The Throat

WD: I threw it away. I threw it into the river on my way back from the hospital.

PF: You threw it into the Millhaven River?

WD: From that bridge, the bridge right next to the Green Woman. You know, where they found that dead woman. The prostitute.

PF: What dead woman are we talking about now, Walter? Is this someone else you killed?

WD: God. You people don't remember anything. Of course she wasn't someone I killed, I'm talking about something that happened a long time ago. The woman was the mother of William Damrosch, the cop. He was down there, too—he was a baby, and they found him on the riverbank, almost dead. Don't you ever read? This is all in The Divided Man.

PF: I'm not sure I know why you want to bring this up.

WD: Because it's what I was thinking about! When I was driving across the bridge. I saw the Green Woman Taproom, and I remembered what happened on the riverbank, the woman, the prostitute, and her poor little baby, who grew up to be William Damrosch. He was called Esterhaz in the book. I was driving across the bridge. I thought about the woman and the baby—I always think about them, when I drive over the river there, alongside the Green Woman Taproom. Because all that is connected into the Blue Rose murders. And they never caught that man, did they? He just got clean away. Unless you're dumb enough to think it was Damrosch, which I guess you are.

PF: Actually, I'm a lot more interested in you.

WD: Well, anyhow, I tossed the hammer right through the car window into the river. And then I drove right on home and met you. And I decided that it was time to tell the truth about everything. Time for everything to come out into the open.

PF: Well, we're grateful for your cooperation, Walter. I want to ask you about one detail before we break. You say that your mother's friend, her name was, let's see, her name was Budge Dewdrop, stopped talking to you after your mother's death. Do you have any idea why she did that?

WD: No.

PF: None? No idea at all?

WD: I told you. I don't have any idea.

PF: How did your mother die, Walter?

WD: She just died. In her sleep. It was very peaceful, the way she would have wanted it.

PF: Your mother would have been very unhappy if she had discovered some of your activities, wouldn't she, Walter?

WD: Well. I suppose you could say that. She never liked it about the animals.

PF: Did she ever tell her friends about the animals?

WD: Oh, no. Well, maybe Budge.

PF: And she never knew that you had killed people, did she?

WD: No. Of course she didn't.

PF: Was she ever curious about anything that made you uneasy? Did she ever suspect anything?

WD: I don't want to talk about this.

PF: What do you think she said to her friend Budge?

WD: She never told me, but she must have said something.

PF: Because Budge acted like she was afraid of you.

WD: She should have been afraid of me.

PF: Walter, did your mother ever find one of your trophies?

WD: I said, I don't want to talk about this.

PF: But you said it was time for everything to come out into the open. Tell me what happened.

WD: What?

PF: You told me about the mother who was dead on the riverbank. Now tell me about your mother.

WD: (Inaudible.)

PF: I know this is hard to do, but I also know that you want to do it. You want me to know everything, even this. Walter, what did your mother find?

WD: It was a kind of a diary. I used to hide it in a jacket in my closet—in the inside pocket. She wasn't snooping or anything, she just wanted to take the jacket to the cleaners. And she found the diary. It was kind of a notebook. I had some things in there, and she asked me about them.

PF: What kind of things?

WD: Like initials. And some words like tattoo or scar. Stuff like red hair. One of them said bloody towel. She must have talked to Budge Dewdrop about it. She shouldn't have!

PF: Did she ask you about the diary?

WD: Sure, of course. But I never thought she believed me.

PF: So she was suspicious before that.

WD: I don't know. I just don't know.

PF: Tell me how your mother died, Walter

WD: It doesn't really matter anymore, does it? With all these other people, I mean.

PF: It matters to you, and it matters to me. Tell me about it, Walter.

WD: Well, this is what happened. It was the day after she found my diary. When she came home from work, she acted a little funny. I knew right away what it meant. She'd been talking to somebody, and she was guilty about that. I don't even know what she said, really, but I knew it had to do with the diary. I made dinner, like I always did, and she went to bed early instead of staying up and watching television with me. I was very distressed, but I don't think I showed it. I stayed up late, though I hardly understood what was going on in the movie, and I had two glasses of Harvey's Bristol Cream, which is something I never did. Finally the movie was over, even though I couldn't remember what happened in it. I only watched it for Ida Lupino, really—I always liked Ida Lupino. I washed my glass and turned off the lights and went upstairs. I was just going to look in my mother's room before I went to bed. So I opened the door and went inside her room. And it was so dark in there I had to go up next to the bed to see her. I went right up next to her. And I said to myself, if she wakes up, I'll just say good night and go to bed. And I stood there next to her for a long time. I thought about everything. I even thought about Mr. Lancer. If I hadn't had those two glasses of Harvey's Bristol Cream, I don't think any of this would have happened.

PF: Go on, Walter. Do you have a handkerchief?

WD: Of course I have a handkerchief. I have a dozen handkerchiefs. It's okay, I mean, I'm okay. Anyhow, I was standing next to my, ah, my mother. She was really asleep. I didn't intend to do anything at all. And it didn't feel like I was doing anything. It was like nothing at all was happening. I leaned over and pulled the extra pillow over her face. And she didn't wake up, see? She didn't move at all. So nothing at all was happening. And then I just pushed down on the pillow. And I closed my eyes and I held the pillow down. And after a while I took it off and went to bed. In my own bedroom. The next morning, I made us both breakfast, but she wouldn't come when I said it was ready, so I went to her room and found her in her bed, and I knew right away that she was dead. Well, there it was. I called the police right from the bedroom. And then I went into the kitchen and threw away the food and waited until they came.

PF: And when the police came, what did you tell them about your mother's death?

WD: I told them she died in her sleep. And that was true.

PF: But not the whole truth, was it, Walter?

WD: No. But I hardly knew what the whole truth was.

PF: I can see that. Walter, we're going to take a break now, and I'm going to give you a couple of minutes to be by yourself. Will you be all right?

WD: Just let me be by myself for a while, okay?

12