The Killer Inside Me

by Jim Thompson

  “Take care of yourself, Doc,” I said. “Take good care of your keys. If you ever lose them, you won’t be able to get out.”

  “You—you’ll be…” The bones were jerking and jumping. He’d got down the steps, and his nerve was coming back. “If I ever get you up—”

  “Me, Doc? But I sleep swell. I don’t have headaches. I’m not worried a bit. The only thing that bothers me is that corncob wearing out.”

  He snatched up the briefcase and went loping down the walk, his neck stuck out like a buzzard’s. I slammed the door, and made more coffee.

  I cooked a big second breakfast, and ate it all.

  You see, it didn’t make a bit of difference. I hadn’t lost a thing by telling him off. I’d thought they were closing in on me, and now I knew it. And they’d know that I knew it. But nothing was lost by that, and nothing else had changed.

  They could still only guess, suspect. They had no more to go on than they’d ever had. They still wouldn’t have anything two weeks—well, ten days from now. They’d have more suspicions, they’d feel surer than ever. But they wouldn’t have any proof.

  They could only find the proof in me—in what I was—and I’d never show it to ’em.

  I finished the pot of coffee, smoked a cigar and washed and wiped the dishes. I tossed some bread scraps into the yard for the sparrows, and watered the sweet potato plant in the kitchen window.

  Then, I got out the car and headed for town; and I was thinking how good it had been to talk—even if he had turned out to be phony—for a while. To talk, really talk, for even a little while.

  18

  I killed Amy Stanton on Saturday night on the fifth of April, 1952, at a few minutes before nine o’clock.

  It had been a bright, crisp spring day, just warm enough so’s you’d know that summer was coming, and the night was just tolerably cool. And she fixed her folks an early dinner, and got them off to a picture show about seven. Then, at eight-thirty, she came over to my place, and…

  Well, I saw them going by my house—her folks, I mean—and I guess she must have been standing at their gate waving to ’em, because they were looking back and waving. Then, I guess, she went back into the house and started getting ready real fast; taking her hair down and bathing, and fixing her face and getting her bags packed. I guess she must have been busy as all hell, jumping sideways to get ready, because she hadn’t been able to do much while her folks were around. I guess she must have been chasing back and forth, turning on the electric iron, shutting off the bathwater, straightening the seams in her stockings, moving her mouth in and out to center the lipstick while she jerked the pins from her hair.

  Why, hell, she had dozens of things to do, dozens of ’em, and if she’d just moved a little bit slower, ever so little—but Amy was one of those quick, sure girls. She was ready with time to spare, I guess, and then—I guess—she stood in front of the mirror, frowning and smiling, pouting and tossing her head, tucking her chin in and looking up under her brows; studying herself frontwards and sidewards, turning around and looking over her shoulder and brushing at her bottom, hitching her girdle up a little and down a little and then gripping it by both sides and sort of wiggling her hips in it. Then…then, I guess that must have been about all; she was all ready. So she came over where I was, and I…

  I was ready, too. I wasn’t fully dressed, but I was ready for her.

  I was standing in the kitchen waiting for her, and she was out of breath from hurrying so fast, I guess, and her bags were pretty heavy, I guess, and I guess…

  I guess I’m not ready to tell about it yet. It’s too soon, and it’s not necessary yet. Because, hell, we had a whole two weeks before then, before Saturday, April 5th, 1952, at a few minutes before nine p.m.

  We had two weeks and they were pretty good ones, because for the first time in I don’t remember when my mind was really free. The end was coming up, it was rushing toward me, and everything would be over soon. I could think, well, go ahead and say something, do something, and it won’t matter now. I can stall you that long; and I don’t have to watch myself anymore.

  I was with her every night. I took her everywhere she wanted to go, and did everything she wanted to do. And it wasn’t any trouble, because she didn’t want to go much or do much. One evening we parked by the high school, and watched the baseball team work out. Another time we went down to the depot to see the Tulsa Flyer go through with the people looking out the dining car windows and the people staring back from the observation car.

