You must thing I'm just bonkers. And why not, eh? I've rambled on now for twenty minutes at least, telling you myriad tales that make hardly any sense at all. You'd like to find a charge that would stick, I'll bet. Smooth operator, aren't you my lad? It's clear as a pane of glass to me. But I won't do time for those murders; you can be sure of that. Living in this mental ward is hardship enough. You probably should be going, if you don't want to meet the same fate as others who've crossed me. Why all wide-eyed all of a sudden, eh? It's bloody difficult it is, to keep on pretending to be mad. But when a murder charge is as good as sealed against you, well, tell me, what would you do? You've got me here you mirthless bastards! Isn't that enough? Let me tell you something. I could cut out your eyeballs with a shoelace, right here, right this second, if only the orderlies would let me wear shoes. But I can't expect you to shed a tear, can I? No. Not with what I did to your mother. It's thankless work, mine. And anything can trip you up. Anything. Something haphazard, like forgetting which leg to limp on. That's how they found me out, you know. I stooped down to pick up a paper one morning, in front of my house, and some busybody across the street noticed that I was limping on my left leg, not my right. Tell me, why are people so goddamned nosy, huh? Suburban effing splendor in the effing grass, if you ask me. Don't think you're going to trick me out though. I've got an inkling of what your game is, son. Don't forget that.