you’re in trouble, and I want to help you. Whatever it is, please trust me and let me help. You don’t have to be afraid to tell me anything. That funny looking man I saw you with in the lobby came by after you left. He was furious. He claimed you owed him twenty-five hundred dollars. Don’t worry about it, Johnny. I took care of it. I had my mother wire me the extra money, and I paid him. You don’t have to worry about him.

I don’t know what else to say, except . . . .

Except three more pages of the same stuff. She ended it by telling me how much I meant to her, and how she’d always be there for me. Well, I guess she exaggerated some because she was no longer around and at that moment I needed her more than I ever needed anything.