111. Interview with William Fletcher: Part 2
30 August 2011
– But Les Palmer, he was a new breed. Still batshit crazy, of course. But he wasn’t exactly the same, considering he wasn’t in college when he snapped. But he was around that age. And he lived in a college town, probably hung out with college-going people. And still with the depression, the violence, the extravagant suicide.
– Walked into that motel room that night after the fire was put out, and it was a sad scene. We were lucky to get there in time to confine the flames to Palmer’s room and keep the whole damn building from burning down, so there was some salvageable evidence in there, technically speaking. But as far as he was concerned, Palmer, nothing.
– Son of a bitch soaked himself and the whole bed in gas before he set fire to the place. Boy was beyond recognition. And the room reeked; gas, shit, burnt skin, the works. Made your eyes water being within a hundred feet of the place. Worst smell I’ve ever come across to this day. And what was left of the room that the fire hadn’t destroyed looked like he’d run around blindfolded with a baseball bat before he pulled the gun on himself.
– Piles of scorched painting supplies on the floor, holes in the wall that looked like he’d put his fist through it a couple of times, burnt pieces of clothes scattered on the floor. Small stove in the corner had old dishes stacked and the closet was piled—just a lot of things no fire could have done on its own. Palmer trashed the place then kicked the bucket, way I see it.
– Motive? There wasn’t one. Didn’t need to be one. You hearing what I’m saying?
– There’s no reason for anything these kids are doing nowadays, other than being stark, raving mad. Once the motel owner ID’d him and I found out about his little conniption at that art gallery on Antique, I knew what he’d done.
– Fellow officer—Walton, Officer Walton—showed up at the place a couple minutes after Palmer snapped on the crowd and ducked out the back door. Said he spoke to a couple of the guests and they basically told him Palmer was a lunatic.
– Cut and dry case when it came to me and the body. Way I saw it, all I needed was a name and a time of death, former of which I got from the motel owner—Ms. Bella, sweet old lady—latter of which I got once county got back with the autopsy.
– No, I don’t have sympathy for people who take the easy way out. I’d have at least given him credit if he did the gas thing then just sat there and took it, burned to death like that Buddhist monk back in the sixties. But even back then, he did it as a protest. Still stupid, but at least there’s some reason. A purpose. What Palmer did was ridiculous, overkill, and for what? Because he couldn’t handle the same life everybody else was handed?
– You’ve got to work your way out of your problems the old-fashioned way, perseverance. Anything else and you’re a coward, plain and simple.
– Chemical imbalance, my ass. I could tell Palmer’s life story almost the moment I walked in that room and saw his smoking body laid out on that bed, gun in hand, bullet hole in the wall. And like I said, when I heard about his little art gallery showing, I knew even more. Basic character profile: Mom and Dad not around enough, working class, probably divorced. Palmer himself’s dramatic in high school, acting out, getting in trouble, taking drugs and blaming everybody but himself for the trouble he’s getting himself into. Takes that mentality right out into the real world, never assimilates properly into society. Girlfriend issues. Money issues. Mental issues, self-medicated. Blah blah blah [Detective Fletcher shakes his head] Wouldn’t even have bothered with the paperwork if it wasn’t required. Case closed.
Who Is Anthony Stephens? 
What Do You Think About The Story Progression So Far? Any Suggestions?