“Was he already dead when the state trooper got there?”
“No.”
“When did you kill him?”
“A couple days later.”
“Why did you wait so long?”
“It wasn’t safe.”
“What kind of car were you driving?”
“A 1974 Datsun 260Z.”
“What color?”
“Silver.”
“Where is it now?” I asked.
“Dismantled.”
“Where was it that night?”
“A garage. Why are we doing this? Why don’t you just call the police?” He gestured toward the kitchen. “The phone’s in there. On the wall next to the refrigerator.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?”
“What, you think I’m lying about the phone? You think it’s out of the realm of possibility that I’ve got a phone mounted on the wall in there?”
“I think it’s out of the realm of possibility that you’ll still be here when I get back.”
“Well, shit, then march me on in there with you. Whack me in the back of the head with the gun if you think it’ll keep me in line. You won, okay? Game, set, match. You’re the victor. I accept that. So all I care about right now is making sure you don’t shoot me, either accidentally or on purpose.”
“I’ll decide when it’s time to call the police,” I told him.
“Fine.”
“Why were you driving around that night?”
“I have trouble sleeping. I’m exhausted when I fall into bed but I just can’t shut off my brain. Driving around sometimes relaxes me.” Mr. Martin’s voice had changed a bit, as if it was a relief to be able to speak freely about this stuff. “On that particular night, all I wanted to do was drive around for half an hour or so and then go back home, but I saw an opportunity and took it. I didn’t sleep well that night, in case you were wondering.”
“Did you kill the other two?”
“Which two?”
“You know who I’m talking about.”
Mr. Martin nodded.
“Were there others?”
“You mean in Alaska?”
“Anywhere.”
“A couple.”
“Do you specifically mean that there were two more?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Martin. “A couple means two. Otherwise I would have said ‘a few.’ They weren’t from around here, if that was your next question.”
“Do you have any remorse?” I asked. Damn. I was getting off track. This question was irrelevant—I wanted details that could prove his guilt, not the story of how his father locked him in the basement with rats every time he misbehaved. I needed to focus.
“Do I have any remorse?” Mr. Martin sounded legitimately shocked that I’d asked him this question. “I have nothing but remorse. You think I like being this way? Every single minute of every single day is hell on earth. I haven’t had a genuine moment of happiness in…I don’t even know how long. If we could trade places—if you could be inside my head for just three seconds—you couldn’t be able to cope with it. You’d go straight to the goddamn fetal position and you might never get up. Trust me, I hate myself far worse than you hate me.”
I wasn’t convinced of that, but it didn’t seem like something I should bother to debate.
Was I done? Did I have enough? I wasn’t sure if I should keep throwing questions at him, or if I should quit while I was ahead.
“Will it make you feel good to shoot me in the head?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Why draw attention with a gunshot? If you want revenge, why not do it in a way that’s safer and more satisfying? Go to the kitchen. Open the drawer next to the sink. You’ll find a few knives. Pick the one you like best.”
“I’m not here for revenge.”
“Bullshit. Of course you are. I totally understand. I’d be here for revenge too, if I were you, and I wish to God that I was. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I’ve got nothing. Not a damn thing.”
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”
“Hell no. You’re supposed to feel disgust. You’re supposed to want to put me down like a rabid dog. Do you play sports? I can tell that you don’t but I thought I’d ask.”
“I play sports in gym class.”
“Do you play baseball? Softball counts, too.”
“Sometimes.”
“If you go into my bedroom, and you look in the closet, you’ll find a baseball bat. It’s a good one. Hard maple—not that aluminum crap they’ve started using. I will kneel down on the floor, and after you practice your swing a few times, getting it just right, you can crack me on the head as hard as you can. Break my neck. Shatter my skull. That will be so much more satisfying than shooting me, don’t you think?”
“I already said that I don’t want to kill you.”
“Oh, but you do. And the sound of my head splattering won’t alert the neighbors. It’s so much safer for you. And no matter how mad you get, a gun fails you once it’s out of bullets. With a bat, you can keep hitting me and hitting me and hitting me until I’m scattered all over the room and your arms are so sore that they feel like they’re going to fall off.”
“Time to stop talking now,” I said.
“Think how good you’ll feel after you do it. Justice served. The good guys won. I’ll never hurt another living creature. Now, you can’t just leave my corpse here. Even if I’m a bloody gooshy mess, they’ve got lab people who can do mathematical calculations and shit and trace it back to you. So you’ll need to cut up my body. I’ve got an axe in the shed—the key is hanging on a hook by the back door—and if you put some elbow grease into it, it won’t take that long. I’ve got a chainsaw in there, too, but those are loud and it’ll be suspicious to have one running inside my house. Wrap me up—”
“Shut up,” I told him.
“I’m not done. This is useful information. Wrap me up in garbage bags. Don’t worry about the waste—use more bags than you think you need. One bag for each of my arms and legs, one for my head, and
