Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

I looked up. Edie was standing in the bedroom doorway, staring at me. She was barefooted and in a robe that she held tight to her throat.

“He’s dead,” I said. “He died in the hospital about an hour after we hit him. He had three kids.”

In a sudden flare of anger, I threw the newspaper at her. She came into the room and picked it up off the floor. I watched her read the story. Her face didn’t reveal how she felt. When she had finished, she dropped the paper in a chair and went back into the bedroom.

I knew then what I had to do.

I stirred up the fire in the fireplace and put on another log. The story said there had been no witnesses, but the police had found some particles of paint on the dead man’s clothing. They expected to be able to match the paint with that on the car that was involved.

Expected to match it!

I knew they would match it — eventually. And when they did, I’d be just as guilty as Edie.

There was only one thing for me to do. Only one out. I had to get rid of Edie and the convertible.

When she came back into the front room a long time later, she was wearing a red turtleneck sweater, tight-fitting white slacks, and moccasins. And in her hand was a tape recording. She walked right up to where I was sitting on the sofa and held the tape out to me.

“Good-by, Matt.”

I took the tape without saying anything and threw it in the fireplace and watched it burn. Facing her then, I said, “My ring.”

She stood in front of me. “Get it,” she said, arching her back.

I don’t know what she expected. Maybe she figured I couldn’t touch her without wanting her. If that was it, she knew different right away. I slid my hand under the red sweater, at her waistline, and up until my fingers found the ring. Then I jerked. The chain cut into her neck all right, because she flinched. I pulled the chain out of the ring and threw it toward the fireplace. Then I put the ring on my finger where it belonged and sat down on the sofa.

“I thought you wanted to leave,” she said.

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

I didn’t answer her.

I thought the day would never end. I killed most of it with a bottle in my hand. I didn’t get drunk; I couldn’t afford to do that. I just got a sharp edge and held it. Edie made a couple of stabs at quizzing me, but finally gave up. She prowled the house, restlessly. But I didn’t let her bother me. I had just one worry. Would the cops somehow trace the murder car to Edie’s place before dark? If they did...

I wouldn’t let myself think about that.

At eight o’clock, straight up, I smashed an empty bourbon bottle on Edie’s head. She had been sitting in a wing-chair with her back to me, reading a magazine. When I walked up behind her and hit her, she slid out of the chair and sank to the carpet without a sound. I dropped what remained of the bottle.

If the blow had killed her, it would have saved me further trouble. But it hadn’t. I found her heartbeat, when I put my hand to her body.

I moved quickly. I got Edie into her fur coat and then shrugged into my own coat. I turned off all of the lights. Edie wasn’t heavy. I carried her out to the garage and put her in the front seat of her convertible.

This was the risky part. If the cops were scouting around for a dark blue convertible, I was going to be in trouble.

I backed out of the garage and turned north. I stayed off of the main thoroughfare as long as I could and watched my speed and all of the neighborhood stop signs. My route took me behind the Crawford campus, but just two blocks beyond the college I had to swing out to the highway. I headed north again and drove at a moderate speed. I slowed at the river bridge, crossed the bridge, and turned off of the highway onto the same rutted lane Edie and I had been down Sunday night. On the sandy stretch of ground at the edge of the river I swung the convertible in a wide U turn, switched off the headlights, and drove back onto the rutted lane and stopped.

Dragging Edie out of the car, I stretched her out on the lane in front of the right wheel of the convertible, I had to be sure she died. And I had to be sure she died the right way. Then, before I could think about it too much, I jumped in the car and drove it over her body. I didn’t hear a sound from her. I drove the car back and forth over her three times and then I got out again and stuck my hand inside her coat over her heart. Her chest felt like it had slipped a little to one side. There was no heartbeat.

Lifting her, I carried her around to the driver’s side of the car and, finally, managed to shove her under the steering wheel. I hooked the safety belt around her middle, to make sure she didn’t slip out of the car before I wanted her to, rolled down the window beside her, and kept the door open. Pushing against her, I was able to squeeze part way under the steering wheel. Then I drove to within a few yards of the highway, where I braked. I got out and walked up to the highway.