I didn’t need the money.
True to his word, Mr. Matteo saw to it my bills were paid. He opened a checking account in my name and provided me with a debit card. The initial deposit was $2000, and he told me another $2000 would appear with the first of the month and every month thereafter. He also told me if $2000 proved to not be enough, he could increase the amount, I only had to ask. We were to meet at least once every three months to review my current circumstances and make adjustments as needed. More often, if my grades faltered and college appeared in jeopardy.
Considering he took care of my bills, and these funds were meant to cover my day-to-day expenses such as groceries and clothing, I couldn’t imagine spending that much. I couldn’t imagine spendingcloseto that much, so I simply thanked him and took the debit card.
The doctors placed Dunk in a medically-induced coma for nearly a week following his final surgery, his sixth. They said unsupervised movement of any kind couldn’t be risked. His blood pressure dipped dangerously low twice on the first day, and one more time three days later. His heart stopped for nearly a minute. There was worry of brain damage. They placed him on a ventilator for the next four days. For the past week, he breathed on his own, and it appeared he would continue to do so.
I learned all of this as the rest of the city did, between the pages of thePittsburgh Post-Gazette. As the sole survivor of the Massacre at Krendal’s Diner, as the press dubbed it, reporters engulfed the hospital, bribing employees for any tidbit of information they could obtain. The story remained on the first page for the first three days, then the second and third page. By two weeks, updates on Duncan Bellino faded into the local section.
The front-page story that ran on May 4, the day after the massacre, featured photos of all seven victims. Gerdy was the third image in on the first row. Lurline Waldrip was the first in the second row. The largest photo was last, an old image of Elden Krendal—no hearing aids, all his hair, and about thirty pounds lighter. Following his brief bio, the reporter included a few paragraphs on the diner’s history. Efforts were under way to try and raise funds to restore it, as a city landmark. I hoped that wouldn’t happen. I don’t think I could bring myself to look at that place ever again.
I didn’t know the people in the other photographs, not by name, anyway. A few seemed familiar, probably people I had seen at the diner. I read all their bios. I wanted to know them, felt I should.
The first few newspaper stories included something about a boy who ran into the fire, pulled out Duncan Bellino, and attempted to pull out Elden Krendal. Some thought he perished in the explosion, others said he got out. Nobody knew his name, though. The police wouldn’t comment. Somehow, my part of the story faded away, and for that I was grateful.
Gerdy’s funeral was held on May 6. I sat in the second row, behind her parents. I had never met them. I should have introduced myself. I didn’t. Three other funerals took place at the same time. It rained that day. I counted the tents.
Gerdy’s clothes were still strewn around my apartment, her toothbrush in the glass on the bathroom counter with mine and Auntie Jo’s. I couldn’t bear to move any of it.
I had no more tears.
I walked through life as a zombie, all motion and no thought. Unwilling to think about anything that had happened in the past few weeks. Worse still, unable to think about the days and weeks to come.
I found a bottle of Captain Morgan spiced rum in Auntie Jo’s room. I finished it over two days and nights, grateful for the thick blanket of fog it placed between me and the world.
Sometimes I wonder how different my life would have been if I hadn’t picked up that bottle, if I hadn’t liked the taste, the numbness. I did like it, though, a little too much.
I didn’t return to Mercy General until May 20.
I had no reason to believe what Detective Horton said about Dunk. He hadn’t been charged with a crime, there had been no mention of his involvement in the shooting, the fire, or the deaths that took place at Krendal’s in anything I heard or read. He was, and always had been, my friend. I should have gone on the first day and each day that followed, but I couldn’t.
I couldn’t.
I told myself the police were twisting facts, adding a few of their own, trying to find someplace to put the blame. They wanted to pin this on Dunk so they could roll him on Crocket’s organization, give them the chance to dismantle everything before the snake grew a new head.
Dunk wasn’t a killer.
Dunk wouldn’t hurt anyone.
Dunk was my friend.
Dunk was mybestfriend.
Why did Dunk change his favorite booth?
The question nagged at me more than any other, not only because of what the detectives said, but because of something Dunk said years ago while sitting at my booth in the back corner near the restrooms.You can see the whole place from here. Nobody ever wants to sit near the bathrooms, but this is the best seat in the house.
Dunk hadn’t been arrested, but when I called Mercy General to get his visiting hours, I was told Pittsburgh PD would have to approve the visit before I would be allowed in to see him.
I left my name and number.
Thirty minutes later, Detective Horton called me back. He wanted me to wear a wire, get Dunk to confess.
I said no.
He cleared my visit anyway.
At the visitor desk, the nurse said Dunk was in room 307—take the purple elevator to three, make a right.
