Page 129 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Dahmer. Gacy. Bundy. You got a hard-on for killers, Bobby Karl?”
The damaged face darkened.
“For murder?” Slidell pushed.
“You can’t bust my chops for appreciating history.” Kramden’s left hand never stopped moving. It stroked his jaw, thumbnailed the arm of the chair, brushed nonexistent fuzz from his nose. Below the table, one knee pumped nonstop.
“History?” Slidell scoffed.
“True crime. It’s all over the airways.”
“Let’s discuss murder.”
“Can I have a smoke?”
“No.”
“That ain’t how this is supposed to play.”
“Murder,” Slidell repeated.
“What about it?”
“Where’s Boldonado?”
“Hell if I know. I’m just trying to survive, man.”
“In your little foxhole for Armageddon.”
“You got a problem with that?”
The two men glared at each other, radioactive with loathing. Then Slidell opened the folder and, one by one, spread prints across the scarred tabletop. Though I couldn’t see them, I knew what theimages showed. Kwalwasser’s eyeball and skull. Sanchez’s mutilated torso. Boldonado’s hanging body. The bucket. Charlie Hunt. The hit-and-run girl.
Kramden leaned heavily onto both forearms. I noted that his right hand, now visible, was missing three digits. He rotated an image with his left, looked at it, then quickly away. His Adam’s apple made a round trip of his throat.
“I need a smoke bad.”
Slidell jabbed a finger on the photo of the mummified man.
“Frank Boldonado?”
“The guy dropped by the bunker a few times.” Kramden’s bravado was showing serious fault lines. “We drank a few brews. Caught some Jets action. Then he stopped coming around. End of story.”
“When did you last see him?”
“It’s been years. Two? Three? I swear, that’s all I know.”
“And the others?”
“Never seen them in my life. Fuck. Seriously? An eyeball!”
Slidell tucked the prints back into the folder.
“Where were you last week, Bobby Karl?”
“What day?”
“All of ’em.”
