kids, arrangin’ the games, y’ know, the egg and spoon races.”
“Yep,” says the other fellow. “Just got off work one night, got in the car, drove home, and put an axe right through his wife’s head.”
“Christ!” cries Roy, shaking his head.
“Well, they put HIM away for life,” says the man dispassionately. “Likely he’s still in there if he ain’t dead by now. When they came he was still standin’ there, holdin’ the axe—he jes’ went away with them quietly. Yep, they didn’t waste no time puttin’ him away.”
“Good goddamn thing, too,” says Roy. “Jesus, imagine somethin’ like that…”
“Well, seems to me you guys are fergettin’ the case of the Dobbins out Starkway way,” says Frank suddenly, leaning into the conversation.
“The Dobbins? Hey, that rings a bell somewhere—the Dobbins…” Roy muses.
“Yeah, well that was likely before yous guys’s time,” says Frank. “Mighta been forty-five years ago now, they had the farm the Trombleys are at now.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Yeah, well young Lou Dobbins out there, he’s the guy that blew the heads off his grandparents.”
“Jesus Christ, yeah! I do recall hearin’ tell of somethin’ like that, Frank, yeah!” Roy exclaims, snapping his fingers.
“That’s right, that’s right,” agrees Frank. “Yeah, well, it was like this: this Lou Dobbins guy, both his parents were gone. Didn’t know what happened to ’em—mighta been dead, killed in a car accident or just took off, I don’t know, I couldn’t tell ya. So he’d been mostly raised by his grandparents on his father’s side. In fact, you ’member that old scrap-metal yard out on Highway Six?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Yep,” says Gus.
“Well they useta own that. Anyways, this young Lou Dobbins fella, he grew up and the old folks looked after ’im and he was a queer bird, worked in the garage in town from the time he was fifteen, you never seen him or heard a peep out of ’im otherwise, and he lived out on the farm with the old folks up till he was about thirty years old. Never broke away, if ya know what I mean, kinda strange—seemed timid, wouldn’t say boo to a ghost, and you never saw ’im in town at the dances or what have you at all, or with anybody. So no one never thought nothin’ of it, people just generally felt that was his way, I guess.
“So he was still livin’ with the old folks when he was thirty years old and then of course naturally by that time he couldn’t move out ’cause the old folks by this time were OLD, I mean they couldn’t’ve looked after themselves at all—so young Lou was kinda tied to them if ya know what I mean. They’d looked after him so now I guess he was kinda duty-bound and obligated to look after them.
“’Parently for the last couple a years the old folks were so goddamned old and sick they couldn’t even get outta bed—they’d just lay there day and night in their pyjamas, and I guess he had to feed ’em and change ’em and turn them over and I don’t know what all. People said they were so old and had laid there for so long that the two of ’em even came to look like each other, couldn’t tell ’em apart almost—jes’ these two wrinkled-up white shrunk-up little things layin’ in bed there, never sayin’ a word.
“So one day Lou comes in,” says Frank, throwing up his hands, “pulls out a twenty-two-gauge shotgun, and blows their heads off.”
“Je—sus CHRIST!” cries Roy, wincing. Gus sits looking at Frank out of the corner of his eye, puffing at his pipe, his head cocked.
“Yep, well you know the power of them twenty-two-gauge shotguns,” says Frank.
“Jesus, yes,” says Roy. “I got one I take up north for the deers—the POWER of them things.”
“Yeah, well you can imagine at point-blank range—blew their heads clean off—and then, the weirdest thing, the guy didn’t just stop there. ’Parently he reloaded and cocked the thing again and again—and you know how long it takes to reload one a them things—blastin’ away at ’em over and over, I mean, after he must’ve known they MUST’ve been dead already. I mean, I say he blew their heads off but there weren’t hardly enough to bury, really.”
“Good Christ!” cries Roy. “You wonder what in hell would possess a man.”
“Well, after that he went down into the cellar where he knew they had a bunch of cash stashed in an old fruit jar, I mean somethin’ like twenty thousand dollars,” says Frank.
“Ah, so that’s it,” muses Roy, nodding his head grimly.
“Sure. Lou goes down, takes out the loot and nobody sees him no more. Police had a devil of a time trackin’ him down—till finally musta been a week later, up in Birkston, they hear the guy’s a regular at some tavern and he’s the life of the party, dressed in a brand new, sharp suit with a brand spankin’ new car outside stayin’ at some fancy hotel up there. Been up there all week I guess, buyin’ everybody drinks and bein’ everybody’s pal. I mean, after all a those years walkin’ ’round here like a ghost, ya wouldn’t hardly believe it.
“Well, they surrounded the place, tryin’ to get him to give himself up peaceful-like. Everybody else came runnin’ outta that place as if all the devils in hell was chasin’ ’em. All the Birkston cops was standin’ outside armed to the teeth—I mean, for all they knew he was armed and dangerous.”
“Sure, sure,” says Roy, blinking with deep interest, his mouth slightly open.
“Yep,” agrees the other man. “So like I say, he’s in the bar all alone, everybody, even the waiters and what all hauled their asses outta there pronto—if he was everybody’s best buddy just a few minutes ago, he sure as hell wasn’t now. And the place is surrounded by cops with their guns out and aimed at the doors and they’re callin’ out askin’ him to come out and surrender peacefully when all of a sudden he comes runnin’ outta there crazy.
“He ain’t armed, no gun, he jes’ comes runnin’ out as if he actually believes he’s got a chance to get past all those cops standin’ in a circle round the entire building. Well of course they don’t know he wasn’t armed, what the hell, so they shot ’im. Funny thing though, after they shoot ’im he falls down, and while he’s dyin’ his legs are still movin’ around on the ground like he’s still runnin’.”
“Hmph,” says Roy.
For a moment the three men sit in silence, considering the table.
“Jesus! Hell of a thing!” remarks Roy with a sigh, shaking his head.
“Well, you can bet one thing,” says Gus, stabbing his finger at the newspaper. “When they catch THIS guy it ain’t gonna be no pretty sight either.”
“Damn right,” says Roy. “Some no-good lowdown sonofabitch that’d do somethin’ like that.”
“Well I was talkin’ to Hank down at the station, and he says they don’t have much of a lead yet,” says Frank. “Best they can say now is they think it musta been someone outta the area—least they’re hopin’ that—who just came round here to
