“You know I didn't off those mother-fuckers. I could see it in your face, man. You never believed I killed those people from day one. Right?"
“Ukie, what the hell are you talking about?"
“You gotta get me out of this.” The voice was so flat. Accentless. He sounded like he'd been tossed around by a front-loader and the rinse cycle had been a bitch. “I didn't do it."
Eichord sat still and waited. “Eh?"
“I...” Ukie let out a long stream of air. “I was bullshitting. It was all crap. That crap I laid on the cunt. I never killed a goddamn dog in my life. I mighta hit a few birds with my car. I ran over a possum on the road one night. Shit, I didn't do those murders, man, and you KNOW YOU KNOW I AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH.” He started bawling like a baby, first just going, Wahhhwahhh-wahhh, and then a fast screaming-hyena thing he did a couple of times too often.
Eichord shouted at him, "SHUT UP, DAMN IT.” And that did the trick temporarily, and he started talking through a stream of tears.
“Shit, I don't know why I did it I just went with it I know it was fucking crazy but goddamn mother-fucking shit cunt she was ... Oh, I don't know. I wanted to scare that stupid whore bitch and I had been seeing those bodies and had ‘em in a cigar box and I just put some up on the wall with naked centerfolds and shit. I mean, you can look in the box I must of had twenty more I never got around to putting up because I ran out of tape. It's the box of Tampa Nuggets on the bureau in my living room.” And he gave Eichord the house number where he'd had Donna Scannapieco like it was nothing.
Jack knew he'd be watching this over and over when they played the videocassette back and he straightened up and he could feel his concentration go into overdrive and he could hear the words and see the man across from him and he wondered what part Ukie's new lawyer played in this lame scheme, but the funny thing was he didn't really think it was a scheme at all. He thought it was real as fucking cancer.
“What do you mean you'd been seeing those bodies?” Jack was making himself speak as slowly as he could, feeling the excitement building as he looked into the expressionless eyes of the man across from him, “And you had them in a cigar box?"
“The clippings,” he replied with a sigh. Ukie looked too drained to even put down Eichord for being slow to pick up on his discursive narrative. “When I saw clippings about, you know, the ones, I'd cut ‘em out of the papers and—"
“Ukie, I'm having a lot of problems with this. What do you mean the ones? The people who were killed?"
“Of course, what the hell are we talking about, for God's sake? Jesus, you got to get me OUT of this. I didn't touch a hair on their fucking HEADS."
“You weren't involved in the killings yet you know where all the bodies are?"
“Yes."
“How do you know?"
“How do I know what? That I wasn't involved in the killings or where the bodies are?” He was glassy-eyed. Whipped.
“Where the bodies are,” Eichord said with all the patience he could muster.
“Because I saw him bury them."
“Saw what?"
“I saw where the killer buried the bodies."
“You're just wasting my time, Ukie. Sorry. Not goin’ to wash at all. The insanity thing ain't makin’ it—” He began to push back from the metal table.
“Wait a FUCKING MINUTE WAIT, I'M TELLING THE TRUTH. I didn't kill them. I'm not insane. I'm not trying to fake anybody out. I swear to God."
Eichord was leaving.
“WAIT GODDAMN YOU I SWEAR I'LL TAKE A POLYGRAPH OR SIGN ANYTHING I PROMISE I WON'T LET THE BITCH PLEAD ME INSANE. I DIDN'T FUCKING DO IT."
“You'll sign a waiver to that effect?” Eichord had no idea what he was talking about but he wanted the reaction.
“Yes. Right now. Or whenever you say. I may be stupid but crazy I'm not. Listen to me, he came and showed where he was burying them. That's how I knew about the murders in the first place. He comes and shows me."
“I don't have the remotest clue as to what you're talking about so you'd better start making some sense, and NOW."
“It was sort of like headaches and nightmares combined. How the hell do I know how to explain it? It's a thing some people have. Like a way to communicate thought. I've always had it I guess but this ... He comes and gets in there and shows me the dead bodies and shit."
“Shows ... you ... HOW? Where do you see them?"
“INSIDE MY FUCKING HEAD I keep telling you."
“You see people killed in your head?"
“I see people BURIED in there. Yeah. He shows me how he gets rid of the bodies. I never see the killing part. The ones are already dead and he takes me there and tells me about the dead ones sometimes. Or he just shows me where it hides the bodies. Whatever."
“This is the killer you're talking about?"
“Yep."
“Who is he?"
“I—I don't know, man. I know how that sounds so please don't ask me about that part because YOU WON'T FUCKING BELIEVE ME that was I mean that's oh shit that was where I made my big see what I thought I could do was just get the attention I just did it to get people to shit I never could make anything happen for me and I came so close so many times I tried to work as a performer and I'd get up in these fuckin’ strip joints and the drunks would be so loud I couldn't even hear my own material and I have a 146 IQ. I'm no damn dummy, and great retentivity and I can remember what I read and I just never had the breaks, or the timing was wrong and I'd come so close and then the cocksuckers would take it away from me and people with ONE TENTH THE GODDAMN TALENT I HAD ONE FUCKING TENTH would become stars and big important sons of bitches and everybody I knew was successful and rich except me old goofy Ukie Hackabee and I was a smart, good-looking, some girls said I was sexy, sharp kind of uptown guy and nothing ever worked and I couldn't hold a job and I was always trying some scam and that wouldn't work and then this damn thing you fucking cops picked me up for the least little complaint shit if some flasher had his dick out to take a piss I'd get hauled in on some bogus bullshit and when the thing started showing me what it was doing on the new row or pathway,” Eichord had thought he was saying, “I just decided I'd make the most of it I mean what could I lose—right? He's showing me all this shit I, might as well make the most of it I mean I'd had these fantasies where I get a job as a spy or a hit man like some slick smooth paid assassin who works for the Cosa Nostra, all cool and collected, and I'm an actor so I figure I'll milk this for all it's worth and people who thought I was some wimpy zero some weak loser some nothing cipher they're going to get shaken right out of their fucking shoes, ya know?” He paused for air.
“What's the new row or pathway?"
“What?"
“You mentioned that the killer was showing you what he was doing on the new row or the pathway. What was that all about?"
“Now it's my turn to not know what YOU, ... Oh, neural pathway, I said,” he muttered, seeing Eichord still didn't have it. “NEURAL, you know, like up here—NEURAL PATHWAY. Jesus! Take your gun and blow the wax outtayafuckingEARS. Hey, I'm only kidding barrrrOOOM-boom.” The old Ukie Hackabee trying to get up for it but just trailing off like a sick tomcat. The eyes wide, glassy, empty of anything beyond pain and disease.
“The neural pathway. The place where he kills?"
“No, Christ. No...” An expulsion of air and mouthwash, “Not where he kills where he takes me. It's a mental thing. You see it, well first you see nothing and then you like go into this room or corridor in your head and it's a bare stone wall and a concrete floor and the place is like a tunnel under a river or something, big thick walls that are wet and clammy to the touch, and it's all shadowy and gray and cold and that's where he comes and gets me and—oh, shit, man.” And Ukie is forcing the tears back, blowing his nose loudly and breaking himself up.