STATEMENT OF FEBRUARY TENTH © 2004 Larry A. Ytuarte

What is that music? I remember asking myself that question. It was the prettiest music I'd ever heard. It was gentle music, rising, falling, back and forth, like a leaf tumbling to the ground. It was almost like a little tune from my childhood, something that brought back fuzzy memories of better days, simpler times. Happy and sad at the same time. I could hear it as soon as I'd slid the window open.

I took one last look around, down the driveway to the dimly lit street, across the fence to the darkened houses in the distance. It was dead. Three-thirty in the morning. The whole world was asleep.

I'd been at the house earlier that day. With Jimbo. We'd installed a ceiling fan in the big living room. That was when I noticed the Cirzani crystal over the fireplace. A matched pair of swans, circa 1945. Current value: thirty-five to forty thousand dollars for the set. Jimbo was up in the attic, tracing the electrical wiring. The owner of the house was in the little study just off the living room. I could hear him talking on the telephone. He laughed gently, and I thought I heard him say the name "Amanda."

Alone, I walked over to the window and parted the heavy curtains slightly. No sign of any electronic alarm system. The window was secured with a simple but sturdy clasp lock. I reached up and turned the clasp, unlocking it. Then I took a look at the gray winter sky, and I remember seeing a trio of birds perched on the edge of a neighbor's roof.

Anyway, there I was, back at the house that same night. It was cold outside, and I leaned into the comforting warmth. The music. That pretty music. The owner must still have been awake. Damn it. But it was too late. I'd come too far to turn back. I couldn't see anyone inside in the darkness. And I only wanted the crystal. I could grab it and run.

I swung my legs over the sill and lowered myself to the carpeted floor, taking a moment to get my bearings. Yes. I was by the bookshelf. There was the glass table. The fireplace was to my right. I could see the pale light sparkling off those crystal swans. I slid the window back down and listened again to the gentle music, straining to hear anything, a voice, a footstep, breathing. Nothing.

I stepped carefully over to the fireplace, lifted the flap on the shoulder bag I'd brought with me, and reached for one of the swans. There was a sound, like a muffled cough, or one unclear word. I looked over to where it had come from, and I could just make out a small form on the sofa at the other side of the room. But it was so dark in the house. I leaned and stared. It was a man, lying on the thick cushions. The owner. I recognized him from earlier that day. The white hair, the dark, pointed eyebrows. His eyes were open. He was staring at me.

The swan fell from my hand and shattered on the polished stone floor in front of the fireplace. The man began to rise from the sofa, but he was old, very thin, and he seemed to be stiff with sleep.

I reached inside my jacket and pulled out the handgun - a cheap .25 caliber semiautomatic that I'd bought a long time ago from some guy in Elmhurst. I held the gun out and pointed it at the man. Everything had gone wrong so quickly. I stood there. The man sat on the sofa. We said nothing. It was almost like we were listening to that beautiful music together in the darkness. Then I squeezed the trigger and the gun went off.

It wasn't like in the movies. The man didn't go flying over the back of the sofa. He didn't clutch at his chest and tumble to the floor. He just leaned back deeper into the sofa's cushions.

The gun had made such a tiny pop I wasn't even sure anyone in the houses nearby would have heard anything. I wasn't even sure I'd shot the man. But he wasn't moving. His eyes were closed. Maybe he was hoping I would think he was dead. I walked over to him and took a closer look. His hair was all tousled from sleep. He was wearing a dark, loose fitting shirt and pants. His mouth was slightly open. I couldn't see a bullet hole or any blood, but there was hardly any light.

I noticed the CD player on a shelf just beside the sofa. It was on. I pressed the stop button, and the soft, beautiful music abruptly ceased. I pressed the eject button. The tray slid out smoothly and noiselessly. I leaned for a close look. In the dim light I could just make out the writing on the label of the compact disc: "David Berman: Twilight and Things Unseen."

And then I went to the window, opened it, and stepped back out into the cold winter night.

It was amazing, but I got away with it. For the whole week following the shooting, I stayed in my apartment, waiting. I didn't answer the phone. Three different times somebody buzzed my apartment from the lobby. It could've been Jimbo. He owed me fifteen dollars for helping him install the ceiling fan. But I wasn't going to find out. I didn't watch TV. I didn't go out for the paper. Nothing. Whatever happened, happened. I would just wait. I would lay low for a while.

By the end of the week I had some instant coffee in the cupboard, half a jar of mustard and a bottle of Tabasco sauce in the refrigerator, and that was it. But I'd gotten away with it. No cops. Nobody breaking down my door in the middle of the night and carting me off in handcuffs.