  That’s about all we did, things like that, except maybe to drive down to the confectionery for some ice cream. Most of the time we just stayed at home, at my house. Both of us sitting in Dad’s big old chair, or both of us stretched out upstairs, face to face, holding each other.

  Just holding each other a lot of nights.

  We’d lie there for hours, not speaking for an hour at a time sometimes; but the time didn’t drag any. It seemed to rush by. I’d lie there listening to the ticking of the clock, listening to her heart beat with it, and I’d wonder why it had to tick so fast; I’d wonder why. And it was hard to wake up and go to sleep, to go back into the nightmare where I could remember.

  We had a few quarrels but no bad ones. I just wasn’t going to have them; I let her have her own way and she tried to do the same with me.

  One night she said she was going to the barbershop with me sometime, and see that I got a decent haircut for a change. And I said—before I remembered—whenever she felt like doing that, I’d start wearing it in a braid. So we had a little spat, but nothing bad.

  Then, one night she asked me how many cigars I smoked in a day, and I said I didn’t keep track of ’em. She asked me why I didn’t smoke cigarettes like “everyone else” did, and I said I didn’t reckon that everyone else did smoke ’em. I said there was two members of my family that never smoked ’em, Dad and me. She said, well, of course, if you thought more of him than you do of me, there’s nothing more to be said. And I said, Jesus Christ, how do you figure—what’s that got to do with it?

  But it was just a little spat. Nothing bad at all. I reckon she forgot about it right away like she did the first one.

  I think she must have had a mighty good time those two weeks. Better’n any she’d ever had before.

  So the two weeks passed, and the night of April fifth came; and she hustled her folks off to a show, and scampered around getting ready, and she got ready. And at eight-thirty she came over to my place and I was waiting for her. And I…

  But I guess I’m getting ahead of myself again. There’s some other things to tell first.

  I went to work every working day of those two weeks; and believe me it wasn’t easy. I didn’t want to face anyone—I wanted to stay there in the house with the shades drawn, and not see anyone at all, and I knew I couldn’t do that. I went to work, I forced myself to, just like always.

  They suspected me; and I’d let ’em know that I knew. But there wasn’t a thing on my conscience; I wasn’t afraid of a thing. And I proved that there wasn’t by going down. Because how could a man who’d done what they thought I had, go right on about his business and look people in the eye?

  I was sore, sure. My feelings were hurt. But I wasn’t afraid and I proved it.

  Most of the time, at first, anyway, I wasn’t given much to do. And believe me that was hard, standing around with my face hanging out and pretending like I didn’t notice or give a damn. And when I did get a little job, serving a warrant or something like that, there was always a reason for another deputy to go along with me. He’d be embarrassed and puzzled, because, of course, they were keeping the secret at the top, between Hendricks and Conway and Bob Maples. He’d wonder what was up but he couldn’t ask, because, in our own way, we’re the politest people in the world; we’ll joke around and talk about everything except what’s on our minds. But he’d wonder and he’d be embarrassed, and he’d try to brag me up—maybe talk me up about the Johnnie Pappas deal to make me feel
better.

  I was coming back from lunch one day when the hall floors had just been oiled. And they didn’t make much noise when you stepped on them, and when you kind of had to pick your way along they didn’t make any at all. Deputy Jeff Plummer and Sheriff Bob were talking, and they didn’t hear me coming. So I stopped just short of the door and listened. I listened and I saw them: I knew them so well I could see ’em without looking.

  Bob was at his desk, pretending to thumb through some papers; and his glasses were down on the end of his nose, and he was looking up over them now and then. And he didn’t like what he had to say, but you’d never know it the way his eyes came up over those glasses and the way he talked. Jeff Plummer was hunkered down in one of the windows, studying his fingernails, maybe, his jaws moving on a stick of gum. And he didn’t like telling Bob off—and he didn’t sound like he was; just easy-going and casual—but he was sure as hell doing it.

  “No, sir, Bob,” he drawled. “Been kind of studyin’ things over, and I reckon I ain’t going to do no spying no more. Ain’t going to do it a-tall.”

