it, at least until the shots were fired, is pretty much a blur. All I can really remember is fighting like hell, thinking that I was going to die, shot to death for something that just didn’t make any sense. And then came the explosions. Two of them. If I had to swear on it, I would have said that bombs had been set off under me. But there weren’t any bombs. There were only two things under me—my gun and him, at least some of him. I jumped up and saw there was a lot less of him than there should have been. Most of his head was gone and a bloody mess remained where his belly used to be.
The toughest thing I ever did in my life was to stay put and call the police. I didn’t think anyone could possibly believe me. The whole thing was so damn crazy, but I guess if you think about it, any other explanation for what happened would have been even crazier.
As the police questioned me, I sweated bigger bullets than the ones that chewed up Murphy. I had convinced myself it was useless, and was more shocked than anyone else about how things turned out. Because in the end, three things happened: the cops believed me; my hair turned gray as a cigar ash; and my career shot off faster than the top of Walt Murphy’s head.
All of a sudden I was a hero. At least that’s the way the media made me out to be. With all the newspaper stories and the radio and TV appearances, I became just about the best-known private investigator in Denver. Not only did I have clients lining up outside my door to hire me, but the papers were knocking down that door to get whatever piece of me they could. The Examiner paid me to write up my own firsthand account of the incident, which evolved into my regular monthly feature ‘The Fast Lane—from the files of Johnny Lane’. It has appeared faithfully ever since, and, along with my smiling mug shot, has become an institution to the Denver public.
I’m grateful for my success and I don’t want to sound as if I’m complaining, but I wish it had happened another way. I don’t like thinking of Walt Murphy lying dead on my floor. I don’t like to think I benefited from his death. Maybe if I’d tried humoring him that afternoon none of it would have happened. Maybe he would’ve been able to get some help and would’ve pulled his life back together. Or maybe not. Maybe things would have ended up worse, with him blowing his wife’s head off. You see, I don’t know whether I screwed up or not. I don’t have a clue.
Chapter 6
I had done what I was hired for and there wasn’t any reason to hang around. I went back to my motel and packed up. I was feeling empty inside so I stopped at a diner and had a second breakfast of steak and eggs. After adding a piece of pie I headed off to the station. I always like traveling by train if I can. When you’re sitting back in a train you can put your feet up and take time to sort out what’s troubling you. And I had quite a problem to sort out.
I arrived at the station a little past ten and the next train to Denver wasn’t leaving until one, so I settled down to think things through. I didn’t like the way it stood. Mary hired me to find her birth parents and I did—at least her mother. It certainly seemed I should give her what she’d paid me for, but I also had an obligation to do what was best for my client.
I knew Rose Martinez wouldn’t be too happy about meeting her daughter. When the media took the Walt Murphy shooting into its jaws and started shaking it, I landed pretty much on my toes, but they dumped Rose hard on her ass. And while she was flat on the ground they kicked the tar out of her. By the time they were through with her, she was the biggest tramp in Colorado—a cheating whore who drove her husband to the edge of insanity.
Whether or not there was any truth in the accusation, the result was that Denver became an unwelcome place for her. It’s pretty easy to understand why she’d wanted to put it all behind her. The baby
The toughest thing I ever did in my life was to stay put and call the police. I didn’t think anyone could possibly believe me. The whole thing was so damn crazy, but I guess if you think about it, any other explanation for what happened would have been even crazier.
As the police questioned me, I sweated bigger bullets than the ones that chewed up Murphy. I had convinced myself it was useless, and was more shocked than anyone else about how things turned out. Because in the end, three things happened: the cops believed me; my hair turned gray as a cigar ash; and my career shot off faster than the top of Walt Murphy’s head.
All of a sudden I was a hero. At least that’s the way the media made me out to be. With all the newspaper stories and the radio and TV appearances, I became just about the best-known private investigator in Denver. Not only did I have clients lining up outside my door to hire me, but the papers were knocking down that door to get whatever piece of me they could. The Examiner paid me to write up my own firsthand account of the incident, which evolved into my regular monthly feature ‘The Fast Lane—from the files of Johnny Lane’. It has appeared faithfully ever since, and, along with my smiling mug shot, has become an institution to the Denver public.
I’m grateful for my success and I don’t want to sound as if I’m complaining, but I wish it had happened another way. I don’t like thinking of Walt Murphy lying dead on my floor. I don’t like to think I benefited from his death. Maybe if I’d tried humoring him that afternoon none of it would have happened. Maybe he would’ve been able to get some help and would’ve pulled his life back together. Or maybe not. Maybe things would have ended up worse, with him blowing his wife’s head off. You see, I don’t know whether I screwed up or not. I don’t have a clue.
Chapter 6
I had done what I was hired for and there wasn’t any reason to hang around. I went back to my motel and packed up. I was feeling empty inside so I stopped at a diner and had a second breakfast of steak and eggs. After adding a piece of pie I headed off to the station. I always like traveling by train if I can. When you’re sitting back in a train you can put your feet up and take time to sort out what’s troubling you. And I had quite a problem to sort out.
I arrived at the station a little past ten and the next train to Denver wasn’t leaving until one, so I settled down to think things through. I didn’t like the way it stood. Mary hired me to find her birth parents and I did—at least her mother. It certainly seemed I should give her what she’d paid me for, but I also had an obligation to do what was best for my client.
I knew Rose Martinez wouldn’t be too happy about meeting her daughter. When the media took the Walt Murphy shooting into its jaws and started shaking it, I landed pretty much on my toes, but they dumped Rose hard on her ass. And while she was flat on the ground they kicked the tar out of her. By the time they were through with her, she was the biggest tramp in Colorado—a cheating whore who drove her husband to the edge of insanity.
Whether or not there was any truth in the accusation, the result was that Denver became an unwelcome place for her. It’s pretty easy to understand why she’d wanted to put it all behind her. The baby
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