True Detective

The sheriff touched Winchell's arm. He said, 'He had forty dollars on him, in what was left of his trousers.'

Winchell nodded, filing that away, went on. 'Ever been in trouble before, Joe?'

'No, no trouble, no, no. I not been in any jail. This is first time.'

'Did you ever try to hurt anybody before?'

'No, no. no.'

'How long did you plan this shooting? When did it first come into your mind?'

'All the time my stomach is in my mind.' He held two hands like claws in front of his scarred stomach and frowned; this much he seemed to be telling the truth about.

'Tell me about your stomach, Joe.'

'When I work in brick factory, I burn my stomach. Then I become bricklayer.'

'Your stomach still bothers you?'

'Sometimes I get big pain in my stomach. I suffer too much. Fire in my stomach. Make fire in my head and I turn 'round like I am drunk man and I feel like I want shoot myself, and I figure, why I shoot myself? I am going to shoot president. If I was well, I no bother nobody.'

'Don't you want to live, Joe? Don't you enjoy living?'

'No, because I sick all time.'

'Don't you want to live?'

'I don't care whether I live or die. I don't care for that.'

'Joe. there's something I gotta ask.'

'You famous man. Ask what you like.'

'Is there any insanity in your family. Joe?'

'No.'

'Nobody crazy?'

'Nobody in crazy house.'

'Are you a drinking man, Joe?'

'I can't drink. I can't drink. If I drink. I die. because my stomach is fire. I can't drink nothing.'

'Can you eat?'

'I can't eat. Eat just a little bit, hurt me. Burn me. I come Miami for specialists but nobody can help the trouble.'

'You said you're a citizen, Joe?'

'Yeah. Bricklayer union make me.'

'Anybody in this country ever harm you?'

'No. nobody, no.'

'You made a living here, didn't you? What kind of trouble did you have here?'

Zangara grimaced, impatient with Winchell for the first time; he pointed a finger at the scar. 'Trouble is here. What is use of living? I better dead, suffer all the time, suffer all the time.'

That stopped Winchell; amazing that anything could stop him. but it did, momentarily, and I stepped in and said, 'Are you dying, Joe? Did you come here to Miami to die?'

His teeth flashed in the whitest grin I ever saw. 'My job done,' he said.

Winchell glanced at me, irritably, probably wishing he hadn't allowed me along, and started back in. 'Why did you wait till Mr. Roosevelt had finished speaking? He was a better target when he was sitting up on the car.'

That threw Zangara, just a bit, and he almost stuttered as he said, 'No have chance because of people in front. Standing up.'

'They were standing up when you shot at him. You had to stand on a bench to do it, right?'

'I do best I can. Not my fault. Bench shaky.'

'That's where I came in.' Winchell said to himself, glancing at his notes so far.

I said. 'Did you know Mayor Cermak?'

The hand nervously stroked the rough chin and cheek again; the dark eyes avoided mine. 'No. I didn't know him. I just want to kill the president.'

'You don't know who Mayor Cermak is?'

'No, no, no. I want just the president. Just know president because I see picture in paper.'

'Cermak had his picture in the paper lately. A couple of times.'

Winchell butted back in, but picked up my thread. 'Are you worried that Cermak might die?'

'Never hear of him.'