Amateur Insanity

The Second Murder

 

I felt relief, even joy, as I nearly flew down the steep and delightfully deserted Waller Street. Sycamores flailing in the wind made a light show of the street lamps. I started to feel almost safe. Then guilty. None of the people around me deserved my hostility. I had been on a rampage, attacking strangers with my vibes. It was a tantrum, a rage binge, and I was a powerless witness.
I turned onto Scott Street and was relieved that it was deserted as far as my pad. Then I noticed the light was on in the front windows. Shit! Tim at the very least was there, possibly others.

When I entered the pad, I immediately saw Peter, the junkie boyfriend of Ruth’s best friend Cheryl, and I felt a panic surge. He sat on the couch, his solemn face embedded in a dark thatch of beard and hair. It was unusual to see him outside of his own apartment. He said nothing to me, just looked at Tim, who was in the broken wicker wheelchair, frozen in a catatonic stare.

When Tim didn’t look at me I turned back to Peter, who offered, “Hey man, they rubbed out Shob.”

“What?”   

“Yeah man, they found his body in his apartment. He was stabbed.”

My first feeling was irritation with Peter. He was prone to affectation and “rubbed out,” crime-movie slang, grated. I felt nothing for Shob. But I understood Tim’s condition and became concerned for him. 

I leaned over into his face and said, “Tim?”

He looked at me, pupils enormous.

“They don’t know who did it or anything,” Peter said. I turned to him as he continued, “When I found out, I came right over to see if Tim knew about it. I knew he was asking around for Shob.” He looked at Tim and added, “When I told him he freaked out.” I looked back at Tim. Peter stood up and said, “I gotta split man.”   

“Yeah,” I said absently, studying Tim’s abandoned body. “Yeah, thanks Peter. I can take care of him now.”   

“Later man,” he told Tim, with a small wave. Tim didn’t look up. 

“Hey Peter,” I said as he held open the door. “Was he stoned before you got here?”  

He considered a moment then said, “Naw. I don’t think so, anyway.”   

“O.k.” He closed the door.

“Tim?” 

He looked at me.   

“Did you take any drugs before Peter came, before you found out Shob was . . . before you heard about Shob?”   

He moved his face to the side and back as a half “No”. I had seen Tim this far gone before but always stoned. This was serious. I knew how to talk him through a bad trip, but this . . .     

“I . . . I . . . I was . . .” he said, “I went around . . . I asked everyone . . . about Shob. Everyone will tell the police I was looking for him.”

I was about to tell him not to worry then realized he should. He refixed his  enormous pupils on his thoughts. I could hear him breathing. He seemed capable of anything and I had to suppress my own alarm. Though we were about the same height and weight, I wasn’t sure I could handle him hysteria-fueled. A man’s body charged with mortal panic and nobody behind the wheel. Nobody to reason with if he went berserk, hurting himself …. or someone else.   

“Tim, what’s your parents’ phone number?  Do you have it memorized?”

He stared at me a moment, processing my words, then shook his head. 

“Uh, ok. . .” I said, “let me see your wallet then.”

He leaned to one side in the wheelchair and struggled to get the wallet from his back pocket, but couldn’t.  So he tried to stand, but the chair rolled, and he couldn’t do that either.  He looked at me with a weak, apologetic smile, a film on the surface of fear. I held the chair for him as he tried to stand, but his knees buckled and I caught him by the armpits.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” he said with more embarrassed cover-laughter.  “I can’t stand up.”

I walked him to the couch and sat him down. He got out the wallet and I took out the address book and found the number then tossed the wallet onto his lap.

“Tim? Tim, look at me. I’m going to call you parents, ok?  Don’t go anywhere while I’m gone.  Stay right here, o.k?”  I walked toward the door.  “If someone comes to the door, don’t answer it. Just sit and don’t say anything, o.k.?” I locked the door behind me. 

Christine’s door was unlocked as usual.  As I turned from the hall into the kitchen, Christine crossed the living room toward her bedroom.  She gave me a quick, indifferent glance and sniffled. Her eyes were red and her cheeks glistened with tear streaks. Obviously she’d heard about Shob.