When I finally stepped out of my apartment I felt like a new man. The cold air felt good in my lungs. Crisp and clean. I walked down to the Hillside Diner and had three fried eggs, corned beef hash, home fries, toast, orange juice, coffee, and a giant piece of apple pie.

I don't know. It was like the start of something new for me. It was as if I'd gone through some great ordeal or something. Like I'd walked across a desert, or climbed a mountain, or something. I was changed. I felt alive.

I didn't want to go back to my apartment. A full week in there had been enough for me for a while. I took the bus up to Roosevelt Avenue, blew nearly five dollars at the Magic Castle Arcade, then got on the subway and took a ride to West 4th Street.

I walked around for a long time. I had coffee at a little cafe. I walked up Bank Street and stopped at a record store. It was dark inside. It smelt like incense. There was a young girl behind the wooden counter. She smiled at me as I walked in, and I smiled back. I started browsing around, not really looking for anything, just killing time, enjoying the warmth.

When I turned, the girl was looking away. She looked lost in thought, and I took the opportunity to study her. She was pretty in an art-student kind of way. Long, brown hair. Glasses. A black top tucked into a long, billowing skirt. Maybe she sensed my staring, because she turned and looked at me. When our eyes met, she smiled again. It was a strange smile. A little sad, a little happy. It was weird, but it made me think about that music, the music that was playing that night when I dropped the crystal swan and pulled the trigger of that cheap gun.

She asked if she could help me. A week earlier I would have said no. I would have turned away and continued my browsing, or walked out of the shop. But this was the new me. The changed me. I stepped closer to the counter and smiled and told her that I was looking for a particular recording, a piece by someone named David Berman, a piece called "Twilight and Things Unseen."

There was this moment, this silent couple of seconds where we just looked at each other. Something had happened. I had no idea what it could have been, but I knew something had happened. The girl tried to smile, but her lips just sort of pressed together. And then I could see her eyes filling with tears. One finally broke free and rolled down her cheek. I watched it splatter on the wooden counter.

She turned then and made a sound, a sob or something, and she began walking quickly for the back of the store. I heard a man's voice. From a doorway at the back of the shop, a huge guy with a giant potbelly, a wild beard, and a ponytail, came barreling towards me. He wanted to know what was going on. I shrugged. The girl vanished into the back room. It was just the two of us. I explained that I had asked her about a recording by David Berman.

The big man shook his head. He brought up a huge hand, looped a loose strand of hair behind an ear, and stared at me with something like an apology in his eyes.

"Hey," he said. "I'm sorry. Amanda's having a rough time..."

He went on. I remember seeing his lips moving. But I didn't hear anything. I backed away, turned, and left the shop.

I got on the subway and went straight back to Queens - back to the safety of those familiar streets. I walked from the subway station to the main library on Merrick Boulevard. There was one old man asleep on a vinyl-covered chair in the Periodicals Room. Otherwise, I had the place to myself. I pulled down the newspapers from the week before and began searching. It didn't take long. On page two of the Daily News from six days earlier: "Composer Killed By Intruder. Police Looking For Clues."

David Berman, award-winning composer, age sixty-one, shot to death during an attempted burglary of his Holliswood home, leaves behind a daughter, Amanda, age twenty-two. A spokesperson for Latham Music announced that the release of Berman's latest work, "Twilight and Things Unseen," will be delayed until an unspecified time.

I was a new man. A changed man. At last, I knew who I was. I was the lowlife scum who had murdered a man while unsuccessfully trying to steal a crystal swan. I had murdered a man who used to sit at a piano and write music that could make even a bottom-feeder like me feel good. I had murdered a man who left behind a pretty, brown-haired girl who was trying to put her life back together in a little record shop on Bank Street.

That's who I was. That's who I am.

The detective waited for a long time. "Anything else?" he finally asked.

The young man on the other side of the table shook his head. "No," he said. "That's it."

"Okay," the detective went on. "Would you acknowledge again for the record that you were informed of your right to keep silent, and that you did not wish to have an attorney present while you made this statement?"

"Uh huh," the young man responded, raising the volume of his voice slightly. "I was told I could keep silent if I wanted to. I was told that anything I said could be used against me in court. I was told that I could have a lawyer present if I wanted. But I didn't want one."

There was another pause before the detective spoke.

"Fine. It's three-oh-five PM, Tuesday, February tenth..."

"Wait," the young man interrupted.

"We're still on the record," the detective said. "What is it?" A pause.

"When I shot that guy," the young man said, "I... I was in the middle of committing another crime... I was committing a burglary."

"Right," the detective said.

"Well, doesn't that make it a... some kind of capital offense or something? Doesn't that make me eligible for the death penalty?" Another pause.

"Yes," the detective answered. "It does."

"Good," the young man said. "That's good."