  “You got your mind made up, huh? You’re plumb set?”

  “Well, now, it sure looks that way, don’t it? Yes, sir, I reckon that’s prob’ly the way it is. Can’t rightly see it no other way.”

  “You see how it’s possible to do a job if’n you don’t follow orders? You reckon you can do that?”

  “Now”—Jeff was looking—looking—real pleased, like he’d drawn aces to three kings—“now, I’m sure proud you mentioned that, Bob. I plain admire a man that comes square to a point.”

  There was a second’s silence, then a clink as Jeff’s badge hit the desk. He slid out of the window and sauntered toward the door, smiling but not with his eyes. And Bob cussed and jumped up.

  “You ornery coyote! You tryin’ to knock my eyes out with that thing? I ever catch you throwin’ it around again, I’ll whup you down to a nubbin.”

  Jeff scuffed his boots; he cleared his throat. He said it was a plumb purty day out, and a man’d have to be plain out of his mind to claim different.

  “I reckon a man hadn’t ought to ask you a question about all the hocus-pocus around here, now had he, Bob? It wouldn’t be what you’d call proper?”

  “Well, now, I don’t know as I’d put it that way. Don’t reckon I’d even prod him about why he was askin’. I’d just figure he was a man, and a man just does what he has to.”

  I slipped into the men’s john and stayed there a while. And when I went into the office, Jeff Plummer was gone and Bob gave me a warrant to serve. By myself. He didn’t exactly meet my eye, but he seemed pretty happy. He had his neck out a mile—he had everything to lose and nothing to gain—and he was happy.

  And I didn’t know whether I felt better or not.

  Bob didn’t have much longer to live, and the job was all he had. Jeff Plummer had a wife and four kids, and he was just about standing in the middle of his wardrobe whenever you saw him. People like that, well, they don’t make up their mind about a man in a hurry. But once it’s made up they hardly ever change it. They can’t. They’d almost rather die than do it.

  I went on about my business every day, and things were easier for me in a sense, because people acted easier around me, and twice as hard in another way. Because the folks that trust you, that just won’t hear no bad about you nor even think it, those are the ones that are hard to fool. You can’t put your heart in the job.

  I’d think about my—those people, so many of them, and I’d wonder why. I’d have to go through it all again, step by step. And just about the time I’d get it settled, I’d start wondering all over again.

  I guess I got kind of sore at myself. And at them. All those people. I’d think, why in the hell did they have to do it—I didn’t ask ’em to stick their necks out; I’m not begging for friendship. But they did give me their friendship and they did stick their necks out. So along toward the last, I was sticking mine out.

  I stopped by the Greek’s place every day. I looked over the work and had him explain things to me, and I’d offer him a lift when he had to go someplace. I’d say it was sure going to be one up-to-date restaurant and that Johnnie would sure like it—that he did like it. Because there hadn’t ever been a better boy, and now he could look on, look down, and admire things the same as we could. I said I knew he could, that Johnnie was really happy now.

  And the Greek didn’t have much to say for a while—he was polite but he didn’t say much. Then, pretty soon, he was taking me out in the kitchen for coffee; and he’d walk me clear out to my car when I had to leave. He’d hang around me, nodding and nodding while I talked about Johnnie. And once in a while he’d remember that maybe he ought to be ashamed, and I knew he wanted to apologize but was afraid of hurting my feelings.

  Chester Conway had been staying in Fort Worth, but he came back in town one day for a few hours and I made it my business to hear about it. I was driving by his offices real slow, around two in the afternoon, when he came barging out looking for a taxi. And before he knew what was happening, I had him in charge. I hopped out, took his briefcase away from him and hustled him into my car.

  It was the last thing he’d’ve expected of me. He was too set back to talk, and he didn’t have time to say anything. And after we were headed for the airport, he didn’t get a chance. Because I was doing all the talking.

