Who Killed Chrissy?: The True Crime Memoir of a Pittsburgh girl's Unsolved Murder in Las Vegas Read Free Page B

with pantries leading
into the dining room area, then a back door from the kitchen which opens to a
New York style heavy metal fire escape that snakes all the way up to the top
floor. There are three apartments stacked on the left side and three on the
right side, with the front doors right in the middle.  I live on the first
floor, right side, and Chris lives on the third floor, right side, directly
above me, with one apartment in between us. There are wooden steps with carpet
and double wooden doors to the street. No elevator.
     

     
    It is the spring of 1981. I
returned to Pittsburgh in 1979, twenty-nine years old, pregnant and unmarried,
and I’ve been living in the Stanton Heights section of the city of Pittsburgh
since my son was born; he is now two years old. I was happy to have been able
to move from Stanton Heights back to the North Side where I grew up. I settled
in Stanton Heights when I returned to Pittsburgh so I could be close to West
Penn Hospital where my obstetrician was located—and until I could find a job,
with hopefully, a company car. My background is forever in sales, and I landed
a position with a local company as a regional sales rep when my son was close
to seven months old.
     

     
    Chris balances herself leaning
against the sink and washing the spinach leaves and chard for her bubbling pot of
soup while I sit in deep thought about this creepy guy, Marty—the knife she’s
been using for her dramatic demonstration has been laid casually in the sink,
and she’s thinking about her next move. Who the hell is Marty I thought, as I
flicked ashes into the ashtray….
    I sit straight up in my chair and
look at her, and I’m trying to think of the next move with her. I guess the
only polite thing to do is ask about the guy in this scene she’s describing. I
haven’t known her long enough to do much more, and besides, I’m a listener; I’m
the kind of friend who tries to be helpful without being overly critical. I
listen intently as she continues to tell me this story that I don’t want to
hear and have no clue why she’s telling it to me. I’m going to try to just listen
without being judgmental.
    She is fanning the smoke that’s
drifting towards her and is now making excuses for Marty. “Marty’s a little
strange, but mysterious, and he’s from the North Side, you know, that’s where I
grew up, so did you, so you know all about that North Side deal. He tells me
stories about how it’s easy to kill a person and never be found out, how you
can stick a pipe down the throat, and no one can ever tell how the person
died.”
    “A pipe Chris? What kind of a
pipe?” I said quickly, but it seemed weird saying it, talking about a pipe in
someone’s throat. In fact, when I pictured this, I thought of jungle soldiers
in Vietnam or something like that. I couldn’t think of anything else about a
pipe, it was just so damn weird to me.
    “Why does he tell you way-out
stories like this about pipes, Chris?”….she ignores my question.
    She has now gotten more intense.
“He’s a street guy; you know, the kind that isn’t afraid of anyone. He hates
niggers with a passion because of being a cop and with living on the North
Side; well, everyone knows how bad the nigger situation is on the North Side,
right?”
    “Marty who , Chris?  Who is
Marty? Can you please explain to me who the hell this Marty guy is, how did you
meet him?”…I am nervously picking at my newly manicured nails, feeling an
explosion building up. I am quite even tempered, but once I reach the level of
feeling frustrated and vulnerable, I am going to respond dramatically.
    I jump up out of my chair, somewhat
lunging towards her, my words are fast and furious, while she stands there with
her arms crossed, looking dazed. “What do you mean he hates niggers, Chris? You
know my baby is biracial, and you know his father is a black man. Don’t tell me
you think the same way this Marty feels, I mean, you’re going to