From July 2019
They looked like icicles, yessir, they did. hanging from the ceiling in the old police basement, parking garage, whatever you wanna call it. Where they let Ruby shoot Oswald, man! Long time afterward, you could walk down the ramp from Main Street, see a bloodstain if you knew where to look. Now they got it closed off. It was in your newspaper—the stalactites, I mean. I’ve still got a copy somewhere. Hell, I’m the one told y’all about it. Wrote it on a parking ticket I fished out of the trash, carried it over to your old building, dropped it with the front-desk lady. Corner of Houston and Young, ROCK OF TRUTH carved in stone, all capitals, right? TRUTH AND RIGHTEOUSNESS, actually. Folks usually forget the rest of that line. Told y’all it was like a cave, water dripping, always searching for lower ground.
How come I know so much? ’Cause I lived there, man. They didn’t put that in their report, huh? Lived in the men’s room down the hall from Homicide, back when they didn’t have no security and a man could roam. There was a hole in the bathroom wall, nothing covering it except a box of paper towels! I remember the January day I found it and crawled on in. Warm and dry, like my cell here, but free. A good year passed before one of my enemies tried to claim it. You know I had to cut him. Cops didn’t wanna hear that, of course. They made up their mind soon as they heard the hollering, saw his blood searching, doing that drip drip drip.