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.'
Dolezal tried to think; he'd known more than one sailor in his time.
'One of the Butchers victims,' the sheriff said matter-of-factly, 'was a heavily tattooed sailor, as yet unidentified. Maybe you'd like to see his death mask.'
'No… I… no…'
'Frank. You should tell us. You should really tell us…' And the sheriff took the rubber hose out from behind his back and began smacking it gently in his palm again. '… really tell us what happened.'
A bad spasm ripped at Dolezal's stomach, doubling him over; the sheriff stood back, startled, as if an invisible rubber hose had struck the prisoner this time, beating the lawman to the punch.
'Give me goddamn drink!' Dolezal cried out.
The sheriff swung his left, the hand without the rubber hose, and hit Dolezal in the left eye. The fist was so large it eclipsed Dolezal's face.
Dolezal fell out of the chair and landed like a sack of flour on the floor and wept there. 'Need it to relax… to remember.'
The sheriff and deputy traded looks, sighs. Then the sheriff seemed to nod.
Soon Dolezal was back in his chair and under the light, gulping greedily at a shot of whiskey; it went down smooth, burning in his stomach but turning into a glow. He sighed. He was trembling, but that was different than shaking. His left eye was swelling shut, but he didn't care.
'There's more where that came from, Frank,' the sheriff said, taking the empty shot glass away from his prisoner.
'Okay, Dolezal said, 'I killed her. Bring me 'nother drink.'
'Tell us more, Frank.'
'Uh… I kill her. She fall when I hit her. Uh, maybe she hit her head.'
The deputy leaned into the bright light. 'There was blood on the bathroom floor, Frank, A chemist checked it out for us-human blood.'
'Maybe her head hit bathtub.'
'When she fell, you mean?'
'Yes. When she fell, yes.'
'Why were you in the bathroom, Frank? Were you drinking in the bathroom?'
'No… uh…'
The deputy, eyes flickering with thought, said, 'She chased you in there with the knife!'
'Yes! She chase me. In bathroom, I hit her. She go down. Hit head on tub.' He nodded. Smiled. 'I think that is what killed her.'
'Why did you cut her up, Frank?'
'Uh… I need 'nother drink.'
'No, Frank.'
'No remember without drink.' He folded his arms.
The second whiskey went down just as smooth; the world was coming into focus for Dolezal. His stomach stopped clutching. He felt good.
'Why,' the sheriff asked, taking away the empty shot glass, 'did you cut her up?'
'I, uh… cut her up because I don't know what else to do with body.'
'Go on.'
'Go on?'
'Tell us what you did.'
'I cut up the body.'
'Yes, but how?'
'With butcher knife.'
'Go on.'
'Go on?'
'Go on, Frank.'
'Well, I… first I cut off head. Then legs. And then arms.' He smiled at them. 'Can I have drink now?'
'What did you do with the body?'
'I cut it up.'
'No, Frank. How did you get rid of it? How did you get all those body parts out of your room?'
'Oh. Well. I… I made plenty trips.'
