Dave Zeltserman: Fast Lane

His eyes went blank. “I wouldn’t quite say that.” He pulled me away from the wall, pushing me towards the door. “We at least got enough to get search warrants for your home and office. We’ll see what we find.”

“I’m trying to tell you-there’s nothing to . . . .” And I stopped. Nothing except the blood-soaked clothing behind my file cabinet. I guess I was waiting until I was sure Eddie had cooled off before I disposed of them. I didn’t want to take the chance of him having someone watching me. But if they checked the blood type they’d see it’s not Mary’s . . . . They’d find out it came from Marge and Bert Debbles. And . . . .

They can hang you for one murder as easy as any other . . . .

Max was staring at me. He had a funny look on his face, almost like he had been hoping all along that he was wrong and just found out he wasn’t. I wanted to explain things to him. Make him understand. Do anything to get that look off his face. I had to get that look off his face before I-but I had handcuffs on. I guess there wasn’t much I could do. “There is something to find.” He nodded slowly. “Why did you do it, Johnny?”

I wanted to explain how Mary did go to see Jerry Bry, and he was shot dead. And Mary was found after committing suicide. What was so hard to understand about that? And Marge and Bert Debbles were beaten to death by some drugged-up addict. These things happen, right? And Rose, she must’ve choked to death on a chicken bone . . . except there were those scratch marks on her neck, so it must have been something else. And Poppa, well, he just . . . .

If Rose had only pulled the trigger when she’d had the chance none of this would’ve happened. Of course, I can’t put all the blame on her. There were all those times I had my gun in my mouth and I couldn’t do it either. My hand would start shaking like all those times when I stood over my poppa with his razor.

I tried looking at Max, but I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t figure out how things had happened. How they could be explained. I just plain couldn’t think. Nothing made a damn bit of sense. Except. . . .

I have a razor hidden on me, and if they don’t search me carefully enough and if I have the handcuffs off and I’m all alone, I’ll know what to do. This time my hand won’t shake.