  I said, “I’ve been hoping to run into you, Mr. Conway. I wanted to thank you for the hospitality you showed me in Fort Worth. It was sure thoughtful of you at a time like that, to think of me and Bob’s comfort, and I guess I wasn’t so thoughtful myself. I was kind of tired, just thinkin’ of my own problems instead of yours, how you must feel, and I reckon I was pretty snappy with you there at the airport. But I didn’t really mean anything by it, Mr. Conway, and I’ve been wanting to apologize. I wouldn’t blame you a bit if you were put out with me, because I ain’t ever had much sense and I guess I’ve made a hell of a mess of things.

  “Now, I knew Elmer was kind of innocent and trusting and I knew a woman like that just couldn’t be much good. I shoulda done like you said and gone there with him—I don’t rightly see how I could the way she was acting, but I shoulda done that anyway. And don’t think I don’t know it now, and if cussing me out will help any or if you want to get my job, and I know you can get it, I won’t hold any grudge. No matter what you did it wouldn’t be enough, it wouldn’t bring Elmer back. An’…I never got to know him real well, but in a way kinda I felt like I did. I reckon it must’ve been because he looked so much like you. I’d see him from a distance sometimes and I’d think it was you. I guess maybe that’s one reason I wanted to see you today. It was kinda like seein’ Elmer again. I could sorta feel for a minute that he was still here an’ nothing had ever happened. An’…”

  We’d come to the airport.

  He got out without speaking or looking at me, and strode off to the plane. Moving fast, never turning around or looking sideways; almost like he was running away from something.

  He started up the ramp, but he wasn’t moving so fast now. He was walking slower and slower, and halfway up he almost stopped. Then he went on, plodding, dragging his feet; and he reached the top. And he stood there for a second, blocking the door.

  He turned around, gave the briefcase a little jerk, and ducked inside the plane.

  He’d waved to me.

  I drove back to town, and I guess I gave up about then. It was no use. I’d done everything I could. I’d dropped it in their plates, and rubbed their noses in it. And it was no use. They wouldn’t see it.

  No one would stop me.

  So, on Saturday night, April 5th, 1952, at a few minutes before nine o’clock, I…

  But I guess there’s another thing or two to tell you first, and—but I will tell you about it. I want to tell you, and I will, exactly how it happened. I won’t leave you to figure things out for yourself.

  In lots of books I read, the writer seems to go haywire every tim
e he reaches a high point. He’ll start leaving out punctuation and running his words together and babble about stars flashing and sinking into a deep dreamless sea. And you can’t figure out whether the hero’s laying his girl or a cornerstone. I guess that kind of crap is supposed to be pretty deep stuff—a lot of the book reviewers eat it up, I notice. But the way I see it is, the writer is just too goddam lazy to do his job. And I’m not lazy, whatever else I am. I’ll tell you everything.

  But I want to get everything in the right order.

  I want you to understand how it was.

  Late Saturday afternoon, I got Bob Maples alone for a minute and told him I wouldn’t be able to work that night. I said that Amy and me had something mighty important to do, and maybe I wouldn’t be getting in Monday or Tuesday either; and I gave him a wink.

  “Well, now”—he hesitated, frowning. “Well, now, you don’t think maybe that—” Then, he gripped my hand and wrung it. “That’s real good news, Lou. Real good. I know you’ll be happy together.”

  “I’ll try not to lay off too long,” I said. “I reckon things are, well, kind of up in the air and—”

  “No, they ain’t,” he said, sticking his chin out. “Everything’s all right, and it’s going to stay that way. Now go on and buss Amy for me, and don’t you worry about nothing.”

  It still wasn’t real late in the day, so I drove out on Derrick Road and parked a while.

  Then I went home, leaving the car parked out in front, and fixed dinner.

  I stretched out on the bed for about an hour, letting my food settle. I drew water in the bathtub and got in.

  I lay in the tub for almost an hour, soaking and smoking and thinking. Finally, I got out, looked at the clock and began laying out clothes.

  I packed my gladstone, and cinched the straps on it. I put on clean underwear and socks and new-pressed pants, and my Sunday-go-to-meetin’ boots. I left off my shirt and tie.