Ed McBain - Shotgun

“In tens, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

The teller opened the cash drawer. He took out a sheaf of tens, and began counting them off. He had reached seventy when Carella appeared at the window, gun in hand.

“Mr. Damascus,” Carella said, “you’re under arrest.”

His answer was a short sharp paralyzing uppercut to the point of the jaw. His gun went off wildly, he heard footsteps clattering away across the marble floor and then Patrolman Breach’s voice shouting, “Stop or I’ll shoot!” and then another gun going off. He stood dizzily swaying for a moment, heard Patrolman Breach firing again, shook his head to clear it, and then took aim on Damascus as he rushed toward the revolving entrance doors. He squeezed off the shot, saw the slug connect, saw blood on the neat gray shoulder of the suit, ran toward the revolving doors, and was again surprised when Damascus reversed direction and kicked out at the gun in his hand. A woman screamed, the gun arced up into the air, spiraled down toward the marble floor, clattered away out of reach. Patrolman Breach was firing again, what did they teach you to hit at the Academy? Carella wondered, and then hurled himself onto Damascus’s back as he moved again toward the revolving doors. The left sleeve of Damascus’s jacket began to tear where Carella clung to it, finally ripped loose at the shoulder seam, and pulled free of the coat itself to expose a short-sleeved white shirt and a powerful forearm. Something on that forearm almost caused Carella to relax his grip. He opened his eyes wide in surprise and then, without stopping to think about the meaning of what he had just seen, he seized the ragged shoulder of the jacket with his right hand, pulled back on it, and hurled his left fist at the same instant. He felt nose bones splintering, heard a scream of outraged pain. He swung out again with his right, and then closed in for the kill, breathing harshly, swearing as he battered the big man to the marble floor of the bank, senseless.

On his left arm was a tattooed blue dagger with the name “Andy” lettered across its blade in red.

In the squadroom, in the presence of an attorney, Andrew Lloyd Leyden told them what had happened. He told them in his own words while Carella, Kling, Lieutenant Byrnes, and a police stenographer listened. His voice was very low as he spoke. He sat with his jacket draped over his bandaged shoulder, his head bent except when he glanced up at the detectives to ask rhetorical questions. They knew he was finished only when he stopped speaking; he gave no other sign. The police stenographer typed the statement in triplicate, and they gave the original to Leyden to read before signing, while Byrnes studied one copy and Carella and Kling shared the other. The squadroom was silent as the men read the confession:

I learned about them in May.

It was the beginning of May. I had been on the road, and when I came back I found out. I found out by accident. I didn’t... you see... I didn’t even know she was pregnant. You see, I had gone to the Coast in February, I take this one very long trip each spring, I leave here on February 1st, and I get back around May 1st, it’s the longest trip I take each year. It... you see I had been gone since February and when... she miscarried, you see, and... and the doctor said the... he said she was... only two months pregnant so... so you see... I knew. I realized.

I didn’t know what to do at first.

Whatever you do is wrong.

There’s no right way for a man to behave when his wife and a stranger have made a fool of him, there’s no way, all the ways are wrong. I kept wondering, you know, how she could have done it, didn’t she know how much I loved her, I kept wondering that all the time. And I kept wondering, too, what would have happened if she hadn’t miscarried. Was she planning to have the baby, did she think I was that great a fool, didn’t she know I could count, for Christ’s sake-or had they worked out something else? I didn’t know, you see. I just didn’t know. But there was nothing to do, nothing to do but shut up and carry the knowledge inside me. And die. Slowly die.

I... I had to find out who the man was. I told her I had to go out of town for two weeks, and instead I stayed here in the city and watched the apartment, and saw him coming and going just as if he lived there with her. How could she do it, I wondered, how could she risk so much, especially for such a... such a person? I did a lot of checking, you see, I followed him home, I found out his name, I learned what kind of work he did-he was a bouncer, you know-and the kind of... of person he was. I couldn’t understand how Rosie could have had anything to do with him, he was a... he was not a nice man. He had other women, too, you know, at least two that I saw him with in those weeks, God knows what filth he was pouring into Rosie, what filth he had picked up from those whores.

I guess...

I guess I was going to kill only him.

I followed him everywhere. I even took a chance one night and went into The Cozy Corners, took a table near the back, where it was dark-that was the night, yes, that was when I found out he’s been 4-F. I was watching him, you know, I watched every move he made, and somebody, some guy drinking at the bar, just casually said, “Wally’s a big one, ain’t he?” and I just nodded, and he said, “Never been in the service, either, can you figure that? Big husky guy like him?” I didn’t pay much attention to it then, I mean I didn’t think it was strange or anything because I’ve never been in the service, either, you see, I had a punctured eardrum. We’re about the same size and build, Damascus and me, and about the same age, that’s another thing I couldn’t understand. I mean, if she needed another man, if she absolutely had to do this, why’d she pick somebody who was like me ?

I can’t understand it at all.

I think by the time I bought the shotgun, I’d decided to kill them both. I wanted to shoot them in bed together, I wanted to kill them while they were doing it. The reason I bought a shotgun was that I wanted something that would do the most damage, inflict the greatest punishment. I think I’d seen a picture of a hunting accident in one of the men’s magazines, I forget which one, and I guess that’s when I realized what a gun could do to somebody’s face. Especially a shotgun. Especially if you fired it close up. I just wanted to hurt them as much as they had hurt me, you see. I had no idea of getting away with it. I mean, I had no idea of destroying their faces so they couldn’t be identified. I only thought of that later.

I thought of that when I was buying the shotgun. I didn’t know you needed a permit to buy a shotgun in this city, but I found out soon enough. Then I learned I could go into the next state, right across the river, and buy a gun there without any trouble, so that’s what I did. When the owner of the store asked me my name, I automatically said, “Damascus,” and gave his address, and when I was walking out-I bought the gun in Newfield, this was in August, before I left for the Coast again-while I was walking out of the shop, it occurred to me that Rosie had never been fingerprinted, and chances were Damascus hadn’t either if he’d never been in the service. If I shot them both in the face, they wouldn’t be recognized and their teeth would be gone and nobody could look up dental charts and maybe I could get away with it, kill them and actually get away with it. And then, I guess it was because I’d given Damascus’s name when I bought the gun, the whole idea came to me, just like that. I would shoot them both, and I would let the police think Damascus was me . I was dead, anyway, wasn’t I? Hadn’t they both killed me by what they’d done? Okay, so I’d really kill off Andy Leyden, kill him once and for all, leave the city, maybe leave the country, start another life under another name while the police looked for my murderer.