I... I had to find out who the man was. I told her I had to go out of town for two weeks, and instead I stayed here in the city and watched the apartment, and saw him coming and going just as if he lived there with her. How could she do it, I wondered, how could she risk so much, especially for such a... such a person? I did a lot of checking, you see, I followed him home, I found out his name, I learned what kind of work he did-he was a bouncer, you know-and the kind of... of person he was. I couldn’t understand how Rosie could have had anything to do with him, he was a... he was not a nice man. He had other women, too, you know, at least two that I saw him with in those weeks, God knows what filth he was pouring into Rosie, what filth he had picked up from those whores.
I guess...
I guess I was going to kill only him.
I followed him everywhere. I even took a chance one night and went into The Cozy Corners, took a table near the back, where it was dark-that was the night, yes, that was when I found out he’s been 4-F. I was watching him, you know, I watched every move he made, and somebody, some guy drinking at the bar, just casually said, “Wally’s a big one, ain’t he?” and I just nodded, and he said, “Never been in the service, either, can you figure that? Big husky guy like him?” I didn’t pay much attention to it then, I mean I didn’t think it was strange or anything because I’ve never been in the service, either, you see, I had a punctured eardrum. We’re about the same size and build, Damascus and me, and about the same age, that’s another thing I couldn’t understand. I mean, if she needed another man, if she absolutely had to do this, why’d she pick somebody who was like me?
I can’t understand it at all.
I think by the time I bought the shotgun, I’d decided to kill them both. I wanted to shoot them in bed together, I wanted to kill them while they were doing it. The reason I bought a shotgun was that I wanted something that would do the most damage, inflict the greatest punishment. I think I’d seen a picture of a hunting accident in one of the men’s magazines, I forget which one, and I guess that’s when I realized what a gun could do to somebody’s face. Especially a shotgun. Especially if you fired it close up. I just wanted to hurt them as much as they had hurt me, you see. I had no idea of getting away with it. I mean, I had no idea of destroying their faces so they couldn’t be identified. I only thought of that later.
I thought of that when I was buying the shotgun. I didn’t know you needed a permit to buy a shotgun in this city, but I found out soon enough. Then I learned I could go into the next state, right across the river, and buy a gun there without any trouble, so that’s what I did. When the owner of the store asked me my name, I automatically said, “Damascus,” and gave his address, and when I was walking out-I bought the gun in Newfield, this was in August, before I left for the Coast again-while I was walking out of the shop, it occurred to me that Rosie had never been fingerprinted, and chances were Damascus hadn’t either if he’d never been in the service. If I shot them both in the face, they wouldn’t be recognized and their teeth would be gone and nobody could look up dental charts and maybe I could get away with it, kill them and actually get away with it. And then, I guess it was because I’d given Damascus’s name when I bought the gun, the whole idea came to me, just like that. I would shoot them both, and I would let the police think Damascus was me. I was dead, anyway, wasn’t I? Hadn’t they both killed me by what they’d done? Okay, so I’d really kill off Andy Leyden, kill him once and for all, leave the city, maybe leave the country, start another life under another name while the police looked for my murderer.
The idea for the tattoo came to me on the plane to the Coast. A kid across the aisle was making a drawing with Magic Markers, and he got some of the ink on his fingers, and I thought how much the stain looked like tattooed skin, and I scouted around in LA for marking pens with thin points, and of course they make them in all sizes now, so that part was easy. I must have drawn this tattoo a hundred times until I got it just right. It’s on my arm, you know, so all I had to do was look at it while I practiced drawing it over and over again. It’s a simple tattoo, no fancy stuff, and it was easy to draw. I figured it would get by all right because it would be expected, do you see what I mean? The police would know that Andrew Leyden had a tattoo on his left arm, and when they looked at the body, they would find a tattoo right where it was supposed to be, so why would they even once stop to think it was fake? Did you think it was fake? Still, I was afraid that on the night I actually did it, I wouldn’t have time to draw the tattoo on his arm, not after the noise of four shotgun blasts. But that was the horns of the dilemma, you see. I had to use a shotgun in order to destroy their faces, but I also had to put that fake tattoo on his arm so everyone would think he was me. Did you think he was me? Did everyone think he was me?
I wired the office from the Coast at 9:00 that Friday morning, and then called Rosie to tell her to send me a fresh checkbook. I really had run out of checkbooks, but that wasn’t why I’d called. I called to make certain she was home and also to let her know I’d be out there on the Coast while she was fooling around with her boy friend here in the city. I caught the 10:00 A.M. flight out of San Francisco and arrived at International Airport here at 5:55 P.M. By 6:30, I was in the city.
I didn’t think I’d go through with it.
It was a long night, the longest night in my life. I knew he worked until 2:00, you know, so I had to hang around until then, it was a long wait. I had dinner about 7:00, and then I walked around, and then I went to a movie, and then I went into this bar and got half-potted, and almost decided not to go ahead with it. But I left there about 1:30 and went to my building and waited downstairs for him. He didn’t show up until almost 3:30, I thought I’d missed him. I thought maybe he’d got out of work early and I’d missed him. But he showed up at last-a girl in a yellow Buick dropped him off-and he went upstairs. I gave him enough time to take off his clothes and get in bed with Rosie, and then I took the shotgun out of the trunk of the car where I’d left it from the day I bought it, and I went up the stairs and let myself in the kitchen door.
Rosie came into the living room and I shot her first.
When she fell I put another shot in her face.
I did the same to him.
In the bedroom.
Then I took off his jewelry, he was wearing a signet ring and an ID bracelet, and I put my wedding band on his left hand and my college ring on his other hand. Then I drew the tattoo on his arm.
I was very calm while I was drawing it. I thought sure the shots had been heard, they sounded so loud, you know?
But I was very calm.
When I finished the tattoo, it didn’t look right. It looked too new and clean, it didn’t look like the one I have on my arm. So I went around the apartment wiping my hand over any dusty surface I could find, deliberately getting my hand dirty, you see, and then I went back to where Damascus was lying on the floor and I rubbed the dirt onto the tattoo I’d drawn, to give it an older look, as if it had been there a long time, to take the new look off it. Then I propped the gun in his hand. I guess I thought I’d make it look like suicide.